need a new movement name.....

Neo-Dada was invented in the 60's. What a joke. According to the Dictionary of Modern Thought. Will have to re-invent myself again. Boo hoo.

Neo-Dada

I have decided to create a Movement. Not 'a movement', as in a dance move, but 'A Movement', as in a social theory. Neo-Dada will do. It will mean more technology, more humour, more politics, more of everything, drawing on everything that is fabulous about Post-Modernism and Post-Structuralism.

However, it will also mean more linguistic possibilities, not the deconstruction of to make a statement. I will never recite "Dada-dada-dada-dada" on stage in Berlin to make a point. I will never point at the audience and kick the air in silence in Russia to make a point. I will never undress for Laban to make a point. (Terrible in joke. See Labananotation.)

I will however prepare for 'The Sex and Death show' in August at 'The Thirsty Dog' tavern on K'rd. It will involve Kate Bush choreography with Samurai swords, poetry, tin whistle, singing, all in the spirit of good ascerbic humour, in the spirit of the movement now known as, 'Neo-Dada.'

That rocks. Thanks Nicholas Mans. Hee hee.

Men and bikes. Or Man.

Men, or man. Tall ones. Or one. Ones who smile, not seductively, but with good humour. Men who cycle furiously through city streets, occasionally flying off and smashing themselves into concrete, who analyse the film 'Kill Bill', asking me if the blood would really fly out of someone's arm like that. Men, or man like this I like.

Men who make jokes out of the hydroslide 'The Black hole' at Waiwera...about a subject I can't even think about.

I am now distracted by Bro'Town, and have to write an essay on, 'Dance as Installation' amongst other things. Damn.

dehumanised

I sang a Radiohead song for my friends song in an Irish bar, at a poetry night the other night. I then sat (lightly) on his back and recited a poem about my sister being a Lesbian. I felt like I had made a breakthrough, as I had never recovered from her sleeping with my partner/ex fiancee/son's father 13 yrs ago. An old lady I worked with for 1 1/2 yrs died the day after I did her hair, took her to the toilet, gave her a hug, (she never let me do this before). She always stayed in her room, and was very angry. I could relate to her, she had gone to Elam art school, and loved Russian films. I wouldn't want to sit in a room full or incontinent people for lunch ever, either. Fuck. My son wore a moustache to school called 'The rogue' that I had bought for a prop for a dance. His teacher and I discussed the fact that she had not noticed this fact in class the day before, at a parent teacher meeting.

So, I am going to a funeral tomorrow, going to Body Combat, going to a dance rehearsal, (all with or without my son respectively), then having a man over for dinner. I will have a good day. I have choreographed the dance, with triceratops skull, for the woman who has died. I am sad.

Priya

Priya is in America. She is fabulous as a person, as a dancer, as a friend. Yet, she is still in America, (I say it in my head like I am the Italian guy on the Titanic with Leonardo de Caprio), my son who is 10 is reading this like he is Italian now. We miss Priya. We miss dancing with her in the Wellington Christmas parade, dancing with her at Bollywood parties in dark underground bars, attending Diwali in Auckland. Basically, Priya is very missed by us. Yet, I am never home to receive calls, as I am always at University studying dance. So, I have written this blog for Priya to see. So, she can see, that she is missed, she is loved, and if she wants to leave America, and come back to New Zealand, we will be waiting with open arms at the airport, just as I saw her off at the airport so long ago now. And then cried when she had left. Priya, you are very missed and loved. xxxxoooo

age or aged

What does age mean? The 44yr old was obsessively tidy, had to live alone, and very wealthy. He likes space and quiet. He smiled in a way that I found intriguing, until I realised that it was a bit forced. He was very interesting in bed in a very fit, sober, and active way. He wasn't big on kissing.

The 30yr old was incredibly passionate, liked to get naked immediately, and had a great accent. He was impressed with the fact the my Grand-dad had fought in the IRA with the very famous Patrick Pierce. He was very easy to please, kinda like his psyche flew off into the ether for a temporary period of time and did a bit of mingling with mine. His kissing was superb, but his living conditions were not tidy, to say it politely. He liveds above a bar, it is all very noisy and very red light like.

Did any of the reasons above warrant sleeping with these men? Probably not. It was all fun, but what about when a Woman is ill and incapacitated? A cup of tea is of course much better than sex in these circumstances.

Human qualities seem to be more relevant these days than age.

Sex shop feet with vaginas inside

I took a Man friend to the comedy festival last night. I saw another Man friend there, who was doing Lighting. They were both wearing suits. One man friend flashed his T-shirt at me, in reference to a TV programme I had never seen. He is a good man. The other man friend had been to a funeral that day, and proceeded to sit in the front row beside me, tall and straight and skinny as a rod, with the face mask on that had been on his seat. Tightly rammed onto his face, white, metal bit plastered around his nose. I took my sandals off, (I'd forgotten my shoes, I'd been Body Combat at the gym beforehand), and because the space was so wee, put my feet on the stage, playing randomly with my face mask. Yes, we were the focal point for the Comedian and the audience for the next 10 minutes. The Comedian assumed I was my Man friend's girlfriend, (I'm not), and my Man friend proceeded to say that I was his Mother. I decided to be silent. (I've just met him, and Yes I am older but what would ensue from this? What would the Comedian do? Yes! He said that my Man friend had definetly let himself go, and that I was foxy. Foxy. Foxy. Foxy. Foxy. I think he said it 5 or 6 times. Yes. He then noticed my barefeet on the stage, and when in my defence I said that I was 6 ft 2 inches tall, he went on to talk about my long languid limbs....yadadadada. What to do in this situation? He saved it...by apologising!!!???? What comedian apologises???!!!! By saying that he was bullying me...I said that I was impossible to bully...which flustered him interestingly enough. "In that case, that would make for an interesting relationship." Comedians. God I admire them. To come onto a stage, into the great unknown of time...for 1 hour in front of 50 people.....incredible. The Woman comedian actually did a skit about a sex shop foot with vagina inside it that her boyfriend actually bought....

An antidote to Barbie.

A woman PsychoTherapist I know and converse with occasionally has come up with a brilliant name for a dance business for me. "An Antidote to Barbie." I can't think of anything better. I am currently giving the opportunity for my friend's 2 girls to dress in costumes, leap from leopard print poofs into the air, landing leopard like, run, jump, yell, twirl like banshees....to World Music, Classical, Rock....thus the coining of the name. My friend has been told by her daughter's teacher that her wee one, at age 7, is "a galumper".......because she can't skip. What she can do is name every bug in the garden, pick them up, (spiders and wetas included), peer at them close up, and tell anyone within range every detail of their anatomy. She has attitude seeping from every pore, and astonishes me with her language capabilities. I understand that skipping is part of the developmental process, but to me the above is so much more interesting....

Poetry. Sleeping with men. Or man. Or Irishman.

I got completely sucked in by an accent. Again. First the Greek, then the Indian, then the Irishman. But this time, the question is, "What does one do when wants to do Poetry professionally when one has slept with someone who lives upstairs from the Poetry bar location?" I guess the answer to that is that one stays away for a period of time, creates a choreographed sword dance to a Kate Bush song, and then goes back again to listen until it is time to perform such dance/poetry fandango. I guess.

rest. oh god please rest.

"Do you like to rehearse, or do you only like to be on stage?" This is a question I asked a Performance artist, who was teaching me in an acting course not long ago. His answer was that he liked to be on stage. What does that mean? How much of the process of acting comes from rehearsing? In order to be comfortable, some people must rehearse all before hand, and only then will they be comfortable, and the possibility of improvisation may come to bear. How much can actually be rehearsed? When memory, chance and circumstance peer at the actor on stage, anything can, and will often happen. What part does improvisation have to play in the making of the meal, that is the performance itself? Is the ability to improvisation a gift? What price can we attach to this process at all? If changes are made constantly, does that mean that a performance is happening, or is each performance a rehearsal until the final rehearsal? And if a good price is being paid for a show, what is the expectation from the audience? If audience members only watch one show, then of course they know no different anyhow, but the fact of the matter is, that the crew do, as do the actors. So if the only compunction from the Director/Actor is to be on stage, then why bother rehearsing at all?