dancing barefoot

St Patty's Day

2007-03-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

Too busy this weekend, it was go go go girl and I'm exhausted now.

Performed Friday night at the standing-room only monthly guild show-- lots of fabulous dancers made for a stellar evening. I received some flattering feedback on my performance to the classic Arabic love song, Enta Omri, which I've performed before, but not for for the guild. It's important to learn new dances, but I find it's also necessary to have a reliable repertoire. I've finally got about twenty full 3 to 5 song routines, solid horses of all different shape, size, color and temperament in my stable, which I can trot out at any short notice. Some require a little refreshing, obviously, like Enta Omri which has lots of juicy layers of sound, intricate rhythm changes, lovely melodic swirls and some awesome please-don't-miss-that-accent sections. But there are some songs I can perform without having heard in months. Never thought I'd have so much under my belt, but if you'd told me fifteen years ago I'd be teaching dance, I'd have died laughing.

On Saturday morning I taught my two hours. In addition to the usual drills and shimmies and undulations and isolations (use those muscles ladies), we're working on how to approach a full performance-length choreography format, complete with improvisation and veils. The song begins fast, so we can use some of the quick rhythmic motions, then it slows, so we can use the veils. After a few minutes of veilwork we discard our veils, and add a shimmy to our slow taqsim motions (or not). The ladies LOVE working on it-- I've never really done the "I dance, you follow" structure before, and we still spend a lot of time breaking down the individual motions, but they seem to really enjoy it. So many different people learn things in so many different ways. It's neat to see it happen.

Towards the end of our class, the studio owner had a request, so I did an unexpected impromptu zill and veil dance with four students for a small group of visually impaired children who were coming into the dance studio. Many of the kids couldn't see us, but they could hear us, and they could feel the air swirling with the veils. One very young girl stood behind her dark glasses with amazing rapt attention. The thought of losing my sight terrifies me. I do know a blind dancer, and I suppose such things are possible, but it is difficult and frightening for me to imagine.

In the afternoon I went with my girls Shell & Vicky to the assisted living home, where we did two group numbers, Shelle did a solo, and I did one solo & a veil dance. Good times, good times. The usual suspects were in their half-circle in the lunch room, ready for us when we arrived. The room was insanely hot due to the sunny weather, so we were panting by the time we finished our dance set. We read one of the resident's poetry (he's been asking us to come to his room and read it, which we must decline, but this time he had his book there with him, waiting), and it almost made me cry, it was both humble and encouraged, but I interpreted it as sad because it had nothing outside his daily existence, just get up, eat, bathe, sleep, sit in the sunshine. Ode to a cantaloupe takes on a whole new meaning when it's a life of physical restrictions and confinement, but then it is somebody's life. I have to think more about it.

My friend had her baby, little itty bitty tiny thing. I took dinner to her, got to hold the wee one, and hurried back home in time for our St Patty's Day dinner party. S bbq'd a big hunk of beef, plus cabbage & taters & carrots & onions, and we had a wonderful night with friends. We gorged ourselves and laughed too much.

I slept almost all day Sunday, except for doing laundry and taking a walk with S down at the butte, where we saw a nesting pair of bald eagles on the riverside side of the hill, and heard hundreds of little birds and saw thousands of cherry blossoms. The trillium are blooming. The sunlight played chase with high clouds. I kissed my smiling sweet blue-eyed man and he tasted like springtime.

Hullabaloo

2007-02-14T14:09:00.000-08:00

Performance for Dance for a Reason with little D at the Hult Center, and it was quite the big hullabaloo. More than 1500 people and three levels of seating, oh boyo.

We practiced three times, and I worried and fretted about her ability and whether or not she’d do okay, but should not have worried because she was awesome and stole the show-- not just our two minute-twelve-second performance, I mean the entire show. She was adorable. The costume I made for her (we had to have matching green, you see) was perfect. She is a huge flirt and will no doubt break hearts. Already is breaking hearts, most likely.

Problems were overcome, including the question of how to get on the stage in front of the curtain. We had planned to enter from either side. But the curtain rises & falls, rather than sweeps side-to-side, and there were all sorts of wires & sound equipment along the sides, backstage, which rendered this plan impossible. Had we been allowed a dress rehearsal, this would have come to light prior to five minutes before our performance. Live and learn, I discovered.

We entered from inside the house, went up stairs onto the stage, and little D took off running across the stage to start as we had initially planned… immediately captivating the audience. She was the youngest performer that night, certainly the cutest, and the few times I glanced over at her she was imitating me so well, and was right on cue with the music, that it looked as though we had spent much much more time in rehearsal.

My only real concern during the performance was from my own costume malfunction; the wrap-around skirt has a modesty panel covering my upper thigh, which affixes with snaps. Going up the stairs onto the stage, one snap released, thus displaying my entire leg to the entire audience, and all I could think was thank God I had worn the black bike shorts beneath the costume. Preparation, that is truly the key.

We opened the second half of the show, and rocked the house, if I do say so.

2007-02-07T14:11:00.000-08:00

Isn't she loverly. I made this costume for her & now she is dancing in Vegas, baby. Hot hot hot.

Dancewrite

2006-11-29T12:54:00.000-08:00

It’s not that I’m not writing, I’m just not writing the regular stuff of wispy wind and riverwater. Choreography, or dancewrite, a record and means of remembrance, has consumed my hours and thoughts. I don’t know if you would understand it but when it's loose and under construction and open to improvisation it looks like this--

sweep step

maya choo choo

arms slow lift & fall, pause with both up

melody

rock back step, spin, shoulder shimmy

cross push maya to Lt,

undulate in place

then to Rt

triplet around in figure 8

out push maya to Lt

undulate in place

then to Rt

crescents around

ommis and circles

shimmies

accents

Cairo 8

hand to temple

chest drop, level down

big shimmy up

camel, arabesque

turn 180*

facing back shimmy on the up with rhythm

slow lean back to side, to other side

face front

level down (4:00)

shoulders with oud

level up

hips & belly with oud

Rt side turn, side hip figure 8

hip tock tock tock!

turn, side hip figure 8

hips & belly with oud

reverse camel accent

shoulders

turn, back bend

pivot step, spin, shoulder shimmy

level change spin

fin!

Loie and Isadora

2006-11-28T13:21:00.000-08:00

Cairo Night

2006-10-23T12:18:00.000-07:00

Our promo pic.
This picture was of a handful in which my expression didn't say, "Um, why am I here and what am I wearing?" The other ladies look fabulous! Va va voom.

We packed the place for our show on Saturday night, and we all danced very well, hooray! I love dancing with these girlies, we have fun. You should hear the conversations in the green room. No, on second thought, you shouldn't.

We're supposed to get together for a video-review of the show next weekend; can't wait to see it. I haven't seen video of myself dancing in a few years, so it'll be good to have an idea about what needs improvement... there's always something.

I had four(!) costume changes. My final solo was to the love song Enta Omri, plus a drum solo. I draped my white veil around my love's neck.

Here's a blurry photo from someone's cell phone, my silver glittery most comfortable costume, feeling demure and in love, anticipating the music's downbeat. Here is comes...
Boom.

Zoe

2006-08-07T15:11:00.000-07:00

At the Oregon Country Fair I had the amazing good fortune to dance with this ferocious serpentine she.

The Fair itself was an interesting experience, curious as always, different to be on stage. I loved the crowd and they loved me. No I don't have any photos today.

In less than a month this gorgeous creature is returning to teach a workshop, oh me oh my oh, and she'll be staying with my Shellybelly. Delight.

Dance Business

2006-05-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

The dance studio where I've been teaching for a full year is moving out of town, so I'm searching for a new space that can accomodate my ever-growing class. It's not easy finding dance studio space; many places don't rent their studios, and too many are condescending or assume much when I say I'm a Middle Eastern Dance instructor.

I actually had one woman tell me she didn't want "that" in her studio. So not only do I tread the waters of misconception, I swim upstream trying to find new studio space.

Even if the owners of the studio have no comment on the style of dance, they are, for the most part, pains in the ass.

Example:
I called a number of studios the other day. One woman who answered mentioned her name, and the name of the studio.

I asked if they rent the space for classes.

She said they haven't in the past, but may begin doing so, and wanted to know the
purpose.

I explained it would be a contract through the community college, and that it's one morning a week teaching bellydance.

She reiterated they don't normally rent the space out, but may consider it.

I asked if the space would accomodate about 30 students.

Instead of answering, she asked what size room was I currently renting.

I explained it was about 30 by 20, and that something bigger would be better.

She asked what was the studio called and why was I looking for a new place.

I told her the name, and said it was moving.

She said to check back with her, because although she didn't normally rent the space, she might consider it.

I thanked her and asked her for her name. Having called over 50 people before noon, I wanted to verify the correct name.

"I told you that already, didn't I," she said and it wasn't a question so I didn't say anything.

"I am sure I told you my name already." I still held my silence, thinking to myself she just eliminated the chance that I would rent from her.

"My name is Jessica and my family established this studio 45 years ago."

I thanked her for her time and lied through my teeth when I said I'd check back later. There's no way I would lease with such a high-toned bitch. I can only imagine the fuss if I failed to turn off these lights but not those lights, or if I forgot to sweep after my class. No, thanks.

An evening conversation

2006-05-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

We did it again.

Sometimes I forget to smile but you've got it covered. Sometimes you move too fast and I say slow, slow.

Dancing together is something else entirely.

Mostly I don't even have to look for you because there you are because I know you are there.

Veil dancer

2006-04-24T15:39:00.000-07:00

Fluidity of motion or symbol of cultural oppression.

I'll dance with veils if a song I love seems suitable.
I often use veils if I'm unsure of the audience's ability or comfort level of staying focused on my body for the entire time I dance.

The beautiful silk offers a different focal point, a bigger more dramatic dynamic, but also poses a double entendre.

I can consider it a display of air swirling and making graceful sweeps, a dance partner who may get caught on my head but who will never trod upon my bare feet, but I teach my students the necessity of remembering there are those women without the luxury of removing their veils.

With this in mind I'll pretend I have wings.

Wilder-ness

2006-04-12T09:38:00.000-07:00

Ferocity becomes her.

Once a man lamented his favorite local dancer had become too tame, too civilized. He wistfully said, and his voice took on the half whisper-growl of intentional theatricality and his tongue curled around the most important word, Years ago she was wild.

But refinement does not always mean lost intrigue of unrestraint, although the degree of turbulence gains subtlety.

I love the unruly, ungovernable, rebellious dancers, but I appreciate them even more when they infuse their motions with accuracy and perfection of controlled, learned, practiced movement.

That is the best of both worlds.

Beginning

2006-04-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

More than a full class last Saturday and I couldn’t quite get the feel, too many breathing bodies, too many souls reaching out and trying to catch how I was moving. The motion of bodies can be exhilarating and fascinating and frightening too, so much effort, direct focus and concentration.

Bodies are powerful things, stuffed and packed with energy, strung together with sinew and muscle and blood and bone to facilitate that energy. Making the connection between mind and body manifests itself in dance, especially when the dance requires sincere control of weight shifts and isolations of muscle groups. It is not as simple as it looks.

I arrived early but not early enough, no time to sweep the floor, and then I discovered that the stereo was not working, it wasn’t reading any of the discs I put into the contraption. Yadona saved me by getting her portable stereo; she also gave me a gift of home-baked bread, which I have been savoring. The crust is thick and chewy, the inner texture is light and perfectly suited to olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Ayeshteni, Yadona.

We talked posture, balance, placement of feet and hips. Many women stand with their feet too wide apart, leaning forward slightly off balance, knees locked against falling. Many women release their abdomen muscles, let their guts spill out and crush their lower spines. Many women hunch their shoulders, self-conscious of their breasts.

Feet beneath your hip bones, I say. Relax your knees, I say. Squeeze your buns, I say. Roll your shoulders back and down, let the sun shine on your heart, I say. Breathe, I say.

And they do it, and then they follow me through a half hour of grueling isolations and sit ups and push ups and lunges until we’re all loose and stretched and sweaty and they feel better than they have in years.

When we start it’s always the same, basic foundations, find your center, bring it inside, your focal point is just below your belly button. Step, hip. Step, hip. They follow me and I count backwards with the music 4,3,2,1 switch feet, 4,3,2,1.

Narrowed down and more controlled, soon they’re halfway between anxious and fatigued, comfortable with the repetition, relaxed. This is when I tell them, as we step, hip, step, hip, moving forward, Ladies! You are dancing! And I avert my eyes from their faces reflected in the mirror but I know the shock and amazement and laughing pride they try to conceal. Delight in motion becomes tangible energy.

Guedra

2006-04-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

The guedra trance dance comes from the Tuareg “blue people” from southern Morocco and the West Sahara.

The name guedra comes from a big cooking pot, covered with an animal skin to make a drum, an essential element of the dance. With a slow heavy drumbeat, the veiled dancer flicks her fingers and slowly unveils her head, revealing a myriad of tiny braids, some formed into a crown, and all decorated with shells, agates, and other talismans. As the tempo increases, she begins to toss her head to the beat of the drum, following the clapping and the chanting of the tribe.

The intensity and her entrancement increases until, unconscious, she falls to the ground. From the Egyptian zar to the leilat of the Gnaoua of Morocco, trance rituals release evil spirits, or dispell bad energy and restore harmony of balance.

Poetry

2006-04-04T10:35:00.000-07:00

A craftsman pulled a reed from the reed bed,

cut holes in it, and called it a human being.

Since then it’s been wailing a tender agony

of parting, never mentioning the skill

that gave it life as a flute.

- Rumi

Grace

2006-04-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

Re-vamping my lessons, attempting to add a level, keep it simple but make the difficulty appropriate. I've been busy, not busy enough. My thoughts stick on preparatory exercise, and there's no way to make sit-ups fun. I can elicit chuckles and giggles with grunts and groans, and by saying, "Alright, that is enough of those." Even though it's not enough by half, and I could spend a whole hour doing sit-ups, push-ups, jumping-jacks, punches, lunges, stretches. Dancing takes strength, strong legs, strong lungs, strong body. I do love belly dance because it is a dance for all women, regardless of age, weight, or body type. Athleticism is appreciated, be it fluid and light, or solid and powerful. Strength is grace, grace is strength.

Nejla

2006-03-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

Yes, belly dancing has a stigma.

There have been some truly talented dancers who deserve recognition despite the stigma. While we in the scene seek to elevate the artistry, we also, on some level, must admire those who took it, no holds barred, and ran with it.

Erring on the side of sexual rather than sensual, selling images of flesh rather than images of motion, this nod towards the marketing and industry of women as objects often makes it difficult to promote belly dancing as a legitimate art.

It is, indeed, an art, which takes much time to study and practice, and takes no less devotion than learning how to play a musical instrument.

The 1950s star Nejla Ates, photographed more frequently with pasties than without, was a tiny bit of dynamite recognized as an amazing dancer.

An athletic and entertaining performer, she was featured in the Broadway musical "Fanny!" and was on numerous album and magazine covers.

In 1965, when she was 32, she overdosed on barbituates in New York City.

Her suicide saddens me most because people, even fellow dancers, don't recall her playful athleticism, her distinct stylistic technique, her feline grace.

Pasties are not for me, ever, although I can recognize what amazing freedom of movement they would have allowed.

Plus I can admire the ferocity of self-assuredness it must have taken to perform, so scantily-clad, on Broadway in the 1950s.

Shoot

2006-03-27T15:15:00.000-08:00

I don't really like my photo taken, because it never looks like me.
It's my fate to have the jelly face of a born mimic, and I can impersonate Jack Nicholson, Elvis, the Queen, Beavis, Brittney Spears, etc.

I'm even guilty of brief comedic skits, like Flock of Seagulls guy tries to be a gangsta. But that's usually the gin mixed with wine mixed with the richest chocolate cake on earth egged on by other drunk peoples' laughter.

So. Photo shoots are hilarious. Keep a straight face?
I have a tendency to smile like the cat who ate the canary, eyes all squinty and pointy teeth showing.

Look off in the distance? And I think dum-da-DUMMMM! Supergirly!
I just need a black cape.

Stop smiling we're being serious here, pensive, seductive, demure.
Quit giggling.

Okay, okay, try looking at your hip.
Just... move around a little.

Be natural. Relax your shoulders.

And of course when anyone tells you to relax you know it's useless. You might as well just roll around on the floor.

From the Hip

2006-03-23T14:49:00.000-08:00

I got there early and watched the two ballet divas, and they deserve the right title, go through their routine. Scrutiny revealed things I had forgotten, and spinning with the thighs squeezed together like there’s a piece of paper between makes so much sense.

My students arrived before the ballet class finished, and we talked in respectful hushed tones about how the ballerinas could dance without music.

They exited and we entered, and I had my work cut out for me. I had anticipated something entirely different from what I encountered. This was no intermediate level course, but basic beginning level.

They needed a lesson in bodily grace: shoulders back, let the sun shine on you! And when you kick, please, point your toe. Walk with strength, you are a regal dancer and a proud woman, not a bag of laundry!

They needed a speech about not succumbing to gravity, they needed help with the planes of their physical selves.

Some things I cannot tackle in just the span of an hour. Control, posture, strength, balance. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

But we smiled and laughed and I broke it down carefully, with their genuine smiling and lightbulb-over-the-head-clicking-"on" appreciation. We took it a step back, here’s the technical element for each isolation.

Gain control over just this hip, move only the hip, tuck it up to the ribs, slide it out to the side, drop it down below neutral, bring it back up. Draw a circle. Don't drop your pelvis. Don't twist.

They loved the workout, and we did sweat, we shook it like an earthquake, we did a whole lot of moving. They followed with enthusiastic shyness, still uncertain, unprepared, but loving what they learn, and that’s the most important part.

Paisley Girl

2006-03-20T09:11:00.000-08:00

St. Patty's Day dance, green and blue and purple beads.

I danced first although I had been signed up as last on the list, which makes for a late late show. Nine dancers means it goes until eleven at night, and I had to get S from the library at 10. Easy enough to switch with another dancer, but perhaps-perceived cattiness rankles. I'm uninterested in confrontation.

I whipped out my impromptu song and drum solo, got the crowd clapping, even saw some smiles.

Audiences here are funny; people will sit stock-still and stare, unsmiling, and later approach and tell me I'm enjoyable and fun to watch. Or I get questions like, "You don't have any back problems, do you?" and "So how many years does it take to learn how to do that?"

I've read, and felt, that the rush of performance lowers inhibitions as much as a couple drinks of alcohol, so I never know what's going to come out of my mouth. I get sassy, and try best to edit it, but sometimes I laugh and tell people I just made it up as I went along.

But that's not entirely untrue, not only because it's an impromptu, not a choreographed performance, but also because it's like figure drawing, first you have to memorize the anatomy, and then forget it.

Louis Armstrong said he practiced scales all day long, but when he got up on stage, he'd forget all that shit and just blow. Words to live by.

The most rewarding part of my performance came at the end, as I swept down the ramp, a little girl crawled in through the bars in front of me, and flung her arms open for a hug. I happily obliged, folding her up for a giggling moment in my veil.

The adoration of children, her smile alone, is the reason I truly love to dance in public venues.

A dancer I very much respect told me it was the best she'd seen me dance, and that meant a lot to me.

Many of my students came, and I also encountered one former student from the first class I taught, three years ago. I recognized her, and approached her with compliments after she performed with her troupe. She immediately apologized for not continuing with my classes but I waved her apology away and told her the only important thing is that she keep dancing. And then it was easy.

I don't understand the jealous possession some instructors have for their students.

In fact I like to recommend future instructors to my students.
Go, learn, dance.

I wore this sparkly paisley costume, paired with a gold-green veil. White sheer skirt over gold harem pants. I created this beaded strappy thing out of a $10 shirt I found at the second-hand shop. Recycled "clothing" has definite merits. Lined with sueded silk and it's a pleasure to wear.

2006-03-15T12:12:00.000-08:00

An Almeh Performing the Sword Dance by Jean-Louis Gerome 1870

Sword dancers are fierce beasties, don't let the sweetness of their smiles distract you.

2006-03-15T11:26:00.000-08:00

Saturday the nightclub was packed, a myriad of anticipating and curious faces in the dimly lit room. The band strummed and tuned, exotic sounds of kanoon, ney, djembe, tabla, harmonium.

That night, what I loved best was the table next to ours. There were five Middle Eastern men there, enjoying the evening's performance. The band played traditional songs, and these men sang along, and clapped.

Their clapping was not just clapping on the downbeat, all together now, a marching beat. No, it was offset, even from each other, musical, following or anticipating the drummer's flourishes. One would clap fast, one would clap slow, one would add three short claps at opportune times. It was thrilling and exciting and made the show into something real.

Shelle and I had already put on makeup in preparation, theatrical eyes with black lines extending far beyond the eyelids. My darling S raised his eyebrows and shook his head, not one for so much makeup, but later said it looked great under the lights.

We pulled on our costumes in the little bathroom with cold tile floors, and had to walk barefoot through the restaurant to get into the nightclub, health code be damned.

Much to my dismay I discovered my belt was too loose, and would surely show the top of the skirt underneath it. But worse than that, I feared further slippage during one of our many level changes; bending knees down to the ground could possibly expose my bellydancer butt. Probably not quite as unappealing as plumber butt, but I didn't want to flash anyone, people were eating. This thought followed me like an annoying little dog.

The band played while we sat and sipped wine before we were invited to perform. When our song started we maneuvered through the crowd, just the drums playing slow tempo, we smiled hello at everyone.

When we came back to the center of the room we "noticed" each other, came together, and started our dance. It's a steady rhythmic song, unvarying in its trancelike 6/8 waltz. The flute and kanoon add the melody.

A series of turns, palms joined back to back, undulating motion that transitions into heavy stepwork. Turn and backbend, angled so I’m still behind her we lean forward, back, forward, back, serpentine and sensual.

She pivots so we're facing. Hip drop, don’t forget the accent. Hip lift, accents belong to first me and then to her. Write the letter M with our hips, eyes locked on each other.

A casual turn away, bye bye darling, we face the band, slowly turn around to the audience again, I knew without looking at her not only where she'd be but also what a joyful and playful grin she'd have on her face, and found my face aching with my own silly smile. Hip slide so she’s in front of me. She bends low, and our arms rise up and make the shape of a lotus flower.

We completed our routine and then did an improvised drum solo. It was her first live improv, and she loved it. We shimmied and danced and said goodbyes, returned to the center, bowed, waved, gave a final zaghareet, and exited the room while the band pounded with their drums.

Thankfully, my belt stayed up, and I didn't let loose the cracken. And she, most cursed with such problems, didn't have a costume malfunction either, however her costume bra fell out of her bag and she left it there under the table. The band leader called me on Monday to let me know it was being held for ransom.

After exiting the room, We changed clothes and stayed for the three other beautiful dancers.

First the lovely demure and severe redhead in green satin with incredible stage presence.

Then the sassy but elegant dancer with gorgeous back muscles in brown velvet pants and gold beads.

Finally the evening's star, impeccable and joyful, boisterous and fun, dressed in a gold beaded bedlah, with leopard-print skirt and gauntlet gloves.

Consummate performers, all.

Interesting how personality shines through when people let it. The individuality of expression is what I love best.

The audience interaction, the clapping, the singing, the dancing, the wine, my beloved and good friends, these simple things help me to forget the troubles of the world.

2006-03-15T11:10:00.000-08:00

I sold a costume this weekend, a fellow dancer who had attended my class bought the one I made out of a black sparkly one-sleeved dress. The fabric of the dress had copper and iridescent-colored glitter paint in a swirl pattern.

My additions to the dress, to make it into a dance costume, included long black fringe at the angled bottom hem, thumbprint-sized orange and yellow flat-backed jewels in strategic places along the top of the neckline, along the sides of the slit, and carefully placed on the hips, belly, and back.

I also added a layer of wide elastic stretch black sequins around the neckline, and a black sequin armband for the side missing a sleeve. It looked great with a black velvet shawl with black fringe wrapped around the hips.

Flamenco/flapper/disco. All I can say is she with her copper hair looked smokin.

2006-03-14T13:09:00.000-08:00

The only way I can stretch some of the muscles in my legs and hips is if I roll around on the floor doing all the things my Grandma told me not to do when I was young.

Knees out to the sides, heels tucked against ham, little kids sit like this. To stretch I slowly rise, then slowly drop again.

I’m the king of bongo baby I’m the king of bongo bong

Heh heh! This is a funny song!

Did he say that? If I listened to the song again would it be there buried under one of the layers of sound, the kind you only hear when your mind is relaxed and receptive, focused on the motion of the body and absorbing the sounds it hears?… or did it come from the kitchen!?

Hey look at this bacon, this is really good bacon. He did say this. He waved the raw slice.

Yes, let’s cook it. Hog jowls is good. Served with fried eggs and sesame bagels, coffee brewed to perfection.

(Please be ladylike and sit with your knees together.)

I can do front-back splits, and almost do side-to-side splits.

What wild woolley mad-professor hair, I like to bury my face in it, feel the tickle of soft auburn curls, inhale the clean salty good smell of his scalp. His hair grows straight up. It’s fabulous.

But he’s less approachable when he’s waving around a raw slice of bacon.

(Don’t bounce. Sit quietly. Either cross your legs, or fold them together to the side.)

I can walk around on my knees, turn a full circle, fast, in 8 counts, without bouncing, without rug burns. I can dance while on my knees, and will have to demonstrate to the wild-haired bacon-waver how this ability might be useful sometime soon. Ladylike, sure.

You are a Cabaret Belly Dancer! You're what people
think of when they hear the words "belly dancer" -- the beaded bra and belt, the
nightclub routine, the doumbek and the zills. Equally at home in a restaurant or at a
hafla, your routine is a crowd-pleaser no matter who's watching! Keep shimmying!

What Kind of Belly Dancer are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

2006-03-10T09:47:00.000-08:00

She and I ask each other What? a lot, and I think it’s because we have similar thoughts that we express in completely different terms. She was born in New England but lived in Osaka for years, her English is full of idioms I don’t understand, and I get the feeling she thinks in Japanese, that there’s something lost in the translation. It’s not that I don’t hear. It’s not that she doesn’t listen.

I stood halfway in and out of an elevator’s doors and we gave each other a laughing hug, on the dull grey second floor of the parking garage, while slushy rain dripped down the outside walls and spilled into the open stairwell and through the open walls. She was going up. I was going home.

2006-03-09T11:50:00.000-08:00

Choreography classes the past two nights and my mind is full of possible combinations of moves.

In the advanced class on Tuesday we worked on doing an improvisational drum solo. Our fabulously fun teacher provided the framework, and then each of us offered input about what we’d do during different phrases of the song. We learned it fast; she works us hard and we love to sweat.

We practiced it well, and we ended the song with the cheesiest possible jazz dance pose, left knee pulled up, right arm up and the left arm back and down, like Superman flying through the wild blue yonder. Or maybe Mighty Mouse.

We giggled at our silliness, we grinned like we were Vegas showgirls, strike the pose, va va voom. I don’t understand those who take themselves super-serious. There’s one thing to saying “this is my life,” and another to saying “this is my life and it’s not funny.”
I attended class last night, too, different teacher, she’s a co-conspirator for a trio dance entertainment project, and she teaches a beginning-intermediate level class. I’ll be covering the class while she makes a trip to Japan at the end of this month.

Many of my former beginning-level students are in the class, and when I arrived it was a slobbery hug-fest. I’m looking forward to teaching at a more intermediate level. Much as I love the beginners, I believe the best method of practice is to teach.

We worked on combining basic motions into a simple yet fast-paced choreography. I followed easily and looked around, noticed the looks of concentration, the frown lines, the determined set of their jaws. The last time we danced through it, she made us all smile, and the change of mood in the room was remarkable.

I liked how she had us end class facing each other in a circle; I’ve only been in a few classes that do this, and I think I’m going to incorporate it during my next Saturday class. Facing each other changes the focus; instead of looking in the mirror, we have to look at one another, and acknowledge we, too, are being seen. I have five students interested in performing in a student show in June.

Learning to perform is its own thing. There are born performers, but by and large, the ladies who attend my class come for the exercise, the camaraderie, the fun. I think dancing for one’s fellow classmates is harder than dancing for a general public audience. Perhaps, for just a ten-minute taste of it, we’ll each dance inside the circle. It’s an important exercise, so why do I feel like I’m rubbing hands together and smiling with a wicked grin?

Claudette Cleopatra

2006-03-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

Claudette Colbert was Cecil B. DeMille's Cleopatra in 1934.

MARK ANTONY
She is cunning past man's thought.

DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS
Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but
the finest part of pure love: we cannot call her
winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater
storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this
cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a
shower of rain as well as Jove.

MARK ANTONY
Would I had never seen her.

DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS
O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece
of work; which not to have been blest withal would
have discredited your travel.

Since I know you have nothing better to do, read Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra.

2006-03-08T10:56:00.000-08:00

See it in the dancer's eyes. No indication what she'll do next; often she doesn't know until she does it.
Light and shadows, shapes and lines, or does it represent the things beneath the surface? Staged, costumed, imaginary, or the genuine article? What would you like to be today?

An evening conversation

2006-03-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

She and I danced again, practice counting backwards, four, three, two, one. Step left right left, pause, right left right, pause, left right left, pause, right left right.

The problem with starting at one and counting up resides in the question of will it be four? or eight? Wait for the phrase to cycle around again, and it might even be sixteen.

Counting time is a curious thing.

2006-03-03T15:41:00.000-08:00

Time passes, some great ship that rolls beyond our reach, the liquid swell catches us and up we roll along the sides of the wave, then down again into the trough, another surge and another and then calm water again. Time leaves emptiness in its wake. History remains entirely intangible. We can touch and smell and see only the material remains, visual images, poems and stories, relics which inspire our own lives and creations.

"Valuable" and "meaningful" fulfills a subjective construct about the past. We can't know the names, daily pastimes, feelings, hopes, and dreams of the people who left no trace. Ancient songs, primeval dances. If we could see them as they were -- humans living lives hauntingly the same and also completely different as our own lives-- then perhaps we could uncover and demystify the origins of culture and art.

I find it curious that every culture in every corner of the world not only created musical instruments but also developed dance to accompany the music. Sound is the only sense which activates the response of physical motion. We all feel it. We all feel it differently. Sometimes the motion is head-bobbing toe-tapping, sometimes ferocious, wild, vigorous, flailing. Sometimes the elicited response is of curling into a ball on the floor and sobbing, or throwing the head back and laughing.

One thing I love about dance is its immediacy. The artist and the medium are one and the same, inseparable. But the immediacy of dance, the ephemeral quality of the act, especially impromptu emotional dance inspired by the sound of music, this poses a problem of re-creation, of preservation. Choreography attempts to record the motions, professionalism seeks to attain perfection with each performance, but neither can account for all factors of a dance.

It is the same as stepping in a river.

2006-03-03T15:13:00.000-08:00

As dusk folded into night we drove across town to the banquet hall at the culinary school. S accompanied me, for which I am grateful; he provided the warm hand to hold and the ear for whispering comments and the baggage-carrying shoulder. The most prestigious word-of-mouth dinner, prepared by graduating students, had chosen a Middle Eastern theme for their semi-annual gala. And what is an essential element of a Middle Eastern theme? A belly dancer.

C’est moi.

Given the cost of admission, the excellent reputation of the meals prepared, and the chance to attend, when the event coordinator contacted me two weeks ago I had arranged to dance for our dinners rather than receive payment.

I knew it was A Big Deal, but knowing hadn’t prepared me for the size of the venue. Men and women wearing black and white made their way around the reception lobby carrying platters, and patrons were snacking on delectable stuffed pastries and pita and dolmadas. We used that time to meet the M.C. and the event coordinator, and scope out the banquet hall. We found a huge room, thirty tables set with sincere formality, eight seats per table, white linen tablecloths, alternating red and black cotton napkins, four forks, two spoons, and two knives.

I gave the cd to the DJ, and then clarified my methods of entrance and exit. Rather than use the main entrance, which seemed banal and expected, I discovered a way from the bathroom, through a “staff only” side hallway next to the kitchen, that came through a side door into the banquet hall. So sneaky, highly dramatic me.

We were seated at a table next to the small stage, where a young man played classical guitar during the entrance and seating of all guests. The M.C. made his speech and thanked people for their work and generosity. The older ladies and gentlemen seated at our table with us made note of the program, which included that tantalizing phrase “belly dancer.”

They talked about other times they had seen dancers perform, and then the woman seated next to Shawn gave me and my make-up a la Cleopatra a scrutinizing, curious look and asked, “…Are you, by chance, the dancer?” I feigned surprise that anyone could have guessed, and waved my hand for secrecy.

While we ate the appetizer of lamb kibbeh and crunchy green beans in a plum tomato sauce, the ladies talked about the crossword puzzle in the day’s paper. The clue was “a belly dancer’s clackers.”

I refrained from a derisive remark about “clackers” and I also withheld the tide of possible babble about how finger cymbals are called zills in Turkey and America, and sagat in Egypt. And about how the first known zills were dated from 500 BC in Greece. And the first known dance contract, on written on Greek papyri from 206 AD, hired a krotalystrya – a dancer who played zills, or krotala --- to travel from Greece to Egypt in order to perform at a week-long festival. And I refrained from explaining that while it’s a standard part of American and Turkish shows, modern Egyptian dancers don’t play finger cymbals, they hire a band member to play for them.

The music I had selected for the evening’s performance, from Jalilah’s Amar 14, was inappropriate for playing zills. It was too fast, too arrhythmic, and the break between the one upbeat song during which I could play zills and the following slow song during which I would not play, was meant for a dramatic pause.

I left the table before they served the Moroccan carrot soup, and changed into my bedlah costume in the bathroom. Hours spent making my costume, fitting and refitting, made the change a quick on, but all the folds of cloth, the hooks, the beads must be arranged just-so.

My dark gold harem pants provided a comfortable and demure layer beneath a sheer white drape of skirt, and the bead-encrusted belt had loops of beads draping down to my knees. The matching bra completely covers me, and the strap behind my neck frees my shoulders for all sorts of rolls and percussive motions. I topped it all off with a gauze-thin white silk veil.

While checking and double-checking my costume in the bathroom, a beautiful young woman came into the bathroom. I recognized her from years ago; we had been in dance class together! We hugged and she ogled my beaded fringe, and told me where she was seated.

With time to spare, I made my way to the banquet room, where the MC announced me, the music started, and off I danced. My white silk veil stuck to my lipstick on the first swirl, which was my first “Uh-oh!” moment, but I pulled it away and I doubt anybody noticed. I worked the tables, swirled amongst the hosts standing along the wall, shimmied for the girls serving coffee.

The more I dance the less I recall what I’ve done during an improvisational performance, but I know I made use of certain parts of the melody and the percussion for accents as I moved around the room.

At the beginning of the flourish signifying the end of the first song, I realized I was dallying too long, and there was no way to make it to the stage for the final spin. That was my second “Uh-oh!” moment. So I threw my hands up and behind my head like I wanted to take flight and ran full tilt, jumped onto the stage, and spun around with the song’s crescendo and end. S said later he thought it was intentional—it drew the crowd’s attention up with me to the stage.

The next song started while the audience was still clapping. I had chosen a slow melodic piece, with a heavy oud intro during which I did belly rolls and undulations, something I haven’t really tried before.

This last year I’ve become much more aware of the importance of slow songs—they’re harder to dance to than the quick tempo sets, but I find them much more rewarding. I failed to use the combo I’ve been practicing, but the timing was essential and I knew I had missed it as soon as the musical phrase started. I did lots of snakey arms and level changes and hip isolations, and really tried my best to smile, which is something I tend to forget.

The slow song ended, more applause, and the drum solo came in, and I am so please to report it went great! I hit all the points I wanted to hit, felt very aware of the crowd’s attention, and finished with a spin.

Boom boom, I say! I left the stage, went around the crowd one more time, grabbed the veil I had dropped earlier, and left to the sound of much applause.

Quick change in the bathroom, then back to the dining room, where S & I ate the exotic Moroccan carrot soup our server had been thoughtful to reheat. They also brought us the entrée of skate on squid-ink pasta, which was simply delicious, followed by baby green salad with pear slices, candied walnuts, and pomegranate dressing.

I wanted some red wine, but the wine steward was selling it by the glass and we had failed to bring cash. I even tried my most flirtatious smile, but to no avail. The dessert was my favorite of all, a crumbly cheese cake with candied orange peel on top, drenched with honey sauce.

We left after pleasantries and smiles and handshakes, walking through the brisk early spring night beneath cherry blossoms, feeling happy and sated. Both of us were exhausted, and bed felt like a delightful cocoon. It was well worth dancing for the dinner.

2005-11-18T15:04:00.000-08:00

Ladies, walk like you are moving through waist-deep water, through wet sand, walk like you are Aphrodite with pearls in her hair and eyes that can see into the hearts of others and love them still. Walk strong, like the woman of the mountain with her silver hunting hounds at her heels, balanced and poised and lifted and the energy flows into you from the ground.

Make a statement with your body because it is the only thing you have, the one thing that truly is yours, and there is no such thing as too short or too scrawny or too fat or funny-shaped or ugly; wrinkles are the marks of travail and sunshine, scars are proof of life, stretch marks are maps of love, and callouses are hard work done well. You are beautiful. Breathe.

Be advised, ladies, that it is all in your eyes and your hearts, and the energy dissipates only if you forget about it. Remember too, that the body is a shape, and the most pleasing shapes are curves, whether they are big or small, whether it is that curve of the neck between your head and shoulder, the curve of your wrist and fingers, the curve that runs from the base of your ribs in towards your waist and back out over your hip. Some curves are secret, and deserve to be seen only by those who love you. Some curves are begging to be seen by anyone brave enough to notice.

All curves move, and this is the magic and energy from within, your breath, your life, your soul. Take a quick breath and notice the depression where your neck and your shoulders meet, there in the center, the supra-sternal fossa, shaped deftly as by a thumb print in clay. With a fingertip feel the pulse of your heart, the blood that travels circular and continuous because all things want to be round, the yin and yang, pearls from the sea, the earth, the curves of your body.