Missy | July 9, 2007
You Scream I Scream, at Allen & Rivington, LES. Thanks, Ice Cream Man!
Has no one besides me noticed the giant naval ship docked outside my apartment? (Actually, down the street at the end of Atlantic Avenue)? Saturday morning, when I was out taking photos of it and the Brooklyn beach and floating pool on what turned out to be an accidentally exposed and therefore ruined roll of film, I saw a number of sailors walking around, mostly in civilian clothes, but a few in unrecognizable sailor’s uniforms. I spied “H.M.S” on the band on their caps. Aha! The Royal Navy is in town! Ever since, there’ve been nothing but British sailors all over the neighborhood, and as far into Brooklyn as Great Lakes in Park Slope, mostly looking very bored, possibly because we only show baseball on our bar televisions here.
My neighborhood yoga studio closed. This is annoying on several fronts, not the least of which is that I do not go out of my way for yoga. Don’t get me wrong–I like yoga. But not enough to travel beyond walking distance and back again for some crowded studio in the city. My neighborhood place was great–it always smelled nice, I gained some acquaintances among the regulars, and I could try out a variety of times and teachers until I found the right fit. That’s the key, really, finding the right teacher. I’m picky, and I don’t want someone who is new agey, or someone without a solid study of anatomy. I found that teacher, someone who articulates corrections in the most meaningful (not to mention humorous) way. Now I’m not sure where to find him and I don’t have his last name; worse, his first name is, simply, John.
There’s a video installation happening up at Lincoln Center: giant projections of a variety of dancers (including ballerina Wendy Whelan, Cunningham dancer Holley Farmer, DC-based choreographer and dancer Nejla Yatkin, and my personal favorite William Forsythe) shot at 1000 fps and shown in exhaustingly slow detail to reveal the imperceptible impulses underlying movement sequences, even in something as small as a gesture. View a clip here. Imagine seeing yourself five stories tall and moving in slo-mo. I fear it would be a hypnotic, Homer Simpson-style jiggling (see episode “The Springfield Files”, with appearances by Agents Mulder and Scully.)
Finally, if I can get a little meta for a second, I sometimes make little notes to myself about tidbits worth mentioning on the blog. (This may surprise you, given how little I post these days.) These notes, be they on post-its or in a saved draft entry, help me keep my inevitably omnibus thoughts in order. In addition, it is often true that I have my best thoughts just before falling asleep. I’ve discovered solutions to math problems, programmed in SAS, and solved for world peace. (That last part is not actually true.) The problem is that when I combine a flitting, unsubstantial thought with a post-it scribble, I come up with what I found this morning: “MJ Grammies [sic].” I know what this means. It translates to, “Locate the YouTube clip of Michael Jackson from the year Thriller won every possible award including, I’m certain, Best Gospel album and Best Classical Recording”. Brooke Shields was his date. I was 12 at the time and I, like every other 12 year old girl and every man, woman, and child from eight to eighty, absolutely died watching the Grammys. It was so exciting! The problem is I cannot for the life of me remember why I thought of this in the first place, and why I thought it necessary in order to contextualize another piece of this blog post. Nothing’s making sense right now. I did, however, find that clip. Listen to all those girls shrieking! I assure you I was doing the same in my living room that night in 1984. But jeez, watching this clip now, it is absolutely clear that he was a strange guy even then.
UPDATE: I remembered! Get ready for a letdown. I have recently become wildly into Arvo P
Category: Uncategorized |
1 Comment »
Tags:
