Push Festival

Tonight went to see a New York based group called the Nature Theatre of Oklahoma do a piece called Poetics: ballet brut. Four average people taking a series of about twelve clumsy movements seemingly observed in coffee shops and street corners, and knitting them into a cohesive piece, to songs like You Can Dance if you Want to. The message is that anyone can create dance, that it's not just for the trained. Many long moments spent staring at each other, then staring at the audience. Many long moments simply holding a hand behind their head, or putting their hands on their hips. And as soon as it got to be unbearably boring, they brought you back and did something cool. But there were definitely self-indulgent parts, when the message was too hit-over-your-head, when the charm of watching untrained hipsters jump around the stage was simply annoying, when you wanted there to be some display of grace. But that's the point as well - our reactions to observing "bad" dance. But the ending is all worth it.

Class resumes

I taught my creative writing class today for detoxing addicts. It had been a while - I had lost my three classes every six weeks gig due to being suddenly employed. But now I work from home, and have been begging for my spot back. No can do, but I am subbing once and a while. To my surprise, M, a music writer I had hung with back in the day through others worked at the facility and joined our class. My first exercise got off to a shaky start - they didn't quite get the rules, and I started making self-conscious quips that exposed my insecurity in the situation. A round man, round stomach, big round blue eyes, a round red face, a round, soft demeanor, who told us straight off that he had heard awful news earlier that day, reassured me. "No, this is great. Let's do this!" You write a sentence then fold the paper over, then right another sentience that the person next to you can see and they write a sentence, ect. Anyway, a half hour later we unraveled our creased papers, and laughed at farting goats and dying Santa's.

I find that there are starting to be types. The round man was the guy who always reassures me in what I do, wants me to like him, and wants me to feel comfortable as I'm obviously a fish out of water. And there's always a guy that resents me.

Next up,they had to write about the first time they drove. A man with a face like a fox, who was covered with a thin coat of sweat and obviously fighting back shakes, wrote and wrote and made us wait. He read his out loud then stared down at the paper for a second, smiling at the memory, and also smiling at what he had wrote. We all congratulated him on having a neat story to tell.

Another guy, a series of gashes on his face, wanted to rewrite his, wanted to skip his turn. I was like, "OK," and was ready to move on, but fox-face encouraged him, "K'mon man, read it, it's ok." He relented, and read his out loud, self-conscious, telling it as he went, not making much sense. When he was done, I smiled at him and moved on, thinking that my "that was awesome" would sound fake and patronizing. But M said it, and the guy looked at him and laughed and said "Yeah it was crazy!"

When the class was over, and we were moving the tables back, I started to feel my blood pressure drop - it happens every once and a while where my fingers and toes get ice cold, and I start to shiver. "Is it just me, or is it cold in here?" I asked the room. "It's just you," said the man with the gashes, bluntly, like something falling on my foot, and looked at M and raised his eyebrows.

I totally accept that I'm from another world from these guys. For some reason, when I get into that room I go all flakey. Round man, of course, thanked me, and told me it took his mind off of the terrible news of this morning. Gash just left without looking at me.