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Jan. 10th, 2006 10:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageI was not awake all day until I burst through a clump of sawgrass and other bushlike foliage after sixth period...
The only work I did was one related rates problem at the end of my math homework. I made a graph in chem. I took a vocab test. I slapped some more paint on my shitty watercolor. I broke one of my servos because Dan Curhan is annoying. I achieved so little.
So I'm going to talk about dance. That's where I lived today.
Ran hip hop. I remembered most of the sequences...
Started ballet piece for recital. Cover of Hotel California. We did maybe 40 seconds? 48 counts? But I'm onstage already.
(Pish posh, you don't need subject pronouns in English.)
Then there's this guy in a pink sweater.
MEMORY FOR LIFE.
I forget his name, but he was a black version of Jayde.
It was like a comedy movie, an insane parody of a choreographer.
Light pink sweater over a T-shirt that said "Define "Girlfriend"." He apologized if anyone was offended and said "Hollister has such crazy shirts." He wore girls track pants from Abercrombie.
(outshimed: gay 2.0.2)
He was into himself like whoa.
I could feel it in him when he turned on the music. (The music was hilarious by the way, and he sang and hooted along.)
Overzealous jumps, spins rather than well executed turns, battements with piked hips. His motions were fluid but his arms were skew or draped at odd angles. His face contorted into deranged expressions of joy. "Arabesque at 90 degrees," he said, "Industry standard." He was a little kid flailing around. He threw himself into weird combinations without exactly going over them step by step or even naming the steps, turned on the music, and watched us try to get it all right. Then immediately we had to split into groups and perform. He told us our turnout was unacceptable, that our turns were messy and would not land us jobs. He also told us that he would like nothing more than to make at least one of us cry of frustration and want to quit dance. He name-dropped that he had taught at ABT and that their highest group was called Purple too. He kept throwing down the fucking rhinestoned gauntlet. What's he doing here in Sarasota if he's so fabulous?
He liked me. "Girl in the back. My eye was drawn to you. You got it. You got the carriage when I told you all to change the mood." (I had looked at the ceiling when I did one of the turns.) And across the floor, while I connected the bad icky piked crotch shot thing to the chassé: "Yes, ma'am. I don't know who you are, but I like you." So he picks favourites.
Ok, so I dance fluidly. So I have energy and ballon and point my toes and all that. I don't know if it's flattering or not when a so-called professional who's completely full of shit thinks that you move well.
Midway through the center combination, Jodi (Artistic Director) used the ruse that her son had lost her keys in the office to escape having to talk to him after class. Then Krista told him she had a headache, left the room, and expressed her dislike of the teacher to Jodi. She called him a sadist. And Melissa (alumnus / teacher who had been taking class with us and laughing at his "jokes") offered no explanation for her flight from the room. Everyone in there was making strange faces and laughing. Then groaning and feeling eager to return home. It was hilarious and frightening that a man such as this exists.
LaMichael is a great teacher and I feel honoured to take class from him, but his friends are kind of neurotic. The hip hop guy was actually good though, despite his uh... unusual class structure...
Anyhow, regardless of all of this sick dance stuff and wanting to just walk out of this guy's class, I did not think once of my home life, of school, of my problems. And I know I must have something to work with. Maybe I could make a life out of it for a while?
But wait, there's more!
I'm kicked off the tap team!
Because my car broke down that one day!
Jodi doesn't care!!
I don't have to deal with the entirely new dance.
I don't have to deal with the entirely different teacher.
I don't have to bring someone up with me to competition February 4-5 because I don't need to BE there.
I'm the strongest tapper in the school, and I'm kicked off the team.
I'm not being conceited at all; I've just been in tap longer than everyone else.
I may be a skinny white girl (compared to ghetto booty at least), but I have some rhythm.
I was replaced by an eleven-year-old.
A very sweet eleven-year-old whom I love, but frankly, you know...
I have to sell back my costume (sigh, fedora...)
She's like four foot nine or some tiny height, and she gets my costume. An Adult Medium that's big on even me. Good luck, Dawn, fixing that one.
Ah well, less stuff to do at competitions, less stuff to pay for, fewer quick changes at recital.
Life goes on.
The only work I did was one related rates problem at the end of my math homework. I made a graph in chem. I took a vocab test. I slapped some more paint on my shitty watercolor. I broke one of my servos because Dan Curhan is annoying. I achieved so little.
So I'm going to talk about dance. That's where I lived today.
Ran hip hop. I remembered most of the sequences...
Started ballet piece for recital. Cover of Hotel California. We did maybe 40 seconds? 48 counts? But I'm onstage already.
(Pish posh, you don't need subject pronouns in English.)
Then there's this guy in a pink sweater.
MEMORY FOR LIFE.
I forget his name, but he was a black version of Jayde.
It was like a comedy movie, an insane parody of a choreographer.
Light pink sweater over a T-shirt that said "Define "Girlfriend"." He apologized if anyone was offended and said "Hollister has such crazy shirts." He wore girls track pants from Abercrombie.
(outshimed: gay 2.0.2)
He was into himself like whoa.
I could feel it in him when he turned on the music. (The music was hilarious by the way, and he sang and hooted along.)
Overzealous jumps, spins rather than well executed turns, battements with piked hips. His motions were fluid but his arms were skew or draped at odd angles. His face contorted into deranged expressions of joy. "Arabesque at 90 degrees," he said, "Industry standard." He was a little kid flailing around. He threw himself into weird combinations without exactly going over them step by step or even naming the steps, turned on the music, and watched us try to get it all right. Then immediately we had to split into groups and perform. He told us our turnout was unacceptable, that our turns were messy and would not land us jobs. He also told us that he would like nothing more than to make at least one of us cry of frustration and want to quit dance. He name-dropped that he had taught at ABT and that their highest group was called Purple too. He kept throwing down the fucking rhinestoned gauntlet. What's he doing here in Sarasota if he's so fabulous?
He liked me. "Girl in the back. My eye was drawn to you. You got it. You got the carriage when I told you all to change the mood." (I had looked at the ceiling when I did one of the turns.) And across the floor, while I connected the bad icky piked crotch shot thing to the chassé: "Yes, ma'am. I don't know who you are, but I like you." So he picks favourites.
Ok, so I dance fluidly. So I have energy and ballon and point my toes and all that. I don't know if it's flattering or not when a so-called professional who's completely full of shit thinks that you move well.
Midway through the center combination, Jodi (Artistic Director) used the ruse that her son had lost her keys in the office to escape having to talk to him after class. Then Krista told him she had a headache, left the room, and expressed her dislike of the teacher to Jodi. She called him a sadist. And Melissa (alumnus / teacher who had been taking class with us and laughing at his "jokes") offered no explanation for her flight from the room. Everyone in there was making strange faces and laughing. Then groaning and feeling eager to return home. It was hilarious and frightening that a man such as this exists.
LaMichael is a great teacher and I feel honoured to take class from him, but his friends are kind of neurotic. The hip hop guy was actually good though, despite his uh... unusual class structure...
Anyhow, regardless of all of this sick dance stuff and wanting to just walk out of this guy's class, I did not think once of my home life, of school, of my problems. And I know I must have something to work with. Maybe I could make a life out of it for a while?
But wait, there's more!
I'm kicked off the tap team!
Because my car broke down that one day!
Jodi doesn't care!!
I don't have to deal with the entirely new dance.
I don't have to deal with the entirely different teacher.
I don't have to bring someone up with me to competition February 4-5 because I don't need to BE there.
I'm the strongest tapper in the school, and I'm kicked off the team.
I'm not being conceited at all; I've just been in tap longer than everyone else.
I may be a skinny white girl (compared to ghetto booty at least), but I have some rhythm.
I was replaced by an eleven-year-old.
A very sweet eleven-year-old whom I love, but frankly, you know...
I have to sell back my costume (sigh, fedora...)
She's like four foot nine or some tiny height, and she gets my costume. An Adult Medium that's big on even me. Good luck, Dawn, fixing that one.
Ah well, less stuff to do at competitions, less stuff to pay for, fewer quick changes at recital.
Life goes on.
