25 October 2003

Women and men
Men and women. Just keeps showing up over and over again. Science program on a woman who studies babies "communicating", some small 6 month old reaching out to interact with a tiny boy who who was all "life-less and floppy" in one play session. Like magic -voila- he was much more lively interactive, and engaged next time they were plonked together by mum and the researcher. The wonders of TV documentary. Scientists were all cautious about actually stating a theorum (of course) that there is communication between these little sub-humans, but suggesting perhaps that the caring attitude of this girl had a profound effect on the boys behaviour, and nay, even mental development. And surely self-esteem and penis size too. Story Link, if this is your bag, baby.

A man has re-programmed a single-task car-building robot to "think like a woman", that is it does several tasks at the same time, constantly reviewing its task list to see what it could be doing in the hold-points between jobs. Does it bitch about not having a boyfriend to come home to after all that multi-tasking, I wonder?

In Byron Bay, some men are becoming "Uncles" for young teenage boys rasied without dads, because they aren't learning about how to me a man. Trying to script-edit the boys out of a future of violence, drug abuse, and generally shitty lives. They actually seemed kinda cool, if a bit fond of the baggy pant. Couldn't find if they have their own website, but try here if you live in the Northern Rivers area.

That folbigg person is on the front page today again. They've been reading her diaries and printing stuff. Apparently pathologically unable to connect with anyone, is part of the verdict.

Anyway, what does all this mean? Well - that's up to you, dear readers.

Today, Bsharp pictures us all as mice on little teflon treadwheels, the pink ones going anti-clockwise and the blues ones clockwise. Occasionally passing each other on the mid-swing to exchange a few whisker twiches and squeaks. Bring me another latte.

13 October 2003

A meditation on dancing.

Dancing affects the dancer and the viewer. Undisputed method of releasing happy juices is to dance around. Even just to jump on the spot and wave your arms up and down for 10 seconds is going to bring any human closer to smiling than they were before they did it. Go on. Try it. Tracky daks and favourite old tee-shirt helps in the equation. (Behind closed doors. No-one wants to see that).

Dancing while wearing tight vinyl that you know looks pretty good, even though you’ve got a much bigger arse than when you were 18, well that’s got some effect on the old endocrine system too. It certainly involves an audience, if ephemeral one.

When you’re a watcher in a club, an unfettered dancer, un-trained and with zero knack certainly draws the eye and holds it. The good ones are better. Then you feel a thread of connection. Their system's all nice and warmed up, and something’s happening in yours too, even though you’re separated by a good few metres of air. I particularly like watching couples hit their stride with salsa or rock-and-roll.

To do it on the stage means a whole other level of discipline and training. Needs physical strength and a consciousness of where every muscle is placed and where it’s going to go next. So to be ready to do a piece that someone will pay money to see, I assume means going past the point you’re getting those happy juices squirting around in a gentle sloshy kind of way.

I admit I can count on one-and-a-half hands the times I’ve seen dance-theatre. And it's so personal when it is moving. I know enough that it means weeks of preparation and sculpting a piece until it’s like a very beautiful machine operating. Perhaps that unmistakably physical link between dancer and viewer can still happen when they’ve trained so hard they can just focus on emotion, and know that it is triggering something in the audience. That would be special. Or is it usually a feat of illusion?

Symptoms may include a reversion to adolescent sub-culture, exhibitionist dancing, undefined malaise, and a 'kn sore back.

Line from the weekend: I just wanted to show my friend there are hundreds of nice women in Sydney.
- “Yes, there are. Hundreds. And I’m not one of them”.

3 October 2003

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