Dance Season and Lycra

It’s end of year dance show season and time for all those dance mums (and dads) to watch their kid show off their talent. Because every parent wants to watch their seven year old dance in sequined lycra that makes Lady Gaga look respectable. Well apparently, many parents are do, because the shows are full of parents ready with cameras to one day show their grandchildren when they eventually come. And it’s not just the clothing, but the dancing. May I call it an atrocity, the way children are encouraged at such a young age it’s okay to dress and to act that way? I don’t know what the parents call it, but if I ever had a child I wouldn’t take them anywhere near anything to do with dancing just so they don’t get the slightest idea in their head that they might remotely want to do dance. Yeah sure, it has good physical benefits, but I’ll put them in soccer for that, or better yet, ice hockey.

Watching a seven year old twerk in sequined lycra is enough to make Miley Cyrus look tame. And they say the children these days are losing their innocence through media, they’re losing it through dance teachers.

Perhaps that’s a bit presumptuous, I’m not sure not all dance schools are as innocent-devouring as the one I watched the other day. I did hear a comment from a teacher (at a different dance performance which I didn’t get to watch), that they were proud were proud for preserving the children’s innocence. Which according to someone who did watch it, they did compared to this one. Perhaps it was just this particular dance show, though, from memory, I would say it’s not.

I guess the fact that the very first thing seen when the lights came on was some girl sticking her ass in the air didn’t really help. It only got worse from there. I wouldn’t say it was all inappropriate e for some of the older girls, they’re old enough to actually understand what they’re doing, whereas I would say a young child shaking their ass doesn’t really ring in to their minds what it actually suggests. But it encourages them at young age that it is appropriate when really, I very highly believe that it’s not.

What happened to just doing twirls in pretty pink dresses with frills? Those were the good days, when a little kid could show off their dancing without showing off their bottom.

There’s just something about it that I find unbearable to watch, that makes me feel like the destruction of the world is going to be because every girls feels it’s appropriate to wear almost nothing because they’ve grown up doing so in front of hundreds.

But what can you do about it? Not much. Boycott all dance schools? I don’t think that would work much, but hey, it’s worth a try right.

All I know is that I have no plans to encourage children to join a dance school, despite the physical benefits it can bring (and I must admit, some of them were pretty impressive- but they didn’t need fancy clothes, or lack of it, to show it). So that’s just what I think, and it’s what I’ll continue to think, until I see an end of year dance show that succeeds in not bringing out the lycra. And, I’ve got to add, this is all coming from a girl who got pulled out of dance at the age of six because her parents thought it was too inappropriate- but oh, she joined Physie next (fake tans and boofy hair- yeah that didn’t last long either). You know what though, I’m happy they did that, because I don’t own one thing of lycra, and amazingly enough I don’t walk around with practically nothing on and my ass in the air.  

 

No Wonder they Called it 'Shine'

When Geoffrey Rush played an autistic pianist, I wonder if he meant it. If he performed it with a passion, with nothing less than his whole being. Saying that, I’ve never seen the movie, but it won an Oscar or something like that.
I wonder if I had seen the movie, it would have been different when I meet David Helfgott. It wasn’t until the day I found out he had a mental illness, and I had trudged into work not looking forward to two hours of hearing a man tap away at his piano. I had seen some good shows during my time as an usher there, but this was just another pianist, playing all sorts of classical enlightenment, something which didn't appeal to my young mind.
When the group of us ushers meet our manager and we were given our positions for the night I didn’t begrudge that I wouldn’t be inside watching the performance. We moved inside the check the hall and he was sitting at the piano, practising in a floral printed shirt.
At first thought, his music wasn’t as hard as the usual classical musician. It didn’t have the hard pulse, the stress in each beat. It wasn’t that he seemed to play it with ease, or simpleness, but he just seemed to play it, as it was, without it having to be soft, or strong, or anything like that.
A few of us disappeared into a side room for a moment and when we came out he was standing at the edge of the stage, talking to a couple of the ushers and our manager. The rest of us joined them at the edge.
I think now, of the best way to describe my first impression of him beyond the music, but nothing comes. There’s nothing that can be picked about him, no characteristic to show who he was. He just was.
He went along the line we had formed, holding out his hand to shake and asking our names. He’d put out his right hand for the next person to take, and with his left he held it out for the person before. He always had two hands in his.
“We’re a team.” He went back along the line shaking our hands again.
We could’ve stayed there longer, but we all knew we had work to do, and as we walked out of the hall smiles broke on our faces.
“Oh.”
We were all a bit in airs. There’s no right way to put a first impression of him than to say what happened. There was something about him, something in the way it was like he shook hands because he wanted to. Like he valued knowing you, he valued you being there. It was the feeling that was left once he had gone.
I wished now, that I would have been able to watch the whole show, but I got my small chance after the interval. I swapped briefly with one of the ushers inside and slipped in just after a piece had finished. He was standing, bowing of a sorts. He had two thumbs up and was looking each way at the people all around him. There was a smile in those thumbs.
Then he returned to the piano and began. It was that same feel that had been there when he was practising. It wasn’t like a man who had spent hours rigidly perfecting the art of each key, though he probably had. He’d stop every now and then, and then pick up again on the next set of beats. The sounds flew throughout the room as it picked up, faster, quicker notes. But it still held everything that can only be described with what wasn’t there.
I imagine when they make the CDs, they wouldn’t pick up his mumbling. It’s a pity. He’d mumble the beats; one two three, and other things that couldn’t be understood. It wasn’t loud, but sometimes it could be heard with the notes of the piano. They were together, one song, this one beautiful song.
You ask what happiness is, and what I’d have to do is push you to him. I can’t say whether he’s happy or not, but what I can say is that he’s good. I know you don’t have to shake his hand to see what’s in him. I wonder why everyone can’t be like him; then the world would be full of art and smiles.
I don’t know what was being meant when they called the movie ‘Shine.’ It doesn’t really matter, not now, not when I think about it. But when I think shine, I think of how David Helfgott shines onto everyone, and there’s happiness, and that I’d say, is all that’s good.

http://www.readwave.com/no-wonder-they-called-it-shine-_s17055

The Halfway Mark Above and Below

14 days left of NaNoWriMo and not only am I behind in my word count but I still don't which letters are meant to be appropriately capitalised- should I do NanoWrimo, or NaNowrimo, or... I spend too much time trying to figure it out instead of writing.
I've just peaked the 20k mark and have just over 2000 words a day to finish. Lucky for me, after tomorrow I'll be heading into five days of no work. Unfortunately for me, after those five days I'll be heading into working every day bar two. There is going to be some major writing days.
Keeping the little graph balanced isn't working like I had hoped, however it's certainly going to better than last year.
If you haven't read my last blog post, then my plans for this year was to do a collection of linked short stories. Now my ideal length for a sort stories is about 1500 words, but I've found myself writing 3000+ for some of them. When there's no pressure to do anything but write, it's what happens, you just write. No longer is there any caring about what people will think, or whether a donkey can really turn into a hippopotamus, it just happens. I think the times that I spend the most thinking is just one naming the characters (it does get hard coming up with so many names, next time they're all being called either Mary or Fred). I've written stories that I probably wouldn't of ever written otherwise, that I would of discontinued after the first paragraph because I know it's leading to crap. But right now, it doesn't matter if it leads to crap. Yes, some people do say that you should put some decency into what you write, but right now, with over 2000 words a day needing to be done, there ain't an ounce of time for decency. Decency comes in the editing, and frankly because of the lack of decency in my piece, I may never do anything do it. But I don't care. It's written, I'll of had fun (so far) and I'll hopefully still be alive to tell the tale (fingers crossed).
Maybe if I was writing a novel it would be different, I'll pay more attention to some of it. But I know that if I really want, I can drag stories out of it and use separately. I don't want to, but if I write a ripper of a story then I will pay more attention to it than to some of the others. Saying that though, I probably won't pay much attention to any of them.
So, all in all the moral of this is that I've just spent writing time on writing blog time. But what does it matter, I've had fun writing this blog, and hey, isn't that what NaNoWriMo's about.

NaNoWriMo

 

 

Yes, I did choose the biggest picture; why? It's pretty. That's all, no other reason needed.

So, if it's not obvious by the oversized picture, I am doing NaNoWriMo this year (right place to put all the capitals?). I had a failed attempt last year (and to not have to admit how much I didn't do let's just say that I did under 10%- now you all have to figure it out; I'm sure the maths will stop the truth coming out). However, this year I'm determined, and I'm not tackling anything as complicated as I tried to do last year; I couldn't even figure out all the links I was trying to make in everything as I tried to get around writing a novel, that wasn't one straight story.

This year I'm doing short stories, I by no means am a novelist, and I doubt I'll ever be one. But all the short stories are linked, in a somewhat easy way. One word taken from the last sentence of a story is the prompt for the next story. That's my way to get around writing a novel that isn't the normal straight novel. The best thing about it is that even if I don't get to 50,000 words, I can end it practically wherever I want- perhaps there could be a novella on the way instead.

I've found that I get most of my writing done whilst on the bus, or in coffee shops, on paper. Which does mean typing it up later (which makes me have some vain hope that I've written more words than I have). There's something enjoyable about handwriting, even when it's only done because there's no computer handy. I feel like I can write whatever I want, even though it's harder to erase from paper than a computer. But really, whether you're writing on your brother's back or in space, as long as you're writing, it's good.

To anyone else doing Nanowrimo, good luck. 1667 words a day seems like nothing until you start. And then miss a day, and then the next, and then you've got 40,000 words and two days left. Good luck.

And for anyone who'd like to look me up

http://nanowrimo.org/participants/archia

 

 

 

 

Trips and Glances

You’re on a train. You know you won’t make it to your next bus on time but still you have some hope. When you get off the train you’ll run up the escalator and cross the road to the bus stop and most likely find the stop devoid of people. But by some chance the bus may be late. The train slows into the station. It stops. You’re on the first carriage but you don’t realise that the train hasn’t gone to the end of the platform. There’s another boy in the carriage and he rises to get off too. The doors don’t open. There’s a button that says press when lit. It’s not lit but you’re both wondering why the doors aren’t opening automatically and he presses anyway. A couple more presses and you exchange a glance. You try and look through the clear doors to see if anyone else is getting off but no one seems to be.

You don’t know how he guessed it but you hear him mumble something and ask him to repeat. ‘I think someone’s fallen’. A thud comes over you. A man on the platform looks in and you see a hand slice across his throat. Then you see a woman. Her body is bent over and when she pulls herself up you see the distraught face. People are around her and you don’t know if they know her but one’s got their arms around her and another’s giving her water. You wonder if it was her friend, or a sibling or a stranger.

You exchange some words with the boy about how you wish you could get off. You’ve sat down and you feel yourself shaking. You almost want to cry, but you know you won’t for this stranger. Your mind twists and turns and you pray and beg and hope that somehow they’re alive. The PA crackles and the announcer comes on. Someone has jumped in front of the train. ‘We need to wait for the police to arrive before further action, please remain in your carriage.’ It’s honest. A few people have moved up into the front of the carriage and are peering out. On the platform the train workers seem to be walking just past your carriage and looking down. They’re under there, they could be under you. You can’t help thinking of a body squished beneath your feet. People who must have been waiting for trains seem to be trying to gain a peek from a distance and you wonder about that morbid fascination. What can they see? But you think you’d rather not look. You shake.

You wonder what other people are thinking, but none appear to be worried. You feel like you shouldn’t feel anything, that the only thing you have a right to feel is annoyance for the delay. You don’t know this person; you have no right to feel pity. You wonder how to distract your mind.

You don’t know how it happened, you can’t even begin to comprehend how, but you hear the words, and ‘they’re alive.’ You look up, out the window and there’s a woman being held by police. She’s covered in dark shades of dirt but the first thing you notice is how her hair isn’t that messed up. You smile. You smile and look at the boy and you can’t help but mutter ‘that’s amazing’. You get up but don’t know why and sit back down and smile and pray that she’ll be alright. She sits rights outside your window and you can look at her easily. You wonder.

The announcer comes back on and you’re being ushered to the front of the train where you go through the controller’s room and onto the platform. Despite the racing thoughts you can’t help but take a glance at the controls and realise you’ve never seen them before. You stop for a moment on the platform and look at the woman who’s now surrounded. You wonder. The boy has ended up behind you and you have one last mumbled glance with him and then you’re off. Pushing through the crowded, staring platform and down the stairs, where you dip your ticket and stand, unrushed on the escalator. You pray and hope and wonder about strangers and miracles.

Sirens are filling the air and you know where they’re going. And then you smile, and walk slowly to the bus stop where you wait, knowing you never would have caught the first one. And then the bus comes and you get on and you pull out your pen and you write. You write about truth, and you write about miracles.

And this is where I say that this is a true story. I never write the truth because nothing ever happens, but something did happen, and so the truth is written, because I have no other use of this memory.

Split Milk and Graves

How many times must a man resent his losses?

And cry over the milk that has split,

at the bottom of his grave?

When will the princess

become a mockery of girls?

And the knight,

the man that has all the true love?

When this happens,

the world will be thrown into its torrent;

words and words and syllables,

on the tips of each tongue.

It is when the man with no tongue will laugh,

and be happy that eyes must do the talking.

Then a man can count his losses,

and a princess will be a mockery.

It is then that graves will smile,

and knights will have no love.

But no fear must be felt,

by whom is fearful.

Only those that do not know

will shake.

because only those that do not know,

won’t realise,

a princess is just a girl,

and a grave is just a block of earth.

But no one will realise that spilt milk,

is just a puddle.

 

 

 

I rarely write poetry, stories really are more my thing, but every now and then I get a random spur and attempt to put something into... well something into something like this.

Arrivederci photos

86 photos in and my camera wasn't coming out again. And it was probably one of the best things of the whole trip. There's something so much nicer about seeing things through your own eyes instead of through a camera. You see, after taking those 86 photos I was beginning to doubt the quality of my camera, which there was serious quality doubts for a long time prior. So realising that there were two other people which a lot more reasonable cameras on the trip, and really an extra person's photos wouldn't matter. I don't mind snitching off other people's photos, and so that, is exactly what I did. It's so much nicer not having to fumble around in your bag for a camera, instead being able to yell at people for being slow whilst they fumbled. Next time I'm going somewhere, I'm leaving my camera at home.