High Wire

I just came across a great archived article about Philippe Petit, who's also the subject of a documentary I reviewed earlier this year. If either article intrigues you, I hope it also encourages you to find and rent the film.

If you need a little pick-up

I thought this would help inspire me to go out and do something great...



Now I just want to sit down a watch movies. On a side note, while I did not review this, I did add some thoughts to the discussion of it.

Early Comforts

It's Thanksgiving morning and I'm indulging in a bit of Americana. No matter what happens throughout the year, I can always depend on the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade to kickstart my latent yuletide cheer. My siblings and I like to pretend watching the parade is an old family tradition, but in reality, I think it began in high school. As it's become rather crucial to my holiday happiness, I think I need to up the ante and add the national dog show into my viewing itinerary...

Okay, we're now half an hour into the dog show and I'm pretty much done with it.

Shut up!

And listen...



And speaking of kids doing wild things.

There's no place like hometown

"KRRAAWWK! Polly wants a spelt cracker with hummus!"

Some Treasures Should Stay Buried

Strange as it sounds, my sisters consider me to be something of a music expert (Yes Sarah, go see Sam Phillips and Yael Naim; No Katie, I've never heard of Mushu Wave or whoever it was), and while I admit I've never classified myself as such, I do feel that I've finally harvested one particular luscious cherry from the musical orchard - I have discovered the WORST ALBUM EVER CONCEIVED! Much like today's young Disney stars, matinee idols of yesteryear (and their less photogenic co-stars) were expected or at least encouraged to release sickly-sweet albums about love and hardship. Thus, we get particularly bad-but-in-a-fun-way chestnuts from the likes of Hailey Mills, Brigitte Bardot, and even dowdy old Stanley Holloway (Yew knaw, guvnuh! Eliza Dooli'le's pop!). But this one tops them all. Obviously schooled in the Rex Harrison Vocal Training Academy, Dirk Bogarde doesn't even attempt to sing the songs, instead intoning the words oh-so-veddy-Britishly, without any reference to the timing of the tune playing behind his voice. You know it's bad when Elvis Costello has this to say about your album - "Ever needed to get rid of unwanted guests in the early hours? Just reach for Dirk Bogarde’s Lyrics for Lovers, on which the actor inhales audibly on his cigarette before reciting Ira Gershwin’s ‘A Foggy Day’ amid a swathe of violins..." After you've choked down a bit of this tripe, please wash away its filthy taste with a lot of Andrew Bird.



Yeah, I wanted to do harm to myself as well. But don't worry, my dear, it does get better. In 70 years or so.

Grief?

I know that the Culvers do not approve of blogging as a forum for online journaling, but I would like to argue that since I can't air my grievances in person, the internet may be the best method to converse with my family and friends. I abhor the use of the telephone for anything other than information retrieval (as my mom can attest), so unless you want to fly me somewhere for a personal chat, this is what you get.
I had the singular pleasure last night of visiting with an old teacher (as he does not hold a M.A. he refuses to be addressed as "professor", you who know Mr. Kern will I'm sure honor his idiosyncrasies). The conversation lasted well past the midnight hour, and in between cooing over Will and Cole (the two newest members to the Boise baby consortium) Andrew and I got to talking about my knee injury and its effects on my future goals and plans. For those of you not in the know, I'm having an operation on Tuesday that will bench me for the rest of the season, dancing-wise, and I have strong doctoral reccomendations not to dance "professionally" after that. Being the melancholic person I am, I take that to mean ABSOLUTELY NOT! But I have assurances from the doctors that it may be possible still for a few years.
As some of you know, I took a solo retreat in May, a time to reflect on what my goals and aspirations really are, and how my current occupations may or may not be furthering those. The conclusion I came to was that while dancing was certainly a passion, I really was interested in seeking employment in a more secure profession, looking toward providing for my own and any possible family's comfort and happiness. I had hoped that dancing might dovetail into this, that I could continue to perform while working through further education and planning to open up options for a more long-term career, but this injury has accelerated the need for such planning.
It is a strange and uncomfortable proposition, one that I'm barely now beginning to grasp the urgency and necessity of. Although I haven't danced long, I've fallen into the eternal trap of identifying myself as what I do, not who I am spiritually and emotionally. As I said to Andrew last night, I've never been forced to quit anything where I hadn't reached my own personal pinnacle, either in interest or in skill. He very astutely observed that it is the first time I've been faced with my own mortality, limitation being imposed on me. So, in a sense, I'm mourning my own death as a dancer, the body remaining, but the spirit crossing over, and trying to discover what that passing on leaves me as.
An interesting year in all, and the event, while grievous in nature, couldn't be more fortuitous in timing. My aptitude and opportunity for writing is blossoming, and I'm hopeful and excited to see where it takes me. I'm not content to settle for a year of recovery, and am determined to use this time for new discovery (poetry is purely incidental. I have no pretensions in that area). If I'm required to take one step at a time (or one step followed by a shuffle/limp in my case), I don't see the purpose in worrying about steps three and four. I'm grateful for the amazing support that my family and friends are providing, and will continue to be somber, silly, discouraged, hopeful, prayerful, bummed, elated, lethargic, weepy, giddy, and all around ready for this next stage of my life. What else can you expect from a born Gemini?

Old Friends...

Living once again in the city of my birth has led me to retrace the steps of my younger years. Late at night, I've taken to driving past old homes, the schools I played sports for, and past haunts that were significant to me. Some places haven't changed in the seven-odd years I've been away, and others exist only in the landscape of my memories. Yesterday I discovered that a particular old favorite had gone the way of the walkman. Tucked behind a dry-cleaner and next to a questionable Chinese Wok used to be Broadway Books, the sort of modest shop that exists only in forgotten strip malls. There I found many wonderful treasures, from a full set of hardcover second edition Lord of the Rings ($10! What a steal!) to an Asimov-edited Best of 1954 Sci-Fi anthology.
The notion of the well-worn tome seems to have gained disfavor with the buying public. My new favorite spot for used volumes closed during the summer, and I'm at a bit of a loss to find a new one. Unlike one of my outspoken sisters, I can't stomach paying $16 for a paperback copy of Don Dellilo's White Noise, when I know I could find it for $5 elsewhere. Furthermore, I enjoy the sense that I'm sharing a conversation with another person besides the author as I read. When I thumb through my beat-up copy of Where the Wild Things Are, I'm sharing story-time with Mindy Branson, age 5 (her Hancock scrawled on the front title page giving it a childish credibility). One of my favorite memories of college was reading through my friend Heather's copy of A Room With a View by E. M. Forster. She'd invited me emulate her in underlining and starring the passages that I found particularly meaningful, and it was fascinating to discover where we found companionship and where we differed. After a while, books become friends, their familiar spines on your shelf reminding you of old acquaintances who bequeathed them to you, the places you read them, the debates that they led to in class. I'll leave you with a poem by Rilke which expresses my sentiment regarding these familiar faces.



Memory -

And you wait, awaiting the one
to make your small life grow:
the mighty, the uncommon,
the awakening of stone,
the depths to be opened below.

Now duskily in the bookcase
gleam the volumes in brown and gold;
You remember lands you have wandered through
the pictures and the garments
of women lost of old.

And you suddenly know: it was here!
You pull yourself together, and there
stands an irrevocable year
of anguish and vision and prayer.

Minutia...

I set out today to see if I could learn some useless trivia, and thanks to Yahoo! found the answer to my burning question.

Tweekers

Technology is so amazing.