No, this is no metaphor for surviving change in my life. No drama here, unless you count color and composition. Cid and I went to the Philly Art Museum yesterday. If you've never been, get on it! It's reasonably priced (less than a movie), and huge. We both walked away pretty inspired, so after a night of dinner boggle, and dance videos, we made art. He wrote poetry, and I made this guy.
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This video is long, but worth it: I was filling out an online survey recently (no, I didn't win the $10 gift certificate), which asked me if I intended to pursue a higher degree of education, and why. That's such an awkward question for someone in this line of work. Dance education is constant. Every class I teach, every workshop I take, every video I watch, and every choreography I learn furthers my dance education. None of them, of course, lead to a suffix. All of this, put in the same five minutes of thought as "what on earth do I blog about next?" convinced me to bare my soul a little, and write about my process so far. I grew up in a house full of music. My dad was a choir director/music director/composer/arranger; my mom sings in his choirs; family gatherings and social parties always wound up around the piano, with Carly Simon or Billy Joel being channeled through 15 questionably sober choir members. I know a lot about how the politics of churches work, the dangers of working in a school system, and the fun and drama of choir tours. However, staying with Carsie and Jon the last few weeks has given me a lot of insight into how the other side of music works- the singer/songwriter/recording artist side. It's true. I'm now a sole-less wretch, lost and staggering. Competitions have always had a special place in my heart... right next to winning a million dollars at the expense of a non-profit, or saving a baby's life at the cost of a puppy's. All of which is to say, I've had terrifically mixed feelings about them. Alright, this explosion was small. But it was enough to take permenantly out of commission the power source for Plucky, one of my two personal assistants... and by personal assistants, I mean ancient, ailing-but-essential computers. There was a short in the cord that goes from the computer to the blocky-bit, and I'll admit it, I'd known that for a while- she was a little needy on how she wanted to be positioned if you wanted her to charge. But last night, with sparks and smoke and a tiny stink bomb of melting rubber, that power adapter said farewell (and good luck with your musicality class), and left the functional world.
Nope, not Fitzgerald. LMNOP, the otter-cowherding-silverfaced dog I'm living with for the short-term. She doesn't actually look like this. This is one of those silly, meaningless, what-happened-in-my-life-today posts. You've been warned! |
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May 2015
Mike Legett
Whether it's grand themes of life, or what I had for breakfast, here's where I'll tell you what I think. Categories
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