Chris Daly
THE SPINNER
Chris Daly resides West Coast, USA, and has been in the life for some decades and has published in various smaller-circulation magazines and journals. He has completed an experimental oral history of an ancient period of Viet Nam.
Joel could often be seen working on his signature move in front of the mirror in the front room when I passed through to practice with my team, and often would still be there when I left. I appreciated his single-minded dedication, but he seemed in danger of being perennial beginner team, back row, bring him forward at your peril, you have to want it to come down front and deliver something. I have been accused of being a snob, and I don’t deny it, explain it or apologize for it. I push my dancers, but we’re all family, with the usual seating arrangements according to level of accomplishment and potential to advance, and I’m a decent observer. Now and then, as in the case of Joel the Spinner, I get surprised. I did note that he was what I call a thinker, a cerebral processor.
The art of spinning has to do with identifying and connecting with the energy of the tones of the heart, and channeling that rectified power to the core of the body, out of which it can flow naturally, into the appropriate angles of limbs. We’re all spinning, the cosmos is wheeling, the ultimate goal of life is a harmony of spheres, low and high.
When I go out to one of the local joints with my team we can hang and dance with each other, without having to mix with the rest of the room, though having all that regular dancing can be clarifying and a good thing. I picked one of my dancers right out of the crowd after watching him for one minute. He’d never had a lesson and I brought him to performance level pretty much right away. Not the case with Joel, who liked touring the perimeter of the dance floor and would barely pause to say he was only there to watch. Thank you and bless you. Even at a club he would find a corner to prep left and spin right, prep right and spin left. In the parking structure the team was discussing the upcoming congress and he passed at a distance, and I swear I could hear, indistinctly, thought being processed.
I have been accused, mostly in silence I admit, of being an immigrant family prince and a snob. An elder guy at the studio said I looked like I could be from any of seventeen different countries, most probably from one in twisted central Europe. He didn’t say the second part out loud. Doesn’t matter, we’re here now, in the rotation of the moment. If my multi-generational family situation ends with me, so be it. I was born to a different focus. In dancing one can break down the discreet elements – master one and you have a center to work from. Concentration is required, probably shouldn’t have taken a spot on the novice team for the congress, though I may be a stabilizing influence to some on a newer level. I’m not worried, it’s all good, next year I’ll keep the slate clean, in order to be in the best position to do the best thing at a big event, which is to observe.
So when I go home to the island I have fifty uncles. I am reminded of that by the very large green room with all the teams and performers spread around on the carpet like a gypsy encampment, is that a cliché or what? I’m good with my team this year, the men are upright, in a good way, one hopes, and they have a good amount of pride, and the ladies are able to access, each of them, their special quality, without getting too shook up about it and hurting the routine, modeled on and in the tradition of a couple of New York on-2 teams, that is what we bring that is special, our competencies are what they are and we dance within ourselves, and execute sophisticated choreography at our particular level. I don’t claim to be an original, but I saw what was good and went for it. Or some such shit, I was musing, while accomplishing various pre-show details, one of which was to not just watch Adrianna, who is the best currently doing it; there is the highest level, and then the level within that level. So then we were grouped in a big circle around our beloved impresario for the pre-show notes and over on the other side next to Adrianna with an oddly similar, slightly out-of-it facial expression and heels nearly as high was the Spinner, half there, half lost in thought.
Pick your physics. It’s as far in as it is out, it’s the still point of the spinning top, it’s a glass elevator high up in an atrium, that comes down with a team or two from any of seventeen countries, or by now a second and maybe a third seventeen, and if you are in an afternoon empty seat show that features the latest young hot shot emerging from the beyond, on whose back the team is bumped to a night-time spot, and if there is a certain combination that’s set up by a couple of us in the back doing two spins and a pose…
A bit later in the line to get up to the back stage area, Joel seemed to have his nerves in order, that was good, but one was concerned nonetheless.
I’ve been through some twisted shit in my life, I won’t deny it, explain it or apologize for it, and if the stage at night is reflective like the surface of a pond, stay in the neighborhood of the point where the real and the reflection meet, but if also something about the lighting is off, and the music is a beat away, don’t double-clutch the prep, fuck fuck fuck, and then the big reaction, and pretty soon we’re out of there, it was a long show, at the end I could hear the Big Diva performing without having to watch, then back on stage for a group bow, get into street shoes, head straight for the door to the street, it’s fine if no one sees me.
By going down on his signature element, (when the first rotation went slightly a-kilter, one could only gut-clench), and then getting pretty much right back up and doing possibly his greatest basic, the moment was stolen and a dancer emerged. Later la maestro herself caught him at the door before he could escape and anointed him with a simple show-biz smacker. He’d bumped up a level and it was time to drag him to the backroom so he can stop the damn spinning and start to practice dancing. Maybe cut back, for now, on the over-thinking.
This slightly older teacher has a bit of the light in her, but I’m not in love.
The art of spinning has to do with identifying and connecting with the energy of the tones of the heart, and channeling that rectified power to the core of the body, out of which it can flow naturally, into the appropriate angles of limbs. We’re all spinning, the cosmos is wheeling, the ultimate goal of life is a harmony of spheres, low and high.
When I go out to one of the local joints with my team we can hang and dance with each other, without having to mix with the rest of the room, though having all that regular dancing can be clarifying and a good thing. I picked one of my dancers right out of the crowd after watching him for one minute. He’d never had a lesson and I brought him to performance level pretty much right away. Not the case with Joel, who liked touring the perimeter of the dance floor and would barely pause to say he was only there to watch. Thank you and bless you. Even at a club he would find a corner to prep left and spin right, prep right and spin left. In the parking structure the team was discussing the upcoming congress and he passed at a distance, and I swear I could hear, indistinctly, thought being processed.
I have been accused, mostly in silence I admit, of being an immigrant family prince and a snob. An elder guy at the studio said I looked like I could be from any of seventeen different countries, most probably from one in twisted central Europe. He didn’t say the second part out loud. Doesn’t matter, we’re here now, in the rotation of the moment. If my multi-generational family situation ends with me, so be it. I was born to a different focus. In dancing one can break down the discreet elements – master one and you have a center to work from. Concentration is required, probably shouldn’t have taken a spot on the novice team for the congress, though I may be a stabilizing influence to some on a newer level. I’m not worried, it’s all good, next year I’ll keep the slate clean, in order to be in the best position to do the best thing at a big event, which is to observe.
So when I go home to the island I have fifty uncles. I am reminded of that by the very large green room with all the teams and performers spread around on the carpet like a gypsy encampment, is that a cliché or what? I’m good with my team this year, the men are upright, in a good way, one hopes, and they have a good amount of pride, and the ladies are able to access, each of them, their special quality, without getting too shook up about it and hurting the routine, modeled on and in the tradition of a couple of New York on-2 teams, that is what we bring that is special, our competencies are what they are and we dance within ourselves, and execute sophisticated choreography at our particular level. I don’t claim to be an original, but I saw what was good and went for it. Or some such shit, I was musing, while accomplishing various pre-show details, one of which was to not just watch Adrianna, who is the best currently doing it; there is the highest level, and then the level within that level. So then we were grouped in a big circle around our beloved impresario for the pre-show notes and over on the other side next to Adrianna with an oddly similar, slightly out-of-it facial expression and heels nearly as high was the Spinner, half there, half lost in thought.
Pick your physics. It’s as far in as it is out, it’s the still point of the spinning top, it’s a glass elevator high up in an atrium, that comes down with a team or two from any of seventeen countries, or by now a second and maybe a third seventeen, and if you are in an afternoon empty seat show that features the latest young hot shot emerging from the beyond, on whose back the team is bumped to a night-time spot, and if there is a certain combination that’s set up by a couple of us in the back doing two spins and a pose…
A bit later in the line to get up to the back stage area, Joel seemed to have his nerves in order, that was good, but one was concerned nonetheless.
I’ve been through some twisted shit in my life, I won’t deny it, explain it or apologize for it, and if the stage at night is reflective like the surface of a pond, stay in the neighborhood of the point where the real and the reflection meet, but if also something about the lighting is off, and the music is a beat away, don’t double-clutch the prep, fuck fuck fuck, and then the big reaction, and pretty soon we’re out of there, it was a long show, at the end I could hear the Big Diva performing without having to watch, then back on stage for a group bow, get into street shoes, head straight for the door to the street, it’s fine if no one sees me.
By going down on his signature element, (when the first rotation went slightly a-kilter, one could only gut-clench), and then getting pretty much right back up and doing possibly his greatest basic, the moment was stolen and a dancer emerged. Later la maestro herself caught him at the door before he could escape and anointed him with a simple show-biz smacker. He’d bumped up a level and it was time to drag him to the backroom so he can stop the damn spinning and start to practice dancing. Maybe cut back, for now, on the over-thinking.
This slightly older teacher has a bit of the light in her, but I’m not in love.
Chris Daly resides West Coast, USA, and has been in the life for some decades and has published in various smaller-circulation magazines and journals. He has completed an experimental oral history of an ancient period of Viet Nam.
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