Iyengar Costner

Yoga is such a nifty tool for dealing with life. For an hour and a half you can escape the world and come to terms with the imminent potential your vessel. I, like most humans really enjoy the meditation of yoga and the process of getting closer and closer to a stronger more peaceful me. I like that during a class I can concentrate on the job at hand 'from asana to asana one breath at a time' and feel like I'm working to undo all the bad habits my body has picked up going through the motions. For me, those motions don't really equate to much moving these days. I used to be a super hero, but now I'm so physically normal it's scary.
One other great thing about yoga (and I promise I'll stop banging on about it after this) is that after class I can see things just that little bit clearer. The image is sharper and in more focus.
Yoga, 'It's a hell of a drug'. It's really the gateway drug for me. There are so many great things about yoga, but it will never fill that void that dancing once filled. In fact it turns that void into a gaping big hole that no sex, drugs and rock' roll could ever patch up. That hole that I've been stuck in now for some time.

So I came up with a plan...And since I'm writing about it in a somewhat public fashion, means that I have to stick to it.

If I build it, they will come!

Step 1 (June): Yoga 3 times a week for a month starting today. So I can get some baseline strength and fitness for dance classes. And so I can get that brighter, crisper thing happening regularly.
Step 2 (July): Make and attend an appointment with my physio to draw up a plan of body attack. I must mention that I have not seen my physio for a year now. Last time was when I sprained my ankle after doing 2 dance classes one day after the other for 2 weeks. That's what happens. I dance, I get hurt in some inane way.
Step 3 (August): Add 2 classes of Pilates to my regime and consistently attend 1 dance class a week at an intermediate level.
Step 4 (August): 2-3 dance classes a week, 2 yoga classes and Pilates. Yes I will be broke, but healthy.

If I can maintain this until December, then I will think about the trajectory for next year. If all goes well I will get some studio space and start making some solo work. Whether that be for film or show. Not sure yet. But 2013 has to be different.

Here's a pic of Kevin. Just because I think I need to add more visual content to this blog.

A shorty on death and love.

Sorry about the last essay. I think I just need to write daily, so that I don't spill everything all at once. Yesterday was the funeral of our family friends Terry and Trish Sullivan.

I've got to be honest. I didn't want to go. I try to avoid funerals as best I can, I suppose everyone does. I just find it really hard to keep it together and I know that's the point, that funerals are an important part of the grieving process. I just find the sadness overwhelming regardless of how well I knew the people or the families of the people who passed away.

Considering my dad asked me, well insisted I go, did I eventually give in and go even though I didn't want to. But I'm glad I did, however sad. I can't imagine loosing both of my parents in one foul swoop. I can't really imagine loosing them at all. One of my first memories as a child was being woken up in the middle of the night, I would have been five or so. I was half asleep and being bundled into the car. My dad was driving, my mum in the passenger seat, my sister, myself and my nanna in the back seat on our way to Brisbane. My ten year old cousin Samantha had died. I can't really remember who pointed it out, but we all saw a falling star that night from the car window, 'that's Samantha going to Heaven' my nan said. That's all I knew.

I think when you experience the death of a loved one at an early age, it affects how you see the world. For me, I feel like I always need to tighten my grip, and that I never have enough time with the people I love. I start to panic and hope that the people I love do know how much I love them. Have I spoken to my mum in the last few days, my dad? Sister? Have I told Dan how amazing he has been to me, and how amazingly he's loved me? Friends? Am I being a good enough friend?

Today really got me thinking (even more seriously) about my family and the prospect of building a family with Dan. He offered to be there today for me which was really sweet, but I was really going to pay my own respects and support my mum and dad who are mourning the loss of their friends. They knew Terry and Trish a lifetime ago, when they were still together and we were kids. My dad was still in contact with Terry and is still in shock I think over their sudden death. My mum saw Trish briefly the week before they died. Plus I don't know whether I would feel OK about bringing Dan to a funeral of people he hadn't met. But it was kind for him to offer. The thing is, I hadn't really seen any of these people (who were at the funeral) in at least 15 years and didn't know if I would remember them. I did better than I thought I would. Lots of kind and familiar faces. People who were always friendly and warm to us as kids. My parents always had great friends, they were very social people, so it's nice to hear 'Wow, the last time we saw you, you were this big', 'You look so much like you're mother'. I used to despise those comments. Today I was deeply thankful for them.

I suppose what I did notice today was how my parents have changed over the years. I saw something different in them both today, something I hadn't seen in them until now. A fear of leaving us Bianca my sister and myself behind. I think the shock of a freak accident like this reminds us how slippery life can be, and I think as they get older the reality of that is setting in. But it could go either way really. Life is unpredictable. Excuse the cliche.

It's funny how a few years ago marriage and motherhood seemed like some other persons blueprint. But I can't imagine living a life without having a family of my own. I'd just like some more time. Mostly for me, but too for my parents who are sixty-seven and sixty-three this year. I think they're dream in life is to be grandparents. It would make them incredibly happy. I think they'd revel in the chance to right the wrongs of their own parenting and love unconditionally the extension of their great loves. Us. When do you know that kids are a definite? Do you know that they're absolutely not? Do you hit 30 and start mulling over the options? Is it an option, or do you just go for it? All I know is, I have to make sure I'm happy, stable, and pursuing a life of love and meaning. I'm pretty sure I'm getting close. I certainly have the love part covered.

Sydney and ballet

Nothin' much to report. I've been in Sydney not blogging. I was distracted by work. How very Sydney? But I'm back in Melbourne now. Hopefully I can get it together to get moving this week.

So Sydney was nice, and I use the term 'nice' purposefully. I get an odd feeling that I may have to move there one day. Maybe that's why I criticise it so. Sorry if you live there, but here's my dig. 

Sydney hmmmnnnn. I think the key to enjoying a life in Sydney means you need to be a filthy rich motherfucker! The whole 'money' thing there is as palpable as it is vacuous and boring. Something we can all be guilty of at times, is the cash chase in lieu of pursuing something a little more meaningful. I must say I do enjoy that I'm a guilty spender. There's nothing like buyers remorse after an unnecessary binge, I'd like to think guilt like this keeps me grounded. As we all know, the trap with money is the more you have the more you spend. My impression of Sydney this time is much like cocaine or fine dining; it's a novelty experience leaving you feeling short changed, excessive and still hungry. 

Over the weekend I was asked if I go to see ballet. To that I answered 'not really, I get bored'. For the same reasons I don't get into Sydney really, it's not human enough. I started to list some of the reasons why ballet irks me. Here's what I came up with. For the first 30 minutes of a ballet performance it's impressive on a technical level, but that's it. My understanding of the technique allows me to appreciate the skill and precision in which the dancers execute the form. The sheer athleticism is amazing, but ballet is tough and cruel and I can see all of it's shortcomings right there on the stage. In the ballet world a dancer is essentially a droid, replaceable at any given moment regardless of the work, the dancer to dedication. Genetics and fate in combination will decide whether you cut it or not. There's no amount of work ethic or blind ambition that can fill that gap. Basically to be a ballet dancer, you need to have been born that way in all types of absurd ways and dedicate your entire life to sacrifice. I suppose like any all-consuming elite pursuits, life is compromised or defined by what you do, for what you love. For me, I had three major factors contributing to my early aborted ballet career. Apart from starting too late (I only started dancing at 8yrs old- ancient in ballet terms), genetics was a key factor also and the love for the art always too fell short. But it was never really enough for me in the first place and here's why.

The qualities that ballet lacks (and warning, this a very broad sweeping statement on my part, please feel free to offer up arguments) are mood, soul and honesty. Ballet by nature is false. Its artistry really is in the concealing of the effort it takes to execute such a strange corporeal milling of movements so alien that only aliens can perform them. Mere mortals need not try. On so many levels I like to see a dancer sweat, hurt and feel. I think throughout my life I've always felt that I'm being lied to in some way, and ballet is a massive liar blatantly fibbing to my face. The facade is not working on me. It's insincere by nature, I get that. I understand that the art is the facade. I just don't like it. And I don't have to. I like dance to bang for my buck, and I want it to be beautiful, vulnerable and frighteningly truthful.  

For example. This clip by DV8 is the kind of dance that I love. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W86bH2pxPMs

I don't know how I feel about choosing the most obscure misunderstood contemporary art practice going, and I why I've spent all of my time obsessing over whether I can do it or not. I've been asking myself these questions for years now. Maybe that's the conundrum that brought me to writing this blog about it.

My first dance teacher told me at a very early age, that I was too 'creative' for ballet, what she meant was non-conformist. I'd have to agree. At that age I had a general unkept manner about me. 

Pre-class was as tedious for my teachers as it was for me being told that I had problematic feet ill suited for ballet and that I would have to work harder on my turn out and any number of other trivial things that my body and most bodies were incapable of achieving. I managed to wing it later on as I got the groove for it and in my 4th year of ballet study I was accelerated into classes with girls two or even three years older than me. I liked the feeling of being the no body at the back of class, working my way forward. 

Just before I quit dancing for the first time I started to get a glimpse of the seedy self-serving side of the entertainment industry. My friendships eventually turned sour as a result of unnecessarily enforced acts of cruelty encouraged by some parents. Competitive behaviour is a consequence of feelings of bitterness, delusions of grandeur and subsequent failures of their daughters who were struggling to meet their mothers ambitions. I was often made feel inferior as a way of intimidation. At high school the divide wasn't so obvious, and no one really cared anyway. But there it was the first time I realised that some people really truly believed that money defined who they were, and they defended it. I always loved my parents for their distaste towards those mothers. Cash or no cash, they were not nice people and I was taught to judge people based on kindness first. My mum would drop me off outside the studio at the traffic lights and crossing to avoid them. She rarely ever came in unless it was late at night. Simply because she hated those mothers, and for obvious reasons. My dad never really got the dance/art thing and certainly didn't ever step foot into that studio. I would have been mortified if he did anyway. My father walks the earth ready to tell pretentious wankers tying to imposition him 'to fuck off'. I think he could appreciate the physicality of dance but I knew he couldn't relate to it in any way. He was proud of my talent but preferred it remain a hobby for me. He really preferred netball, but secretly he wished that I'd played rugby or golf. I was the son my father never had. I think the reason they took it away from me as punishment for acting out at school was because they could sense that I was at risk of getting hurt by and subsequently sucked into the bullshit and falsity that's inherent in the culture of life in the performing arts at a young age. 

A few things led to me quitting dance the first time around when I was at the start of year 8 at school. A lot had to do with money and not having enough of it to keep up with the Kardashians. The fees, costumes, new shoes, new everything was becoming another reason for my parents to fight. But on some level I started to feel how different I was to all the other girls and it's a feeling I didn't know how to embrace yet. A shame really, because not only did I quit dancing, I quit singing (which I was much better at the time). The dance was to support the singing training. Ballet in particular for me was solely for elocution purposes. I was never going to be a ballerina we all knew that. I never wanted to be, I wanted to be Kate Bush. However ballet was teaching me poise, discipline and ultimately an understanding of my limitations and acceptance of what I could and could change. I didn't have the body for it, and because of that the training was painful and time consuming, plus I wanted to have a normal teenage life. Travelling an hour to and from Richmond every day proved to be counter to having more freedom to go to the movies with friends on the weekend, or buying new clothes for free dress days. 

After a few years of fucking up as a teenager after I made my way back to dance as a form or reprieve. I found freedom in the discipline to lock myself in a studio for hours on end as a form of therapy where I'd just work out my version of things. For me dance was elusive and abstract enough that I could completely immerse myself in it, and as a result confront myself and start to unravel what I couldn't quite admit to in my life. Back then getting into a studio was easy and naive. 

I love the luxury of regret and hindsight. I often wonder whether I would have 'conformed' if I'd stayed in the commercial dance world like the one I was being groomed for. Would it have been an easier life for me if I had stuck with it and potentially averted a teenage disaster? Who knows?  

What I do know is; my dance journey really begins when I go back to it, over and over again. I just can't shake the history and I can't ignore the sometimes-unhealthy relationship I've built with it over the years. It's hurt me brutally, loves me with force and completely ignores me. But I keep coming back. 

On and end note I'd like to quote my friend Rhys. Completely out of context, but it fitting. 

'Bodies can always compress time; senses allow the years to collapse in ways that our minds refuse to, no matter how strong the desire. '

Speedy Raj

Nearly missed the plane this morning. It's a really awful feeling running late for a flight. I blame Miki!!! If I hadn't begged the met nazi's on the train to let me off to buy one then I would have arrived at the Sybus in time- and not with only 20 mins to get to the Airport. So I weighted up my options and made an executive decision to jump in a cab.

Cab it was. Thank you Raj for speeding and being so very awesome. Good Karma to you.

In my mind I would have arrived 45 mins before the flight time, leisurely sailed through the check-in with my carry on and headed straight to the 'strip-off and unload' station that is airport security. It would have been a breeze, boots, belt, phone, laptop, lipstick (always a confusion for the scanner).
If only the Loreal Ravishing Red was the covert device they think it is and the sole reason why my bag needs to be scanned several times at this check point. 'Miss can just you empty your bag, is that lipstick? Oh OK'. I have learned my lesson. All out into the blue boxes to be screened. Warn the people behind me that this may take a while.

All this happened in my mind, but there was nothing breezy about it. It was a mad panic to check me in and get me through in time. Then the fucking terrorist scan. I tried the trick that Mikey taught me, which was to faf about getting your gear back on and wait for 2 other shmucks in front of you to be called. But this one officer had it in for me. He could see what I was doing, I knew, he knew so he singled me out and waited for me. He was nice. I think he just saw that I might have been in a talkative mood (which I wasn't because I was stressing about missing my flight). Maybe he hadn't had anyone good to chat to today. So he and I went through the drill. I had no traces of terrorism and I talked to a man about his wife and kids. Not a terrorist, no explosives. But I do have a suspicious lipstick.
Thank fuck I didn't miss my flight. But it was close! Why didn't I just catch a cab from my house directly to the airport? Same price in the end, same time, less stress. Because I'm an idiot.

So now I'm in Sydney for my last weekend of shows. You may think what does this have to do with getting back on the dance floor? I don't really know. But I think the daily asking myself that question is the start of something. Maybe if I download all the banal crazy shit that's in my head, I'll have space for something creative.

What I did realise after re-reading Wednesday Chutney (and doing a much needed edit) is that I didn't really communicate how sad I am for Amanda Sullivan losing both her parents, and to her children who only knew their grandparents for a short time. To my parents who lost their long time friends and to all the other people they left behind. I'm very sorry for your loss.
What I was trying to say was how all of that affected what is happening now. In this circumstance it's been really powerful and reflective, and since then I've had a call to action.

The 'Life in Movement' documentary is as much about that too. Dealing with all the many layers of grief and I relate to trying to keep things alive through creativity. I suppose this really affected me last week (in an introspective way) and got me thinking about whether I'm living my life fully and in a meaningful way creatively. It's quite a selfish perspective and I'm aware of that. But more to the point if there isn't a striving for meaning and truth in my life, then what the fuck am I doing here when there are people out there who'd give anything to have people back who were?

After this weekend I will have more time to write and to get my shit together to see a physio to plan out how and what I need to do to get back into training. Yoga's a good start too.

Sayonara
j

It all started last Wednesday, well Tuesday bordering on Wednesday morning really...

I received news that Terry and Trish Sullivan (old family friends were killed in a car accident near Tenant Creek driving back to Darwin that morning). Pretty shocking and sad news.

I cried a little as I was reluctantly taken back to my childhood and the inevitable process of accessing  life and death. But what about the lives lost whilst still living? I rolled a cigarette and sat with overwhelming and unwanted thoughts about the way I have spent my own time lately avoiding such late night pondering, star gazing and smoking.

I have now made a space for this recent grief and filled it with thoughts about my own wasted potential. A feeling I am too often faced with when contemplating my life as a moving, shifting tectonic plate, capable of collapse and renewal at any given time.

On the advice from my friend Tash I did go and catch the last screening of 'Life in Movement' documentary about a late choreographer killed suddenly just as she was embarking on a new chapter of her creative journey through movement. I have lately avoided any dance related anything, because I'm so mixed up about how I feel without it in my life. It's been 4, going into the 5th year now since I have danced or been dancing daily.

A parallel universe that I've been pretending to accept.

After the film I spent the afternoon aimlessly strolling from Carlton to Collingwood in deep, solemn tearful thought about my own creative life lost and still living.

Grief is funny like that. It attaches to lots of other memories and emotions and makes a very strong connection deep in your soul. It's so powerful when grief decides to summon it all up in a tsunami like motion, intent on thrashing you around furiously until you're disoriented and washed up listless and cold on a shore somewhere between where you were and where you're going.

So that's where I am.

And I've decided to document it somewhat.

So today 4 things happened that shifted things around, and these things were:

1. Author Aaron Blabey came to give a talk at Richmond West Primary (where I work) for Literacy Awareness week.

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6798764-sunday-chutney
He was wonderful! Lots of heart and soul in his work.
Funny I just read this book last week and loved it!
It's about a little girl, Sunday Chutney who's constantly moving from place to place, school to school. It's really charming. In the talk/workshop Aaron taught us how to draw a character of his. I'll post it.

2. Nicks Blogging. http://excitedinspiredandgrateful.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/inspiration-rules-ok.html

3. Chatting to Nick and Tash about writing my own blog and documenting my journey towards living a life closer to how I feel and how I've changed.

4. Rhys's blog:
 http://thebuoyarchives.blogspot.com.au/

Until next time...