Wednesday night dance marathon: ballet and tango from 6:30pm-midnight!

This evening was pointe night. What makes pointe difficult in the beginning is that there is an added dimension: to the usual flat and demi-pointe positions of the foot is added a third possible position called 'pointe', which we must now take into consideration in the combinations. In the old world of ballet, we hopped from plie to pointe. In the modern world, we draw in, or roll through to pointe. From plie to soutenu, the trick is to slightly lift the tendu foot, hit it against the floor, and drag the floor, which draws your body into sus-sous. This motion of the tendu foot ensures that you are not hoisting yourself up solely from your supporting leg, rendering your working leg lifeless. It also ensures correct alignment and pull-up. In general, draw-- or better yet, skim feet lightly and smoothly over the floor rather than hopping from point to discontinuous point.

From ballet, I walked through the beautiful night air, and down into the underground, where the train took me to Fishtown for tango. I am drawn to tango by the core group that attends the practica every Wednesday night. Very strong (in character) and beautiful Russian ladies, and my sister and her man. As fun as some of the guys are to dance with (and others, horrendous!), my favorite part of the night was being led by my sister on the dance floor. When twins dance tango, it's called "twango".

Must Be the Heat

Sunflowers droop heavily
Giant seeded faces ill with defeat
Leaves hang limply
Must be the heat
Brown sugar spoons all clumpy
Like wet sand or concrete
"Everyone looks slightly crazy"--r'marks a bar bystander--,
"Must be the heat"

Are You A Morning Person?

I am a morning person and I am a night person (may I say that I am temporally ambidexterous?).

What I am not is a midday person. The morning is fresh and full of possibilities of accomplishments and adventures. The evening is veiled and mysterious and spurs my imagination. I feel enlivened by both of these times.

In between morning and evening, however, I am at a loss. What was my purpose again? And how heavily my eyelids droop. I want nothing more than to give in to this weighty somnolence. Life appears lackluster and interminable.

In the afternoon, when the sun is high, it is best for me to sit on a park bench and watch the world go by. Perhaps with a book in my hand whose pages may or may not get turned.

Rug: That Most Precious Household Commodity.

Reading on my rug. How I love the smell of new carpet!

After living for 11 months in a house with nails growing out of the floors, my new rug has brought me infinite pleasure. It is my precious commodity, and brightens the entire living room with its light beige hue and soft spirit. $50 well spent. In its previous life, having been rolled up, bound in plastic, and stood vertically propped against a stack of other similar area rugs like one of a forest of woven tree trunks, it now lies 8x6 feet over the old musty and hazardous planks of my dying house, the central figure of the living space.

How I love my new rug. I love to lie on it and stare up at the ceiling at nothing, simply enjoying the visceral feeling of homeyness that it induces with its plush, knotted texture and sawdust aroma. I love to stretch on it for hours to increase my turnout and extension in ballet; the sheer activity of stretching has transformed from a pain to a pleasure now that I do not fear sitting on my living room floor.

Best of all, I love that I can pirouette on my floor without the danger of a nail or splinter piercing my foot. I never asked to be crucified for my love of ballet, and now my new rug allows me to love without sacrifice, to practice pirouetting as much I want! whenever I want! inside my dying house.

This freedom to spin gives me infinite pleasure. I shall spin day and night on my lovely new rug.

Summer Spectacle

Sundown, June 10th 2012...

I was listening to the theme song from Up, and saw a balloon floating high into the sky. It was the most beautiful coincidence to mark the end of a day spent outside in 100-degree heat. Philadelphians and some out-of-towners gathered around the fountain of Love Park like theatre-goers at an amphitheatre. Some sat higher, some sat lower, some sat with their legs dangling right in the water. One girl sat with her legs wrapped around another. She leaned in to her right to hear better what a third girl in the group was saying to her. They seemed as close as sisters. A fat man lay stretched out on his side right on the ledge of the fountain in the pose of an idyllic Greek god. He wore only a pair of shorts, showing off his golden tan and numerous stomach folds. Teenage girls hung about showing off equally their near-naked bodies and summer outfits: bikini tops and short shorts, brightly colored sundresses and floppy hats, and sheer or lacy-backed tops in sea green, hot pink, and creamsicle orange. Tattoos in black ink swirled and climbed like ivy up dark arms, legs, and backs in forms of arabesques, treble clefs, and other motifs; hopefully their symbolism will not wither with the summer's end. From my seat near the back of the amphitheatre, I saw before me the backs of everyone's heads, as they all sat facing the central spectacle, great jets of water that drew all these bodies together in this formidable heat. Above the sea of heads, above the tallest jet of water, and even above the tallest skyscraper, a tiny red balloon rose, flying solo into the clouds as the notes of that tune played merrily in my ear.