Photo Credit: Phil Wayes

Monday, January 5, 2009

Absence of the Muse

Alternate Title: "Why I should Create a Tag Called 'Whining/Being a Pansy'

I feel like I should offer an explanation for my last post, because it sounds rather out-of-character coming from me. "Me" being the girl to whom teaching dance was as natural as breathing a month ago....the same girl who choreographed for fun the way most people her age play beer pong.* It seems a little odd that today I'm acting like I'm about to take the bar exam.

It may or may not have something to do with the fact that my muse and I got in a fight.

Welll, it wasn't even really a "fight;" a "fight" is when at least two people are involved. We had a lovely time in PA; we started making several dances together, we wrote some good 'n' funny stuff on the plane ride back. And then the next morning, I wake up, and poof! the little bugger is nowhere to be found. All he left was a scribbled note that said "I'll be back soon, hang tight." Ha. Easy for him to say; I've got dances that need to be made and I highly doubt that "My muse is away" is going to hold up as an excuse.

Don't worry; I am seeing another muse now; but he's more of a rebound muse-- good for creating filthy jokes and bitter-tounged satire, but not much else. Since I need to be making ballets right now-- for children and for family audiences-- he's not "The Right Muse" but "The Right-Now Muse." Fun, but it ain't a life-long marriage of artist and muse. Sorry, pal.

So, that's why my anxiety is strangling me with my 10-foot pink Juicy Couture scarf that my awesome friend bought me for Christmas (sorry I haven't called, by the way; we get terrible cellular service down here in Anxiety Canyon).

Let's also factor in that after not dancing in over a week, I feel massively out of shape; so spending 4.5 hours in a leotard in front of mirrors is as desireable as main-lining boric acid into my eyeballs.

I'm telling myself that it's silly to be nervous, and that once I get to dancing I'll feel so much better. Fingers are crossed. Here we go.

*It might be worth arguing that I made dances for fun because I don't play beer pong like a normal 22-year-old. I don't care for beer and my aim is terrible. Making dances is just as fun, I think, but without hangovers or puking on your roommate's shoes. I think I've got the right idea here.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

but where's teh dick jokes?