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Jan. 31st, 2007 08:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageSo today it was really hard to keep from laughing while my boss blasted this easy listening music through the office that basically said "I am over a half-century old", except that one of the songs mentioned cocaine and another mentioned smoking pot (that one was "Captain Jack"). He asked me to come help him figure out how to turn the volume up, so I directed him to the little grey megaphone thing next to the time in the start menustrip bar thing. Amplified sound ensued. I seriously wonder what the guy he was calling on the phone was thinking. It was like we were at a Bar 'n' Grill. Probably the best song was "Here Comes the Sun."
Yesterday I had to sit out during ballet because I got there 45 minutes late. Roman tried to teach some jumpy thing from his bank of dance steps we've never seen before, and people looked very surprised when they landed. He actually looked pretty decent, aesthetically, but it's awkward to express such an opinion because in America, the human body is basically one big sex organ. You can't say that someone looks aesthetically interesting without implying that you find them sexually attractive. You can't nurse a baby on an airplane because breasts were clearly designed for sexual purposes. He's very... Russian, though. I think Marlow must have been Russian. He has a prominent, sharp, craggy sort of nose, like an ancient Roman (har har), slightly sallow skin, a high forehead, and the back of his head does not protrude very much. He moves like a dancer, but he looks a bit stocky in the torso. He can jump like a... Russian man... but we all know he has a pin and a screw in his knee and he has to take painkillers daily to survive. He always wears sneakers that squeak on the floor.
It was the way he was dressed, though. Usually he wears these kind of faded-looking, weird shirts with big half moons of sweat in the armpits and a pair of sweatpants. I could still smell him from where I was sitting about six feet away, on the cold vinyl-over-concrete floor dusted with fine glitter and foot dirt, a musty, damp smell of sweat hiding behind some kind of musky deodorant or cologne, like a vigorous meeting of executives, an elite concentration camp, that gets to you after a while and makes you want to throw up your arms and bury your face in your own dryer-fresh sweatshirt (which was incidentally not warm enough, so I was already curled in a ball like a pill-bug). Yesterday he wore a linen-colored long-sleeve shirt with long navy stripes down the arms and the numeral "9" on the front (how ridiculous!) and a pair of jeans. The jeans fit well and the shirt complimented his skin tone somehow. He would jump and his hair would fall to one side, covering part of the huge pale receding forehead and somehow calling attention to the brown of his eyes. Watching dancers. It made me miss art.
And I watched the girls with faltering technique and little mental commitment. I saw them teeter off their axes and make little faces at themselves in the mirror, their elbows drooping toward the ground. There was an utter lack of ballon and of the constant reaching, extending in every direction (like an E field!) that is what makes ballet so fascinating to watch. Nobody really wanted to do ballet, I could tell. One of them was wearing carefully applied brown shades of eyeshadow which looked nice on her, but she works too hard. It is practically her profession to keep up her looks. I see her at school with her pretty brown hair straightened and brushed, while I can barely manage to wash mine every few days. She also has nice legs, an observation I can assure you that I make in a very asexual, non-lesbian way. Krista has these frightening claw hands - sepulchral airbrushed acrylic bayonets glued to fingers that prissily, mechanically separate, wilting like lilies the week after the moveable feast from her wrists (and Lea has paralyzed Aquaman flippers). She also has the disturbing habit of perceptibly sniffing air up her foundation-coated powder-patted nose whenever she takes off for a jump or prepares for a turn. You can see all the finite upward tension in her body, so tragically feminine. Leda. Abi looks like she will be a great dancer in future years, and some others have their moments, but Kirsten was bounding, plopping along. Her face reminds me of Mrs. Vassiliev's (sweet, with lucid, cowlike brown eyes (liquid innocence)), but her personality reminds me of curdling milk. Cheesy. The smell of feet. Oh, the Midwest.
Then our hip hop teacher also had random number nines on his jersey, and his hair was down from its usual mohawk.
Ginny is amazing. My memories of Mark confirm that he, too, is amazing. (I hate when people don't spill their souls out onto the internet.) Now they have become almost mythical, and I would be ecstatic if they could come to watch my last recital, something I had foolhardily assumed they would do since I was very small.
We beat NoPo! and the party bus was really fun. I think we should have a Trivial Pursuit party sometime. If we just invite the people ON the team, that makes six!
I made a facebook so I could see Chloe's New Year's pictures. Here's my favorite:
