Entries from September 2005 ↓

scaddling
       up the stairs
seventy-six
stares
sock flags in the airshaft
       through the pennants
a man on the landing
without his shirt

Tamar Rogoff’s Claire Danes vehicle “Christina Olson: American Model”
While watching this show, I found myself contemplating what I would write about it. That’s not usually a good sign. It’s always hard to pull off a full night solo show, even for the most seasoned dancer. Claire Danes, while an excellent performer, is not an experienced dancer. The movement vocabulary for most of the show seemed like a checklist from a certain vein of dance thought. Reference to the Andrew Wyeth painting was confined to a pink dress, which she inexplicably removed several times to reveal a blue slip dress for a few five minute chucks, (put back on, took off, put back on… rinse and repeat) and the basic pose. Admittedly, there were a few satisfying moments exploring the pose, with beautifully executed scoops and spinal articulations. Sometimes a slide show cut in, interupting with an image of a barn, or a strange dark sky with quasi-animated grasses which somehow prompted her to lay out her dress on the stairs leading up to the screen. The only time the multi-media aspect seemed to serve a purpose, than than just being token multi-media, was a prolonged segment with Danes scooting across the street, approaching the theater, and painfully hoisting herself up the stairs, all without using her legs. “Ah yes!” we remember, “This was supposed to be exploring Christina’s tragic limitations!” (And not just her pink dress.) Near the end, Claire emerged wearing a black slip dress, and was allowed a whisper of a smile while she performed athletic turns and hops. Then the inspiring moment I’d been waiting for emerged. Her right strap came unhooked and exposed her breast. For the remaining five minutes she performed the movements with modifications to cover herself up as much as possible. Now I have something to write about.

I watched the black thread puckering my skin
Merlot stained the white towel
the fiber rhythm easy, biological in and out

no climax, just a snip
surgical rubber snaps

Indigo moons in my palm
Five perfect semi-circles
One ruby gleaming rivulet

Feeling test
Rise and fall wrapped in wool
near the horizon

Don’t miss what’s going on, just because you’re in the loo.

No pressure or anything.

I took this last June when Dustin, Mom, Dad and I were wandering around Portland. Sometimes I have a wave of missing my parents and the trees. Note the irony that a photo with absolutely no greenery inspires nostalgia for Northwest flora…

Go see this show!

After wondering along the sidewalk past twilight ball fields we arrived at the crumbling grandiose arches of McCarren Pool. Inside we perched on the empty pool edge while a stream-of-consciousness plot emerged, facilitated largely by plentiful and often bizarre costuming and props. A blonde girl with a flowing split-skirt teetered as she walked across an imaginary tightrope. Soon most of the cast of thirty hopped off the sides of the pool from among the audience and joined in. A group of men in suites marched around the perimeter and up a lifeguard stand in the middle. A man set up a kiddie pool and began filling it with water. Later he and another dancer, fully clothed, flung themselves in repeatedly. A shopping cart with a spinning disco light wheeled around with a group of dancers performing a stylized disco party motif trailing. On closer inspection it looked like a homeless person’s cart, stuffed with odds and ends. Someone rode by on a bicycle, a hunched southern belle shuffled around with a teacup and a huge hat. People with skateboards attached to their backs performed duets. A girl wearing a red formal and clutching two red suitcases dashed across the pool with the train extending across in a red carpet. The suitcases popped open and oranges spilled out. A disco ball came from seemingly no where and hovered while people joined in a rare moment of dancing unity — except for Miss Saturn, a “guest apparition” who hoola hooped on a lifeguard stand. For their many costume changes dancers hopped onto the side of the pool with the audience and switched shirts or grabbed props. A girl with long hair came close and told us about how much better time she was having than us, “floating!” After about an hour, the cast seemed to be wearing middle eastern costumes, and a street market appeared in front of us, complete with carpets and a hookah. One by one audience members hopped down and joined the cast, wandering around the pool. After a while they formed a ring around the outside and took a bow, and we wandered out of the dream, back to the L train.

The Kayaks on the Hudson, prepared for the 9/11 memorial lantern ceremony.

Many of the lanterns swaying on the river are decorated with hearts and wishes for peace. People let them go, but the candles inside light up the thoughts. One proclaims “Not Fair.” The lights from downtown, with the spotlight filling the hole in the air, reflect in the water. I cry at first for the tragedy of humanity. Then I look at a lantern decorated with a child-like drawing of a smiling person, and I cry for the unknown individual it represents.

Some of the lanterns have gone out. Some have died.

The monks keep up a steady chant. Who are they chanting to? Who listens? The chanter, the watcher, a supreme being, the dead?
The traffic and the low planes drown out the oars rippling the water. We all follow an unposted rule of silence. For the silenced. We join them today in this minute. But will we speak tomorrow?

One of the problems with tea in a bag is that you can’t look for a picture with the last swirl in the cup. Celestial Seasonings makes up for it at least a little by giving a quote with the tea — a bit like a fortune.