But first, Cabrogal over at Neurodrooling turned me on to this really insightful post(1) about how maybe there’s a different lens through which we could possibly view bipolar, which hooked in rather directly to a lot of other stuff D and I have been talking about a lot lately.
Okay, moving right along.
I’ve been at this adulting thing for a while. I’m slowly getting, like, less bad at it—much more slowly, I am forced to admit, than I expected, and also more slowly in some ways than seems to be typical.
I’m pretty pretty sure that’s okay, though.
We all live in our own timelines and on our own time scales. I come from a family of people who mostly live a really long time and often seem to take a while to figure things out. I’m also pretty sure that dealing with some major trauma (or, more accurately, not dealing with it for a long time) set the clock on the process of reaching a kind of functional maturity back by ten years or so for me. For a long time, I was stuck being 14 and severely traumatized.
Yesterday I wrote a G+ post about how I’ve learned to deal with D’s dietary preferences. Backstory on this: historically, he has been pretty into Southern “comfort foods”and sweets and not at all into veggies, and since I can’t eat that way and stay healthy and I’m morally opposed to cooking two separate meals all the time, I’ve had to find a middle way.
The analogy that came to mind was that our life together isn’t a tandem bike ride; it’s just a regular bike ride. Sometimes I get up the hills faster than he does because I like climbing on the bike. That’s okay. He still gets up the hills at his own pace, and I am okay waiting for him at the top(2).
Sometimes we even take a different route, either because he doesn’t feel like climbing or just for fun. That’s okay, too. At the end of the day, he rides his bike and I ride mine. I can influence the route we ride, but can’t ride his bike for him, and the funny thing is that we both enjoy the ride more when I don’t try to ride his bike for him.
Anyway, I’m slowly realizing that same analogy applies to other things, like adulting.
Just because I like to climb out of the saddle, that doesn’t mean you have to. (Does help, though, if your hubs are actually in the middle of your wheels o_O’)
Maybe I’m not getting up the climbs as fast as other people—hell, tons of people my age have responsible, well-established careers—but I’m still on the road, pedaling along.
I’m way behind the group I started with because an asshole threw a stick into my spokes early on, and I had to scrape myself off the tarmac, and then I got lost for a while when looking for a shop to help me fix my wheel.
That’s okay, too. I’m back on the road now; the one I want to ride. And, honestly, if it hadn’t been for for the asshole who broke my wheel, I don’t know that I would’ve ridden my own road. Having lived through something that really shattered my whole life early on has made me both unable and unwilling to struggle through a life that doesn’t fit(3).
Anyway, so yeah. I feel like I’m learning things now that, in retrospect, should have been obvious—things maybe other people learned way earlier.
One of them is that being a grown-ass married adult doesn’t stop you from developing intense and enduring crushes on people you admire.
Not that I subscribe to the philosophy which dictates that marriage should make you blind or you’re doing it wrong. Honestly, part of being human is admiring other people—ideally, people who are worthy of admiration, and not giant self-aggrandizing dicks. Sometimes those people will also be hot and kind and insufficiently whatever-it-is-that-prevents-crushes-for-you(4).
Sometimes, you will develop an uncomfortable and enduring crush on someone with whom pursuing a relationship would be a Bad Idea For Reasons even if you were single, or if you were poly and sure they were fine with poly relationships.
Sometimes, regardless of your best efforts, you will go on crushing on said Amazing Person no matter what. It will be weird, but you’ll stick it out, because regardless of the fact that the person in question “makes (your) heart kinda flutter; makes (your) eyes kinda blur,” it it is really good to have them in your life anyway.
…Even though it’s gonna feel a lot like this sometimes.
Nobody ever told me that, so I’m passing it along.
It is also possible that living with such a crush might sometimes be as wildly uncomfortable as, say, crushing on your best friend or lab partner or Lofty McPerfecthair was in high school.
Part of you might still desperately want to lay your absurd crush at their feet in hope of (chaste) validation; in hope that they will say, “No, if things were different, we would totally happen, and it would would be awesome because you’re amazing and also really hot.”
Part of you might desperately hope they never find out, because it would wreck you at least a little bit if they were like, “LolWut?” and a lot if they were like, “Yeah, um, this feels too weird. I’m outies,” and even more if they told all the cool kids your peers or colleagues about you and your ridiculous crush(5).
So you endure, trying to figure out how to make yourself stop having a crush, because it would totally be super weird for everyone involved if Awesome McDreamyface ever learned The Awful Truth(6).
Nobody told me that, either.
Like many socially-challenged people, I’ve learned a great deal about How to Human from fiction.
In fiction, though, conflicts kind of have to resolve. Nobody(7), to my knowledge, actually writes about the poor, happily-coupled schmuck who goes on having an awkward crush and never speaking of it and not even being a total creeper about it(8).
Come to think of it, “Making peace with yourself; learning to go on being friends happily in spite of The Most Awkward Crush,” probably is a valid resolution, so maybe I’ve just missed that book, but if it’s out there I haven’t heard of it. Maybe if I’d read more in the “Written Rom-Coms” or “Touching Stories of Friendship” genres, I’d have encountered this idea earlier.
Anyway, I’m filing this with Things That Don’t Automatigally Fix Themselves When You Turn 18 (0r 21, or when you graduate from university, or possibly ever). If I come up with a solution, I’ll let you know. If you have any suggestions, please please please for the love of of all that is holy feel free to leave them in the comments. If you’ve had similar experiences and want to to leave those in the comments, that’s awesome too (even if you, too, are right this very moment in the throes of The Most Awkward Crush and haven’t the faintest idea how to deal).
The other one that’s grinding my gears right now is the thing about being afraid that the other kids in your class project group your colleagues, with whom you’re working on a group project dance that you’ve choreographed, secretly would rather do something else and wish you would stop bothering them and are only working with you because your English teacher is forcing them to out of pity.
I kept feeling weird about inviting dancers to work on my piece, and then feeling weird again when trying to schedule rehearsals—like I was imposing upon them or something.
I finally figured out, as a by-product of realizing that I was afraid that no one would come if I threw a party, that I am still convinced in some level that people just kind of tolerate me because they have to, but aren’t willing to tell me.
Basically, it seems that I’m still convinced that, once people realize how much I suck, it will be just like middle and high school again. No one will want to hang out with me or participate in my projects, because I don’t really know How To Human.
I think, though, that maybe grown people—some grown people, anyway—figure out how to get along with the socially awkward weirdos of the world and how to be more comfortable with their own Inner Weirdos. And I hope that they learn to say no instead of agreeing to work on the project and then fervently hoping they really won’t have to.
So after the difficult and awkward Nobody Told Me That…,there’s this one. Nobody told me that I’d still feel just as certain of rejection now as I did in middle school. The upside of this one is that I think I know how to approach it, now.
For me, the best way to deal with something scary is to run right towards it. Sometimes I can’t yet, but I think I’m ready to run straight towards this piece of of this problem. The work I’m trying do as (I guess?) an artist isn’t going to get done any other way. It doesn’t matter how great my ideas are if they stay locked in my head as I sit here doing doing the equivalent of waiting for Prince Charming to trip over me and decide to marry me on the spot(9).
Given my past and the fact that I’m both shy and still a little fragile in the self-worth department, I’m not going to say Go Out There And Grab Your Dreams By The Balls!
… Because, let’s be honest, that’s not what I’m doing at all.
Nope, instead, here’s what I’m trying, and maybe what I recommend if you’ve got big dreams and you’re afraid they’re gonna kick you in the face, hard:
Get out there use binoculars to spy on your dreams. And then when you start to get a feel for their habits, maybe get a little closer. Then a little closer still.
And then kind of follow them around, so you maybe just seem like a particularly persistent tumbleweed or some other part of of their normal environment.
And then integrate yourself into the herd of dreams, and over time get a little closer and a little closer until you’re standing around next to your dream, pretending to graze (because you definitely don’t want it to suspect anything).
And then eventually lean on your dream and later maybe skritch that one spot right behind its ears, to make friends.
And then sort of wriggle yourself up on its back a little, like you’re just another dream and just cuddling.
And then when it doesn’t even worry about that, just kinda slide up and throw a leg over, and hope that it’ll just just be just be like, “Oh, no problem.”
And then stay up there and ride.
Then if you do fall off and get kicked hard in the face, it’s 100% cool to lie there and lick your wounds for a while.
I guess what I’m saying is that, even where dreams are concerned, you’ll get up the hill when you get up the hill.
And that’s okay.
First of all, um, Happy New Year, errbody. I sorta missed the boat on that one. D and I actually managed to stay up ’til midnight for maybe the second time in our life together(1).
I’m still kind of wrestling with depression, so I’m making the most of the last two days of my reprieve break from the chaos. I’ve been organizing like a madperson, and also sort of crafting things, because … I dunno. Apparently my current response to OMG The World Might End is, like, nesting?
Although I have never before in my life had the urge to cover a coffee can with contact paper, yesterday (in a fit of covering recycled cardboard boxes to hold things like plastic utensils, because I am apparently That Gay Guy after all and realized I would be more satisfied with attractive utensil-holders than with unattractive ones) I did just that. I had no idea what I was going to do with it, but it turns out that it’s a perfect fit for all the junk(2) that lives on my side of our vanity(3). Also looks pretty nice, actually.
Getting back to class will be good for me (even though it will also kill me, because Jiminy Freaking Cricket, jumping right back into Killer Class is a terrible idea).
This month also begins the mad dash to March 11th. “Work Song” (or possibly another piece that I really want to do, but first I’ll have to discuss the idea with my dancers; it might not be kosher to change horses just now) goes up then.
Also this month, D is taking me to the inaugural Louisville Dance Series performance, and I’m taking him to Alonzo King’s LINES Ballet (speaking of LINES, I need to go pick up my tickets). The day after LINES, the team has a competition (I can’t call them “the girls” anymore; we have a boy now … yasssssss!).
This semester promises to be, in a word, cray. Or whatever the 2017 version of Cray is. You know: wack. Insane. Hell-bent for leather.
On the other hand, if I live, I’ll be going to Pilobolus’ summer workshop, which is immensely exciting (it’s also exciting that I can write that off as a business/education expense—professional development/continuing ed, I love you so much). Which reminds me, I need to check in with ABM about which week she wants to go, so I can potentially schedule other intensive things around it.
So January promises to be a bit intense, but worth it. In February, we’re going to see Lexington Ballet’s performance of Romeo and Juliet for my birthday. Huzzah!
Speaking of which: when my Mom was pregnant with me, she ran past her due date, and was given the options to induce with an eye towards delivery on the 10th or with an eye towards delivery on the 14th.
She chose the 10th, a kindness for which I remain, to this day, very grateful. It’s one thing to be born in a month that everyone hates (poor, unloved February: I actually love February in New England, but here it’s a cold, drizzly misery); quite another to be born on the specific day that, it sometimes seems, half the world regards as Obligatory Jewelry-Purchasing Day and the other half regards as Unwarranted Oppression of Single Persons Day.
Anyway, that’s it. This is basically a whole post about nothing, but there you have it.
Not sure how much I’ll be posting in January, because I have no idea how my schedule is going to shake out (especially WRT rehearsal scheduling, which is going to be interesting, since we’re all rehearsing six million different things).
I will try to post at least once a week, though.
So, I’m writing this at 3 AM, but scheduling it for Actual Morning.
We’ve had a late casting change for Work Song. My other boy wound up with a bounty of work projects, and he’s swamped. I’m fine with that; in the gig economy that feeds so many artists, you have to strike while the iron is hot. I love his work, so I’m excited about seeing more of it down the line, even though it means losing him for this piece.
Last night I asked GM, a fellow aerialist, if he’d like to try jumping in. His formal training in dance is pretty minimal, but he’s a very good mover. I think he’ll be able to roll with it. AM, AS, and I will be able to coach him on technique.
Interestingly, bringing in a less-experienced dancer has helped me to streamline my choreography a bit. I had about five different ideas for the third phrase, and only one of them is something I’d feel confident handing to someone with limited dance vocabulary.
It’s good to work with limitations. They make decision-making easier and help to shape the finished work. Just as the stone tells the sculptor what figure lies within, sometimes the dancers shape the vision of the choreographer.
We should be able to start rehearsing next week or the first week of January.
Ultimately, this piece is only about 3.5 minutes long. The rehearsal process will be less about learning the choreography, which shouldn’t be too hard, and more about making it really sing. There’s a lot of partnering in this piece, though it’s largely not of the classical-ballet bent. GM takes acro with me, so I suspect he can handle it. Timing and musicality are the open questions, one everyone learns the choreography.
I guess, really, this is my first professional project as a choreographer-director. I’m learning on the fly how to cast dancers, schedule rehearsals, teach choreography to four busy performers with very different backgrounds, make costuming decisions, and so on and so forth.
Having done it once, I feel like doing it again won’t be so difficult. The biggest ongoing challenge will be finding rehearsal spaces on a budget of $Zip.ZilchNada. The nice part in this case is that rehearsal space is built in. I teach with AS, and this performance is part of the Instructors’ Showcase, so we will be rehearsing at the studio.
Finding dancers isn’t incredibly difficult. I’ve managed to connect with a decent handful of adult ballet students who want to perform, including a fairly advanced core group. My aerials family is made up mostly of very game performers, a few of whom have reasonable dance training.
I might have to learn how to do fundraising stuff. The internets should make that easier.
I’m pretty excited about all of this. The only thing I’m not looking forward to is the cat-herding involved in scheduling rehearsals 😛
That might not be as bad as it could be, though, because we’re all attached to the aerials studio, and we all spend a lot of time there.
More to come. It’s weird how far 2016 (the Year of the Dumpster Fire) has taken me as a dancer. No matter what I’ve said, one year ago I wouldn’t have predicted that I’d be staging a piece (for four dancers!) with so much confidence.
Gives me something to look forward to in 2017 (which, hilariously, is the Year of the Cock).
I have occasionally been one of those annoying idiots who think to themselves, “Should I ever have kids, they’ll only rarely watch TV, and when they do it will be educational.”
This morning, I realized that I’ve been a giant (if mostly internal) hypocrite about part of that equation.
It’s probably true that any child of mine wouldn’t watch much television. I didn’t as a kid. This was, of course, partly because we had strict rules about it at Mom’s house.
In reality, though, I didn’t watch much TV because I was usually either outside riding horses or bikes, skating, skiing, hiking, climbing, and just plain running around or was off at ballet class or gymnastics. When I wasn’t doing those things, I was usually reading, writing, or painting. Even when I did watch TV, I was usually drawing at the same time.
In short, I would take sitting around and watching TV as a sort of last-choice option when I didn’t have anything better to do. I’m not really great at enjoying passive entertainment (unless it involves watching horses, dance, or figure skating).
I like going out and doing things and running around, and I’ve noticed that many kids tend to like doing doing those things as well. It’s not that screen time is inherently evil. Rather, there’s a strong probability that any child growing up with me as a parent wouldn’t watch much TV purely because, in short, who’s got time for that?
The world is too full of trees that need to be climbed; of knees that want skinning.
So that’s not the hypocritical bit. It’s the “educational” part that I rather ought to rethink.
Here’s the thing: as kids, my sister and I had a fairly limited selection of videos, and literally none of them were specifically “educational”—and yet I learned a great deal from them.
We subverted Mom’s rules by watching hours and hours of movies at Dad’s, though we also read books aloud every weekend, went to parks and museums, and listened and danced to 20th-century jazz greats like Thelonius Monk and Charles Mingus. There were a few wildly inappropriate choices—I vaguely remember some version of Samson & Delilah that was terrible, had terrible music, and struck me as inappropriate, which is saying something, given that my parents pretty clearly regarded kids as Adults, Only Smaller®(1).
To be fair, most of these were seminal 80s coming-of-age movies that Dad bought because he liked them. We had The Explorers(2), The Goonies, The Labyrinth, and The Never-Ending Story(3) at our fingertips and we watched at least one of them just about every weekend(4).
The Explorers taught me (among other things) that persistence and ingenuity can accomplish almost anything. It also taught me one of the greatest Dad Jokes known to humankind, the infamous “Rolls-Canardly Gambit.” I have been known to use this joke on bike rides.
The Goonies (and an entire childhood as The Weird Kid) taught me that it’s okay to be weird, and that sometimes it takes a weirdo who refuses to accept “reality” to solve big problems. Like, you know, saving the town from landgrabbing golf-course mavens and relocating everyone to “Murder City” (it takes a child to save a village?).
The Labyrinth taught me that imagination and reason aren’t enemies; that they can overcome adversity; and that mistakes are no reason to give up.
The Never-Ending Story taught me to believe with conviction in the unbelievable, and never to allow the outside world to crush my imagination. It also spoke to the power of grit in the face of hardship. It taught me that when your heart friend sinks in the Swamps of Sadness, you GTFup and keep pushing forward in his memory.
On the outside, it also kind of taught me that first impressions aren’t everything, since Bastian struck me as an insufferable, whiny git at the outset but grew on me. I think that’s what’s supposed to happen, though, as he learns to believe in himself.
We also watched anime, from which I learned to value stoicism, teamwork, protocol, and even moar grit. And teamwork. And protocol. Because Japan. Also Giant Robots.
Nature shows, red in tooth and claw, imparted important lessons about the distinction between the acts of predation that animals undertake to survive and cruelty, which is largely a human invention—not to mention the fact that suffering and death are parts of life.
Even when I was foru years old, nobody shielded my eyes when the gazelle or the bunny got whacked. I think that probably made me a better person than I might have been. Life is hard, and you have to practice looking at hard things if you’re going to face up to them someday.
We even watched some plain old cartoons, like Thundercats and (for some reason) old reruns of Thundarr the Barbarian(4). They were pretty good at imparting lessons about loyalty, kindness, empathy, and integrity (between awesome battle scenes).
There are any number of intentionally-educational shows that attempt to teach the same lessons I learned from a bunch of 80s fantasy-adventure flicks. Often, they fail: they’re trying so hard that they come across as preachy or even a bit smug. They’re like shredded wheat(5)—good for you (if you don’t have celiac), but tasteless and hard to swallow.
You know what you get, though, if you iron your shredded wheat into crunchy squares and add a little oil (FAT! NOOOOO!) and salt (OMG! SODIUM! DEADLY!)?
You get Triscuits, which are freaking delicious (and still good for you: I like to eat them for breakfast).
So if I ever have kids, I’m not going to make them only ever watch the video equivalent of Shredded Wheat. In going to introduce them to Triscuits in the form of the 80s movies my Dad showed me, along with 90s classics like … um, are there any? I apparently missed the 90s entirely (sounds about right; I was too busy riding horses, dancing, abs playing the violin). I think The Lion King might make the cut. And, of course, they will know the joys of Harry Potter in both the written and the visual form. And eventually Monty Python, if I play my cards right.
And because it was one of the greatest gifts our Dad gave us, I will read them The Wind in the Willows, The Hobbit, andThe Lord of the Rings.
Probably none of these things are, in the strictest sense, “educational.”
But what a poor world this would be if all we ever ate was shredded wheat(6).
We’re on break for the next couple of weeks, so this seems like a good time to sit down and set some ballet goals for next year.
I think I set some last year, but I’m not sure what they were (because I’m too lazy to look them up right now). Anyway, I may not have included all of these on whatever list I made, but I know these were all things I hoped to achieve in 2016:
So my first goal for 2017 is to make my goals for next year less vague (pretty sure that’s basically like wishing for more wishes).
So here we go.
Steps & Stuff
Specifically for BW:
Variations
Choreography
And, of course, I will endeavor to actually be good at port de bras and épaulement, in accordance with the scriptures, and to focus on making my petit allegro light, precise, and clean, instead of always approaching it as “grand allegro, but faster and with a million fussy steps.” (Read: tone down the elevation and the travel.)
That might prevent Eric Bruhn, Bournonville, and Vaganova visiting me from beyond the grave to stare at me in silent disappointment. Not that this has happened, of course, but I feel that it’s what should happen to bad little boys who don’t work on their petit allegro.
Lastly, I will attempt to remember that attacking turns does not mean we’re trying to kill them. Or, rather, to remember that when it counts, and not after class or in bed at 11 PM.
Um, that’s probably enough for one year.
Bonus: it’s Hella fun doing shopping-cart double cabrioles across a parking lot in winter boots 😀
This is evidently what happens when I haven’t been able to dance—or do much of anything else—for more than a week, but I’m finally feeling well enough to do more than play “match 3” games on my tablet and sleep.
I read.
(Okay, I read anyway; I’m a compulsive reader.)
Specifically, I fall down rabbit holes all over the Internet, then find myself googling related or semi-related things and falling down, I don’t know, jackrabbit holes. The game is afoot, but I’m cozily tucked up in its living room.
Anyway, I just happened upon a Ravishly post titled, “I’m Not A Stay-At-Home-Mom, I’m A Queer Housewife, Thanks.”
I was going to write something about the same basic topic (except, like, I tend to call myself a “homemaker,” because people still be like, “Wait, you’re a boy, you can’t use ‘-wife'” and arguing about it is tiresome, and for all that my cat thinks he’s human and would happily ride around in a baby carrier all day if I got him one, I don’t have kids), but, y’all, Ravishly’s Katherine DM Clover has pretty much covered it (without even invoking the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, which has depressingly little to do with Star Trek: The Next Generation).
So, in short, since this is a dance blog and you may not be super-interested in sociology, I’m not gonna be like OMG GO READ THIS AND THEN WRITE ME A 500-WORD ESSAY AND I EXPECT YOU TO TURN IT IN BY MONDAY, I’m putting it out here, because you might be interested in dance and sociology, and even in the power of language, so why not?
I also enjoyed a post about fancy food, to which I can say: yes, for the love of all that is holy, I’m having a hard enough time mastering Homemaking 101 without delving into the arcane waters of Organic Quinoa Coffee Flour and Martha Stuart Everything (and also, while I’m at it, why is almost everything they print in Real Simple actually really freaking complicated?).
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Organic Quinoa Coffee Flour is inherently bad — just, like, baby steps, y’all. Baby steps. At least for me. Because I was raised by cats.
Um, I’ll be over here, trying to devise yet another system to keep from getting behing on the household book-keeping.
Florida’s Gulf Coast is home to numerous bird species, and the southwestern tip of the state is no exception.
An excursion by boat through the mangroves at the edge of the everglades reveals many species of long-necked wading birds.
For example:
The Roseate Spoonbill, a year-round resident that, like the pink flamingo, takes its color from small crustaceans in its diet.
The great white egret, an elegant shoreline bird that often appears as a solitary, ghostly figure in the marsh.
And whatever the hell this thing is.
The final specimen in today’s brief collection of wading birds may be the Lesser Dancing Nincompoop, a migratory fowl often found in non-linear disarray.
The Lesser Dancing Nincompoop spends most of its time in the American Southern Northern Eastern Midwest, but regularly ranges as far north as Chicago, Illinois, as far west as Nevada, and as far south as southwestern Florida.
Interestingly, though it is a non-native species introduced from the southern New England coastal corridor, it has not proven invasive. It has adapted reasonably well to life in the interior, though ornithologists suspect that its migratory habits reflect a yearning for salt water, open skies, and critical dietary elements like really good bagels and legit New York-style pizza.
Ornithologists also suspect that, like the Spoonbill and the flamingo, its color may be dietary in origin, and that it derives its pasty hue from the exoskeleton of one of its preferred prey species, the Lesser North American Baguette (a distant relative of the European variety endemic to France).
PS: These shots were all taken on a really cool 2-hour Everglades Eco-Tours boat tour this morning. We had a great time and learned a lot 🙂
Last time I came to Marco Island, I didn’t have a real driver’s license, so I couldn’t just dash off to ballet class in Naples by myself.
This time, I do have one, so I decided check out the local options and find a place to take class — and then DD and Mom decided to come with me anyway so so they could go shopping 😀
This morning’s class at Naples Ballet was quite good. Mr. C, who teaches a Vaganova programme, focused on some of the same things BW went over on Thursday and explained some of the bits that I have still not mastered. It helps to do the same steps with different teachers, as each can illuminate something you didn’t catch in another’s class.
We did a lovely combination with an Arabesque turn, which was good, because I don’t think I’ve done one of those since … July? Also grand jeté, Bournonville jeté, entrelacé, and saut de chat.
We also did turns from second, which was fun. We do those very rarely at home.
Also a lot of correcting of my arms, which are generally the part of me that needs the most work.
It wasn’t my best class ever, but wasn’t my worst ever, either, so I felt pretty satisfied. I’ll be going back definitely for Friday class and possibly for Wednesday class.
After, we ate lunch and then went swimming without first waiting an hour(1). Mom and I swam in the Gulf for a while, then joined Denis in the pool until a thunderstorm chased us out.
I love the way rainstorms over open water obscure the horizon until it disappears. The world feels at once intimate and limitless, as if another world might lie just beyond the point at which things blend.
From the balcony/a million drops of rain/obscure the land’s end.
Sep 13
This gallery contains 9 photos.
I’m not afraid of heights per se, but standing high above the ground on an unstable surface can certainly be a workout for the adrenal system. Especially when you’re standing on a surface made from steel punched with little cut-outs that lead to a kind of flexing beneath your feet as the wind blows up […]
Since returning home from That Thing In The Desert, I’ve been playing catch-up and haven’t been able to resume my normal schedule because reasons, so my apologies for radio silence over here.
Anyway.
Just made a quick shopping list, read it to myself, and am feeling vaguely appalled because it reads:
+bread
+cucumbers
+hummus
I feel like I should put bacon (the ultra-processed kind, not the free-range artisan-crafted kind) or hot dogs on there just to de-hippify it a little.
Not that there’s anything wrong with hippies; it takes all kinds. But, wow.
YouTube: BOSU Balance Series
danseur ignoble 