Assignment 2: React to an overheard phrase

Ladies on the tube:

“Why would anyone go to a salsa club? It’s just an excuse for shaking and thrusting.”

I find music in everything. From morning to night, there is music playing between my ears, even as I dream. The music colors the dreams. I find melody in the cars rushing by, pick out the harmonies of little birds in the trees, and hear rhythm in the blaring of sirens. I wage a constant battle with myself to keep the music inside of me, or I would sing along with the birds and the fire trucks. I can’t imagine a silent world.

            Dancing is physical, visual music. It’s taking the melody and making it mine, turning a sound into a sight. Choreography is a carefully constructed song. Each step must fit next to its brothers and sisters perfectly, just as each individual note must combine to create a song. A dancer then becomes the musician, the artist who reads the notes and manifests the beautiful music created by the composer.

            But some dancing is different. Some dancing has no script, no plans, no restrictions besides the music. The dancer is not constrained to strict steps. This is where a dancer becomes an artist. There is great freedom in dance without choreography. This is the dance that I have come to love, dance that doesn’t restrict me with steps or style or shoes. I can make the music my own, and the audience doesn’t matter.

            Salsa has become my drug, something I overdose on repeatedly, but keep coming back for more. I can turn off my brain and follow the music and my partner and forget about the world. All I need to know is where the floor is. I never have to wonder what comes next, because it just comes. There is a wonderful relationship between song and steps, feet and floor, partner and partner.

            The best is salsa rueda. In the circle, there are not just two individuals experiencing the dance, but many. The steps are called and not free, but I can interpret them as I will. It’s an interesting combination of choreography and freeform. At each command of “Da me,” the pattern of the circle changes, and I am given the chance to dance with a new partner, to create a new chapter in the dance. Over and over and over again I hear the call, and the wheel turns, like a great human kaleidoscope, constantly changing, but with all of us in sync. To be a part of such a spectacle is exhilarating. To know hundreds of calls and execute them seamlessly gives me a feeling of accomplishment. When I’m in the circle, I only need to listen for the command and let my body react to the call and the music and the lead from my partner. Nothing else matters.

            Once salsa is in your blood it never leaves. I know that the moment I hear the music I can’t help dancing to it. I hate hearing salsa in the grocery store, because my hips won’t stay still. It calls, and it wants me to follow. I can’t help but take the lead the music gives me, just as I would take a lead from a partner. I am a born follow. In the world of dance, this is not an insult. The follow is much harder than the lead, though we never tell the leads that. It would hurt their pride. To follow, I must adapt myself constantly but not consciously. I must be prepared for anything. It’s like walking blind into a street. If you can’t listen to the cues around you, you won’t survive

            Salsa is not about thrusting or shaking. Salsa is about expressing the inexpressible. It’s about visually representing all the good things in life: passion, joy, art.

Assignment 1: Observe a moment

As I wandered around the Natural History museum looking for something or someone to write about, I was stumped. I observed many people on my walk around the museum, but couldn't decide on any one to write a blog entry about. I watched a child and his parents for awhile, hoping for a tantrum or a funny British phrase, or a tender moment, but they gave me nothing. The kid just seemed politely interested in the creepy crawly bug room, and his parents seemed content to watch from afar. Boring. Personally, I wasn't a big fan of the creepy crawly room, especially since it housed no actual live creepies. I love bugs and spiders and such, but I have no interest in watching a computer screen show me dramatic footage of a scorpion stalking its prey. So, I moved on to the bird room.

In the room full of dead birds, an old man sat sketching in front of a display case, his art supplies arrayed in a great fan around his chair. I thought, perfect, now I have someone to write about. I'll invent for him a story of a childhood sweetheart who had just passed on after 50 years of marital bliss, and decide he's seeking solace by drawing in the bird room. I imagined him putting the finishing touches on a rendering of the noble-looking owl in the case front of him, with its big yellow plastic eyes, or capturing the strength in the ostrich's mighty stance, or the endurance of the penguin whose artificial gaze never wavered. I saw a great irony in my invented story, the old man escaping pain by drawing life, which was being represented by a room full of mouldering feathers and plastic eyeballs and styrofoam molds of birds that had once flown free. As I approached the man to spy on his artwork, I decided that my epic love story set in the bird room would never work. The man was sitting in a room full of every beautiful and majestic bird in the world, birds of paradise, white peacocks, lovely parrots, and literally hundreds of exotic hummingbirds, and what was he sketching? A chicken. I left the bird room and moved to the dinosaurs.

Next I considered writing about a couple I encountered in the dinosaur room. The entrance to the room is a bit dim, I assume to create the proper awe-inspiring atmosphere for the room that houses reassembled dino bones. As I was running about like a small child- I LOVE dinosaurs, and visiting the prehistoric exhibits makes me feel about 8 years old again- I noticed an Italian couple embracing in front of the triceratops. Then, I noticed that they were doing more than embracing. These people were messily making out, groping each other and whispering what I can only imagine were not G-rated messages into each others' ears, IN THE DINOSAUR ROOM!!! Um, ewww!!! I thought about writing an entry about them, making up a romantic back story as to why they just could not restrain themselves in a public museum with little children running about, but honestly I didn't feel like delving into some strangers' love life. Then, I thought about creating a scenario where a horrified mother lectures them on the rules of public decency, especially British public decency in front of her fascinated 6 year-old, who just couldn't resist asking, "Mommy, why is that guy sticking his tongue in her mouth and grabbing her swimsuit area?" But I decided to leave the Italian couple out of my Travel Journal. Maybe it's a strange jealousy, or maybe just my own sense of public decency, but I didn't feel like writing about them. Instead, I moved on to the pterodactyls.

At the end of my afternoon in the museum, I was left with no moment that I wanted to capture. I didn't want to write about a boring little boy with his parents, or an old man drawing a chicken, or a Italian couple exchanging saliva under an Apatosaurus. As I walked home, I considered all the things I had seen, all the rooms I had been in. I remembered my own favorite exhibits. When I got back to my flat, I went through the pictures I had taken. I'd first run toward the skeleton of a Moa bird, an extinct species from New Zealand that resembles a huge ostrich, displayed in the museum's main lobby. Then, I'd found another Moa skeleton, a much older, 5000 year old specimen in the hall showing human's impact on the world. I loved how strong and solid the bird's bones looked. They seemed so heavy, especially compared to my own little cockatiel at home, who weighs all of two and a half ounces. I imagined my Maggie juxtaposed onto this beast of a bird, which measured 12 feet high and weighed over 500 pounds, and almost giggled aloud. Yet, despite the obvious physical differences, I could imagine similarities between Maggie and this giant Moa.

Maggie is the fiercest creature I've ever met. She is an excellent judge of character, and if she doesn't like someone, she will make their time around her sheer hell. Maggie is incredibly protective of me, and can sense if someone has made me unhappy, and she'll make them pay for it. She never forgets a grudge. The first day I brought her home, my cousin pulled her tail as a joke, and to this day, she hates him. Looking at the Moa bird, I see a kindred spirit. This bird had huge, powerful legs to ward off predators. I can picture it defending its young with the same single-mindedness as my Maggie when she's guarding her chip bag or hoard of paperclips. When I look at the skeletal face of the Moa, I see a similarity in expression, even though the ancient bones and beak have been wired into an unnatural position, and it has been thousands of years since the bird possessed eyes and feathers and the spark of life that makes all birds so very special. This bird and my bird are cousins, of a sort. The Moas came from New Zealand, and Maggie's ancestors originated in Australia. Any birdkeeper knows that the region the bird comes from has a huge impact on its personality. Australian birds are known in the bird world for being fiercely loyal, incredibly intelligent, and the snuggliest of all birds. I wonder, who was this bird once loyal to? Did it have a mate and young to guard? After spending 7 years with Maggie, I am attuned to all of her little expressions and quirks. I wonder how many she shares with this great ancestor.

As I remembered the sense of awe I felt while observing the Moa bird skeleton, I realized that I had found my "moment" to capture. Instead of looking to a stranger to write about, I captured my own moment, my sense of wonder at this set of bones that somehow reminds me of a little white bird an ocean away.