An evening conversation

We’ll dance this Saturday, Shelle and I, a duet with a live band at a downtown nightclub. We’re the duet act, and there are three other performers, each with distinct and remarkable style. I anticipate a fantastic show to a sold-out crowd.

Last weekend we practiced prior to rehearsal with the band, and during our practice together we didn’t have the music, so as we danced through our choreography she sang the rhythm and I sang the melody. We were both surprised and amused at how quickly it turned into the Oompa Loompa song
oompa loompa oopedy doop,
which then turned into surfer music
da-da-da-da-da-da-da-daaaa,
which then turned into schmaltzy Broadway
laaaa, la la la la la laaaaaaa.

We quickly devolved into silliness while feigning seriousness, chins held high and nostrils flared, smiles suppressed in attempt to not disrupt our dancing.
We vamped and pouted and flirted.

My darling S, seated on the couch watching us practice during a break in his studies, found our antics comical and between laughs suggested we work such silliness into our routine for performance.
Someday, someday.


This time it’s about timing, about how our bodies move differently but the same, this time it’s about the complimentary motions and the connection between us. She and I have been dancing together for so long now we can not only follow but even anticipate the other’s next motion. Anyone eavesdropping during our brainstorms would hear an enthusiastic conversation consisting of half sentences,
“At this point we can…!”
“Yes, oh but what about this?”
“Oooh, and then we could…!”
“Hey, I know, why not…”
“No I want you forward…”
“Let’s count it from here…”
“What if I…?... is that cool? And then you?”

Our creation takes on a life of its own.

The dance we do is all about shapes—patterns in the air drawn with hips, or arms, or bodies, circles and figure eights and ellipses. We travel across the floor in lines, in curliques, in diagonals, crossing and weaving, parting and coming together again.

But someday, yes, I can imagine a comedy dance routine, especially with her. She’s a whirlwind.

We’re working on our costumes, which are silver, black, and magenta. I designed and constructed them, and think I’m getting pretty good at making such things from scratch. I have to finish mine; I completed hers, but it needs minor sewing in some places so I gave it to her to stitch.

The costume style borders both gothic and old-fashioned American bellydance style, with belts adorned with coins, long flowing skirts, and sequined bras with the same coin decorations as the skirt. Ribbons drape from the center of the bra down the belly and around to the sides of the belt, which makes our torsos look longer and adds an air of 1920s

I cannibalized from three thrift store dresses, two metal belts, and a pair of black and silver pants that I bought a year ago, washed, and hung outside because they smelled like nasty menthol cigarette smoke and butt sweat. After swinging outside for a year in the rain and the sun they thankfully no longer smell, but I’m playing it safe, I cut the fabric into long strips for edging along the skirt panels.

The black fabric from the formerly stinky pants has silver metal in it like pseudo-Assuit, and I took the skirt off this 1970s sequins and chiffon number no doubt worn for dancing. That dress? Was gross. It had the dry-cleaner’s tag in it still, but there were three spots on it of questionable ancient white milky substance. I’m praying it was milk or maybe baby formula, but who can possibly say.

I want to eventually add more sequins and chains to the whole ensemble, but the decorations will suffice for the show on Saturday.

Dance class tonight, and again tomorrow, then practice with Shelle, then band rehearsal, then performance. My nights are booked.