Interpretive Dance Class

Today was interpretive dance day in my Urban Literature of Nature class. After a sentence like that, I don't see how I could ever persuade naysayers that I am a serious college student. In the same vein, there has never been a time more in my life where I've felt like an honest to god hippy.

The young woman who lead the class was a graduate student at my school, and professionally teaches dance. She has led interpretive dance in an academic class setting like this before, so she knew what she was doing. We sat in a large circle on the floor with our shoes off as she questioned us about or relationship to nature, what our role in nature is and how nature makes us feel. At certain points she would ask us to demonstrate these feelings without words.

Many students were hesitant to participate, and several moments of silence would pass before another brave soul would walk into the circle and silently act out their emotions through a flail of arms and the stomping of legs. The audience was then  left to interpret the meaning of these awkward gestures. It was more often than not pretty obvious what emotion or idea the student was portraying with their jagged body movements. The overall theme I surmised from my classmates dance moves is that we are destroyers of the thing we love. We love nature so we smile and skip around and pick up an invisible flower and smell it. Then we wield an invisible ax and chop down the invisible tree beneath which the flower grew. The students brave enough to step into the circle acted out their feelings as literally as possible.

After a while our interpretive dance instructor became fed up with our lack of willingness to display our mediocre dance moves for the class to see except for the handful of brave dancers. Quick like a cat she sprang up to her feet, strode to the center of the circle, and gracefully fell to her knees before performing a half summersault and leaving one leg momentarily outstretched toward the ceiling. Then she gracefully landed and uprighted herself as she exclaimed, "And that's how I feel about nature."

At first I couldn't help but think "show off." But then I realized she was demonstrating the potential we had to markedly improve our own interpretive dance moves by not trying to act out everything in such a literal fashion. Her elegantly organic movements were unlike anything anyone in the class had even attempted. It was in this moment of realization that my definition of interpretive dance was completely turned on its head and I saw it as an artistic form of expression rather than a frivolous hippy activity.

Cockroach Death is Confusing AND Funny

As many know, my mind is partially corroded with the acidic drizzle of peculiar thoughts which sometimes trickle through my skull and often spill out of my mouth in a messy, embarrassing remark that only made any real sense back up in my silly putty brain. However, cockroaches are often a fairly safe subject to poke fun at, and so I am sharing some of my insights with you now. "Kitchen Linoleum," by Audre Lorde, is a remarkable poem. I am very fond of this short piece, and prepared a satiric response which was submitted in my Urban Environmental Literature class:

"Kitchen Linoleum"

The cockroach

who is dying

and the woman

who is blind

agree

not to notice

each other's shame

The resulting acid spill:

Maybe I’m a terrible person, but I couldn’t help laughing during and after reading “Kitchen Linoleum,” by Audre Lorde. It’s just so terribly morbid, and that’s why I find it hilarious. It’s such a short poem, but it raises a thousand questions in my mind. It’s interesting how the cockroach and blind woman “agree not to notice each other’s shame” even though the woman can’t see the cockroach. So how do they make this agreement? Do they speak a common language? Do cockroaches make some sort of noise when they die? Is the dying cockroach in the woman’s home? Does the woman have a home? Maybe the woman sat down on a park bench and accidentally placed her hand over the upturned body of a writhing cockroach, and thanks to her heightened senses, knew its death was imminent. Not wanting to touch a dying cockroach, nor any cockroach for that matter, she quickly removes her hand and agrees to pretend that didn’t just happen. And perhaps the cockroach is ashamed of dying on public display and agrees to pretend no one has noticed it. Maybe cockroaches are very emotional and self-conscious creatures.

What I really wondered is why the blind woman is shameful. Is it because she can’t see, or is it because of her interaction with the cockroach? Maybe the woman is starving and decides to eat the cockroach for some much needed protein. I suppose if eating cockroaches is new to her, then eating her first cockroach might be a bit shameful. Perhaps she is a seasoned cockroach huntress who prefers the thrill of the chase but hasn’t had a kill in a few days and out of necessity has taken advantage of the dying cockroach who has no chance of escape. 

I will say, if the dying creature had been something more lovable, which includes pretty much anything non-insect or serpent related, this poem would have made me feel quite sad. Say if it was the blind woman agreeing not to notice the shame of her very sick, vomit-spewing but faithful canine companion who loved her before she went blind. That poem might even bring tears to my eyes. But I’d be hard pressed to locate a cockroach enthusiast (well maybe not at ESF), but the fact that they are so difficult to kill makes cockroach death seem like a more joyous occurrence and a victory for the human race.

You know how when you’re with a group of people and one of them farts but everyone silently agrees not to bring it up or point fingers? Everyone just endures the stench and waits for it to pass in that tense half minute of silent whodunit. That’s the sort of emotion this poem conjures for me. It’s awkward and embarrassing but also strangely amusing.

Christmas Cassettes

My mom recently purchased a lightly used vehicle previously owned by an elderly couple. Looking to bridge the gap between analog and digital, they had both a tape deck and CD player installed. Although our modern family has wholeheartedly adopted the use of CD's, why not take advantage of a tape deck? It's fun! It's nostalgic!

So I bought my mom six cassettes for Christmas.

The selection of music at the tiny local record store was pretty sweet, and I walked out of the shop with some Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Rush, Eric Clapton, Motley Crue, Cheap Trick and James Taylor. After mom unwrapped her gift with a laugh, I had to make it clear the gift was meant to be functional. I made sure to go the extra mile to personally fill her center console with the tapes so they would be located a forearm's reach away. A storage area that probably could have housed ten CD's is now crowded with the six cassettes I purchased for a buck each. Was I having too much fun with this?

Maybe.

I had a feeling the cassettes would only get played if I initiated the their use with my mom in the car. So this morning when I drove her to work, I excitedly asked if she wanted to listen to a cassette. She smiled and selected the Cheap Trick "One on One" album. After a few moments of no sound, we both realized with a giggle: the tape needed to be rewound. So mom hit the "Rev" button, and we wistfully listened to that familiar whirring sound before the tape finally played from the beginning. We sampled each of the songs before skipping to the next track, laughing in between songs as the tape wound around and the musical silence stagnated. Skipping songs on a tape takes what feels like a millenium compared to how swift this function is on a CD. Playing music on a cassette is an enthralling experience, building suspense as we wait, feeling like our hair has grown an inch before the next song finally plays. But it's all part of the charm.

The tricked out control center

Forget CD's, play the tapes!

Uncontrollably Laugh Your Way to Medical Attention

I was watching TV with my grandma this morning when a commercial came on that triggered bouts of laughter from both of us. The irony is, the commercial was explaining the pseudobulbar affect, which is a medical condition characterized by episodes of uncontrollable laughing or crying, also referred to as "emotional incontinence." The ad seemed like a cheesy fake commercial in a Saturday Night Live episode, except this commercial was no laughing matter. The pseudobulbar affect is listed and explained on the National Stroke Association website.

But isn't it kind of cruel to create a commercial identifying this condition in such a comical way? Maybe a little, but it certainly got my attention. So if you have recently had a stroke or some other brain related incident or illness and you are experiencing emotional incontinence, you're not alone. Get your PBA pamphlet today!

Forest Graffiti

Washington Grove is a popular 100 acre forested area in the ROC, and features a unique artistic attraction. Graffiti smothered water towers rest on a hill surrounded by hiking trails, and no hike is complete without taking a spin around the two water towers to view the most current images. The artwork is constantly changing, so if you see something you like, you better snap a photo. Chances are it won't be there next time you visit. A recent adventure to the towers left me stopping every few feet to photograph my favorite creations before dashing to catch up to my two hiking companions. One of my friends was visiting from Brooklyn, and I may have missed out on some important conversation, but the impressive graffiti kept drawing my camera phone out of my pocket.

Gary the ubiquitous cartoon snail

After reviewing my picture plunder, I noticed floating animal heads were a recurring theme. I was also amused by one particular artwork that took me by surprise with it's simple execution. I couldn't help but take a photograph to contrast the demented creature donning a bubble gum pink sweater vest with the more elegant and sophisticated work that dominates the water tower walls.

"I'm special."

The water towers provide a creative outlet for artists of all aesthetics and levels of experience. Hopefully this artistic gem can continue to provide a vast canvas for graffiti artists. With the recent loss of 5 Pointz in Queens, we can be glad no one seems too interested in converting rusty old water towers into ritzy condos. Of course, no one is about to develop land in the middle of a park either, so the water towers hopefully have some added immunity.

Sidewalk Garnish

Leaving Jeremiah's Tavern on Monroe Ave today after a tasty lunch with the family, I noticed a peculiar growth by the edge of the sidewalk. As I inched closer, it was impossible to ignore how eerily similar the lettuce-like foliage looked to the lettuce garnishes that often accompany a restaurant meal. The rich purple and green hues of the leafy growth tempted me to take a little taste, but the thought of eating street lettuce stopped me in my tracks. My uncle noticed the vegetation and jokingly exclaimed, "fertilized with cigarettes!" I'll keep wondering how that strange lettuce specimen managed to sprout and thrive in a tiny dirt patch by the edge of a grimy, well-traveled road. I hope Jeremiah's acquires their garnishes elsewhere.

Lookin' pretty good considering the cold and salt and all

Communication Breakdown

Ahhh the holidays, a time when doting grandparents can finally reunite with the beloved grandchildren they are lucky enough to see but a few times a year. I can't help but chuckle as I observe the interactions between my grandmother and her toddler granddaughter. They sit at the dining room table together, making art from a pile of yellow construction paper, crayons and craft scissors.

The young girl mouths of wordy, half coherent sentences while Grandma attempts to translate and respond accordingly. The pile of once whole sheets of yellow paper is slowly but surely being transformed into a heap of dissected squiggly strips.

Markers with missing caps littler the tables, and other young children join in the fun, adding to the squiggly paper mayhem.

Little girl: (proudly holding up a shape she just cut) "That's a guy. I love it."

Younger boy: (planning to cut out a boat from some black construction paper) "I was thinking one with a banana end and one with a dragon tail end"

Younger boy:
"Does that look like a butterfly to you?"
"That looks like a dragon."
"My mom used to eat snails. I never want to eat snails in my life."
"Cranberry sauce tastes bitter to me."

Grandma talking to little girl: "Do we have glue on the scissors by any chance? It looks like we might... Nope you're good, keep cutting."

One older little boy chimes in, "The great thing about these scissors is it's not really messy." And he's absolutely right. Even a three year old just learning to refine her crafting abilities can cut artistic squiggly lines without having to worry about making them too straight.

And it doesn't really matter if Grandma can linearly translate what her adorable granddaughter is trying to tell her. They're conversations are as squiggly and haphazard as the paper shapes that litter the table and floor. As long as they're making art and spending time together, that's all that matters.

Younger boy on the left, little girl in the middle
holding the magical craft scissors, and Grandma
on the right facilitating the discussion