F this S

I'm in such a ballet funk. I really just don't want to go at all, right now. It has been a few months since work and life permitted regular twice-a-week class attendance, and I haven't taken pointe since May. And now that time is opening up? I just don't wanna! I am doing it because without ballet I am considerably less mobile and in a whole lot more pain. I'm just not enjoying myself at all.
One of the issues is that a new teacher has taken over two of my regular classes. And he's great, don't get me wrong. But it's different. Every teacher has a different style, and he isn't giving me the same experience that I have grown to expect and find comforting. He's teaching pointe, now, too, which makes me really hesitate to get back in to it. He really is a nice guy, and a good teacher, but...
sigh...

PS: trying to apply steroids directly to my scalp is not my favorite part of rheumatism. Wait, RPrin, you have a favorite part? Hell yes. All the best people have rheumatism. Me, my sister... my cat... uh... Lady Gaga...

'We feel dancey'

“...fairies never say 'We feel happy': what they say is, 'We feel dancey'.”
― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens *

 illustration by Arthur Rackham (hittin' it out of the park, as always)

*this is such a weird story. The prototype for what eventually became the play and then novel Peter Pan, this novella is both a little morbid and desperately tragic. As if the story wasn't already messed up enough, now you get the first hand experience of Peter discovering his mother has "replaced" him, and the little naked boy running around in the snow burying the children that have died after getting locked into the park at night. So. Weird. 

Hardly Workin'

I just worked eleven days in a row, mostly 11 hour per day. Because apparently it was someone's bright idea to build an entire show out of flimsy silken nothingness and no one planned on... you know... hiring people to put it together. My joints no longer function, but that's okay; my brain doesn't either.
An incredible amount of the past two weeks of my life is in this picture:

 just click on the damn thing for the attribution, I have 

no brain nor patience left for that shit

and even though I pretty much despise every single one of these dresses, now, at least it is over and done with and my life can spiral slowly back to normal. Which apparently means binge-watching the entire fifth season of Downton Abbey in two days, but whatever.
I took class last night. Apparently I have forgotten how my feet work.

Life Happens

Where have you been, RPrin? I have been either working 11 hours shifts on my days off or dealing with my poor cat (not the same one as last time), who had to have her eyeball removed this week after several weeks of vet visits, ultrasounds, x-rays, and other tests. Tonight I got to take class for the first time in a few weeks. It felt great! Whew! Got to get back on the ballet train, girl.

Often, in class, a song will remind me of nothing so strongly as the ancient computer game (which I played for hours and hours on my Dad's then state of the art Atari ST, so you know we are talking more than a few years ago) Lemmings. You can still play this ridiculousness online, but without the tinny practically-arranged-for-ballet-class classical music accompaniment. So it hardly counts. 
Which probably leads to the question "why are class arrangements so bloody awful and plunky?" the answer to which is "because it's way easier to hear the timing that way"
I suppose...

Wherein I Complain a Lot

So. How's the ol' dance world going? Over here I've just been overwhelmed and stressed out for a few solid months, but my part in the recital preparation is complete, so I feel a little lighter emotionally. Of course... now the people I have turned it over to are doing strange things like sewing hot pink trim on to my carefully constructed flame orange dress and trimming meticulously created white skirts in wrinkly grey ribbons... but you just have to learn to let it go. I guess.
I can damn near see the whole floor in my sewing room, now! So many bedraggled old tutus have finally left my presence. It's sublime.
While struggling through this year's miasma of sewing, design, and actual dancing, I stopped attending my regular pointe classes. It was just too much to deal with all at once. I have decided, I think, that I just can't do two and a half solid hours of intense cardio. It's exhausting, and not in a good way. There are not enough spoons in my proverbial drawer. There is a problem, though. I mean aside from the feeling of defeat at not being able to do this incredible thing I busted my ass to achieve. I know I am the first person in the entire history of the world to say this but... I am pretty sure my poor feet would feel 100% less awful right now if I was taking pointe again. Isn't that ridiculous? But it's true! My arches aren't getting stretched the right way, my muscles aren't as strong so they don't support me as well. The whole thing is infuriating, to be honest. I WANT to do pointe. I ENJOY it (for some reason?). But it also makes me feel better. Dancing, in general, helps my pain levels and joint mobility so much. I never notice how much until I don't do it for a while.

In other dance related news: I have just discovered these crazy floating Russian dalek dancers, and while they are the least exciting dance troupe you have ever seen they are mesmerizing and amazing and put one in mind of beautifully creepy automata like the Schloss Hellbrunn mechanical theater. I imagine there are lots of interesting steampunk possibilities, here. Also, I want to know how they do that, because I totes want to pull off that little party trick:

skip ahead to about 1:30 to check that madness at the door.

 

I don't even

Almost without question within the next few years my husband and I will have to move and settle in an obnoxious suburb that neither of us is particularly excited about. A family thing, we don't have a lot of say in it. Unless we win the lottery, I guess.
Anyway. We were discussing it last week, after I had just walked in the door from class and was sweaty and disheveled. The husband mentioned how annoying and inconvenient it would be, commuting from the aforementioned suburb to his job, at least a 45 minute drive even when there isn't any commute traffic. And he said this: "but you could just take your ballet classes at the community college".
I hardly even knew what to say! I am pretty sure that any dancers reading this immediately understand the horror I felt. Are you KIDDING me? You don't give up reading because you moved next door to a movie theater!

I Call This One "Somebody Else can Press the Damn Skirt"

More Peau D'ane. Maybe? For her moon or stars dress? Who knows. This is another "here, take this tutu and this thrift store salwar kameez and make it a Cinderella dress"
I refrained from making another lace-up Swiss waist, but only because I don't want another teenager to hate me. ONE IS ENOUGH.