I love writing dialogue. In fiction. I hate writing in nonfiction; my memory, even my hearing fail me as a recorder, and my notes are scattered helter-skelter codes.
But I try.
Taiko practice has ended. My friends and I are standing around after, kibitzing, and discussion is on the upcoming drag show.
"My knees are killing me; it's even worse with drag practice," says Holly.
"Yeah. And Jazmine keeps smacking my back so hard." Nicole rubs her back for emphasis. "She should put her hand lower."
"And grab your butt? She totally grabbed your boob in the one turn!"
Laughter. They're both in the drag show; not me. I offered to don a burqa and "perform" John Cage's 4'33", but that's too much art and not enough fun. Okay, I'm done snarking on that.
And I wasn't really taking notes here.
"You could do the drums. A blog on the conversation of the drums would be amazing," interjects Katie.
Yes. Yes it would.
"You can steal the idea; I give it you."
By all means.
What we just finished, before the kibitzing, was a conversation all its own. Seventeen people pounding on drums, the Japanese taiko (a mixture of different sizes and, in a pinch, a few garbage cans upside down), mixing harmonies and rhythms.
One drum, the shimedaiko placed behind the twin taiko rows, leads the conversation. DUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUM.
And the sixteen answer: DUUM!
The call: DUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUM.
And the answer resounds again: DUM... DUM. Bodies respond with one arm, then the second, falling on the cowhide.
DUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUM.
DUM!
Then together, caller and answer, a conversation mixing its stride and speaking over each other. What would be rude in words is a beautiful beat.
Repeat, add a last DUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUDMDUMDUM with greater force and launch into a conversation apart from the shimedaiko. It continues to speak, keeping a rhythm and time of eight-beat cycles, but the conversation expands and overflows past its bounds.
DUM DUM DUMDUM (scream SO--REI!) DUMDUM DUMDUM (HAI!). When the melody cycles through four times, the conversation changes. It slows but resounds with more force. (SO--REI! SU!) DUUUM (SU!)DUUUM (SU!) DUM DUM. Four cycles. Then a sharp break, the stamina of the conversation lightening for a DUM! CLACK CLACK CLACK. Bodies join the dialogue more actively; swaying to the beat and raising the sticks high, letting gravity pull them back down; the drummer is already in an implicit negotiation with the physics of earth. But now the sticks clack together as the body squats and curves left, center, right. Two cycles, instead of four. The variety of in conversation that keeps in interesting.
Inwardly, I'm having a mental conversation. Am I doing right? Is my left arm hitting with the same strength as my right, keeping the beat even? What's the beat? Crap, I miscounted? Did sensei see? And I bet these are the same thoughts wandering through sixteen other minds.
Back to DUM DUM DUMDUM (SO--REI!) DUMDUM DUMDUM (HAI!).
Now the hard part. Our bodies have to converse with each other in threes. Four cycles and we jump clockwise, switching positions on the drums. I leap back and Nicole jumps forward; Holly shifts left in our triangle of drums. All around us similar jumps flow together.
And the drum beats on. We switch again. Now we solo.
One drum, Holly in front. All sixteen other drums fall silent.
DUM DUMDUMDUM DUM! DUM DUMDUMDUM DUM!
Nicole and I rush in with the same answer, three drums synchronized.
Then we shut up and Holly leads in again: DUM DUM DUM DUM DUMDUMDUMDUMDUMDUM DUM!
Nicole and I stumble in. They were all supposed to be CLACKs on the rim of the drum.
There's whispering as the next group does their solo, more individualized choreography. A unique discussion adding to the drama of drumming.
"I thought we were doing the clicking?"
"We are. I just, my arms are tired."
"It's okay. It's practice."
There's a lot of nervous laughter after quick recriminations. Sensei said, before beginning, "If you screw, just keep going! Don't worry about it." I hoped she didn't realize how confused we just were. I was. She's awfully attractive. Yeah, I'm hot for taiko teacher. Sorry, can't hear you. The conversations rise and merge togeth--
(ONE... TWO... PA-CIFIC TAI-KO!)
DUM DUM DUMDUM (SO-REI!) DUMDUM DUMDUM (HAI!).
And if you were upstairs, as we shook the University Center, your body was in the conversation, too. Shaking along. Shh... the drums are talking, and they drown you out and bring you up at the same time.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Episode 8: The World Needs More Breakdancing Lawyers
My cultural sensitivity meter is about to take a hit.
“So, are you from Hawai'i?” I ask.
“No, Portland. It's alright; I get that a lot.”
The air still isn't up to the warmth I expect for an April, but the sun shines brightly on Trombley Square. Mike and I sit down on the red bricks. Sure, I could have walked around the town of Forest Grove or jumped the bus and hit the city looking for a stranger. But it occurs to me: how many strangers do we see all the time? Evey day? I sit in University classes for months next to people I never know, names I can barely keep in my head once we're all dismissed.
So Mike, you're it. I think I should be forgiven for a Hawai'ian assumption. He is Japanese, with short black hair thinned and spiked; not long ago he had it bleached blonde. Around Pacific University, it's a decent bet someone like that is from the islands. His speech has the laidback wandering quality I've grown accustomed to over the last two years, although he does lack the lilting, almost questioning tone I pick up a lot in the Hawai'ian accent.
“I'm from Portland,” he says. “Like metro-side, not downtown. It's more, you know, southside. Are you from here?”
“No,” I laugh. “Texas.”
“Oh, well I don't know if you know the high schools...”
I shake my head.
We're not a whole lot alike at first glance. T-shirts and jeans for me, duct tape holding one battered, generic brand tennis shoe together. Mike has unscuffed but slightly faded Nike tennis shoes, to compliment the Nike socks and Nike sports shorts hanging just below the knee. There is no trademark swish on his t-shirt, just a black explosion with the words “Sunset Fevertym” in neon colors.
“It's my high school breakdancing team,” he explains. “I did six years of tennis. My mom wanted me to get into something, you know, so I wouldn't do drugs or any of that stuff. There was soccer. Then I did tennis, my brother too. I was pretty good in the northwest. I was just like a few steps from national level. You can go to Texas or Florida or somewhere. But then I just quit. It wasn't my passion any more.”
I take notes all over the place. Little scribbles dot the page, and lines with arrows crowd the space to fit what matters together.
“Do you want me to slow down?”
“No, no; go ahead. I'm just scribbling.”
“Okay,” he says. “So I got into breakdancing in high school. At first, you know, some guys were doing it and it was fun, but then there was a performance at high school, a talent show. I got up there and it felt good. It was my second passion. It gave me confidence. I could be more myself when I started. Four of us made a team, the rest were just like posers.”
I asked what he was majoring in. As a freshman, he was hovering between two choices.
“Well, I wanted to do Psychology, but maybe Environmental Science. I'm thinking more environmental science now. It has more to with the law, and I want to be a lawyer.”
Frankly, I'm all for it. The world needs more breakdancing lawyers.
“So, are you from Hawai'i?” I ask.
“No, Portland. It's alright; I get that a lot.”
The air still isn't up to the warmth I expect for an April, but the sun shines brightly on Trombley Square. Mike and I sit down on the red bricks. Sure, I could have walked around the town of Forest Grove or jumped the bus and hit the city looking for a stranger. But it occurs to me: how many strangers do we see all the time? Evey day? I sit in University classes for months next to people I never know, names I can barely keep in my head once we're all dismissed.
So Mike, you're it. I think I should be forgiven for a Hawai'ian assumption. He is Japanese, with short black hair thinned and spiked; not long ago he had it bleached blonde. Around Pacific University, it's a decent bet someone like that is from the islands. His speech has the laidback wandering quality I've grown accustomed to over the last two years, although he does lack the lilting, almost questioning tone I pick up a lot in the Hawai'ian accent.
“I'm from Portland,” he says. “Like metro-side, not downtown. It's more, you know, southside. Are you from here?”
“No,” I laugh. “Texas.”
“Oh, well I don't know if you know the high schools...”
I shake my head.
We're not a whole lot alike at first glance. T-shirts and jeans for me, duct tape holding one battered, generic brand tennis shoe together. Mike has unscuffed but slightly faded Nike tennis shoes, to compliment the Nike socks and Nike sports shorts hanging just below the knee. There is no trademark swish on his t-shirt, just a black explosion with the words “Sunset Fevertym” in neon colors.
“It's my high school breakdancing team,” he explains. “I did six years of tennis. My mom wanted me to get into something, you know, so I wouldn't do drugs or any of that stuff. There was soccer. Then I did tennis, my brother too. I was pretty good in the northwest. I was just like a few steps from national level. You can go to Texas or Florida or somewhere. But then I just quit. It wasn't my passion any more.”
I take notes all over the place. Little scribbles dot the page, and lines with arrows crowd the space to fit what matters together.
“Do you want me to slow down?”
“No, no; go ahead. I'm just scribbling.”
“Okay,” he says. “So I got into breakdancing in high school. At first, you know, some guys were doing it and it was fun, but then there was a performance at high school, a talent show. I got up there and it felt good. It was my second passion. It gave me confidence. I could be more myself when I started. Four of us made a team, the rest were just like posers.”
I asked what he was majoring in. As a freshman, he was hovering between two choices.
“Well, I wanted to do Psychology, but maybe Environmental Science. I'm thinking more environmental science now. It has more to with the law, and I want to be a lawyer.”
Frankly, I'm all for it. The world needs more breakdancing lawyers.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Episode 7: Hi, I'm Skeerd
Shh. Don't tell a soul. Not a goddamn soul.
I might reckon I'm a fraud. Until two years ago I lived in the same state all my life. Twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine years in Texas, since I was four just in central Texas, just outside Austin, never in Austin, ya got me? The hill country. Austin might be the Live Music Capital of the World, but I only ever saw two concerts. I'm not the cool, hip, Indie check-this-ink-ain't-I-the-!@#$ –
Look. I'm being a fraud right there. I don't like cussing if I don't have to. When I want to, when I need to, I'll sure enough cut'er loose. But otherwise, I aesthetically like those little relics of comic books, the !@#$ words. I'm not really a cusser by nature. I'm liberal with my damns and hells and I laugh when an God or Christ gets censored out of an expletive. For crissakes, the Almighty has better things to do than shove celestial soap down your throat. But I figure !@#$ and !@#$ and even @$$ when you hitch up to hole is a bit more than I want to get accustomed too.
There were times when, after a month working at a gas station with a part-time stripper, she was shocked to hear me yell “Hell!” one night when the ice machine door slamshut my finger. Yessir. I shocked a stripper, with little thing like that. “I never heard you cuss before!”
But I wander. Over yonder. A lot.
Speech, it's a funny thing, that there speech. How you talk. I'm a sittin' there with my mom in the car dealer. We're buying her a car. On her own money, with her own credit. For the first time in my lifetime, and it's only three, four years back. Yeah, those doin' the math let a low whistle o' disbelief. It's the first time my grampa ain't cosigned, as far as I know. Long time. So the guy, see I'm there to kind of counsel her and ask questions because I like finding the little things they're going to stick up your arse when they think you ain't readin' the whole real deal, so this guy, the car salesman, the used car saleseman you unnerstan', he says, “Are you from New York?”
Naw, I'm from a few miles thataway. All my life. But I watch ungodly amounts of Law & Order. Maybe that's it.
I went through a few years of peppering talk with Cajun stylin's. Still fun and I like chewing gator. Sure 'nuff.
You may have noticed an “arse.” BBC on the PBS raised me every Thursday and Saturday night on the intricacies of bloody proper English swearing, ya git. Not like I was going out and doing anything else.
Somewhere I mixed it all up. I can't fake a real accent, from anywhere. When I moved to Oregon, I hear often: “Wow, Texas? But you don't have an accent!” Except when I have the Louisiana sausage down at Monkey Deli. Dem's powerful spicy. And Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, I do love y'all and ain't.
I jumble and ah stumble over my words all the time. They don't know quite where they're from eeder. I spoonerism all the damn time. If I get riled up it's worse. And I like getting riled up and geared up for an intellectual fight, but I get distracted by narrowing down to one mighty fine point and controlling the flow into a certain channel. I never feel made clear and I don't know if its the words or the ideas that get in the way.
Or maybe there's nothing in the way. Naught at all. And it's all just window dressin' for emptiness.
And that leaves me, not scared, nor even skeerd.
Damn skeerd. Ain't no two ways about it. Skeers the fucking shiznit right out of moi.
I might reckon I'm a fraud. Until two years ago I lived in the same state all my life. Twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine years in Texas, since I was four just in central Texas, just outside Austin, never in Austin, ya got me? The hill country. Austin might be the Live Music Capital of the World, but I only ever saw two concerts. I'm not the cool, hip, Indie check-this-ink-ain't-I-the-!@#$ –
Look. I'm being a fraud right there. I don't like cussing if I don't have to. When I want to, when I need to, I'll sure enough cut'er loose. But otherwise, I aesthetically like those little relics of comic books, the !@#$ words. I'm not really a cusser by nature. I'm liberal with my damns and hells and I laugh when an God or Christ gets censored out of an expletive. For crissakes, the Almighty has better things to do than shove celestial soap down your throat. But I figure !@#$ and !@#$ and even @$$ when you hitch up to hole is a bit more than I want to get accustomed too.
There were times when, after a month working at a gas station with a part-time stripper, she was shocked to hear me yell “Hell!” one night when the ice machine door slamshut my finger. Yessir. I shocked a stripper, with little thing like that. “I never heard you cuss before!”
But I wander. Over yonder. A lot.
Speech, it's a funny thing, that there speech. How you talk. I'm a sittin' there with my mom in the car dealer. We're buying her a car. On her own money, with her own credit. For the first time in my lifetime, and it's only three, four years back. Yeah, those doin' the math let a low whistle o' disbelief. It's the first time my grampa ain't cosigned, as far as I know. Long time. So the guy, see I'm there to kind of counsel her and ask questions because I like finding the little things they're going to stick up your arse when they think you ain't readin' the whole real deal, so this guy, the car salesman, the used car saleseman you unnerstan', he says, “Are you from New York?”
Naw, I'm from a few miles thataway. All my life. But I watch ungodly amounts of Law & Order. Maybe that's it.
I went through a few years of peppering talk with Cajun stylin's. Still fun and I like chewing gator. Sure 'nuff.
You may have noticed an “arse.” BBC on the PBS raised me every Thursday and Saturday night on the intricacies of bloody proper English swearing, ya git. Not like I was going out and doing anything else.
Somewhere I mixed it all up. I can't fake a real accent, from anywhere. When I moved to Oregon, I hear often: “Wow, Texas? But you don't have an accent!” Except when I have the Louisiana sausage down at Monkey Deli. Dem's powerful spicy. And Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, I do love y'all and ain't.
I jumble and ah stumble over my words all the time. They don't know quite where they're from eeder. I spoonerism all the damn time. If I get riled up it's worse. And I like getting riled up and geared up for an intellectual fight, but I get distracted by narrowing down to one mighty fine point and controlling the flow into a certain channel. I never feel made clear and I don't know if its the words or the ideas that get in the way.
Or maybe there's nothing in the way. Naught at all. And it's all just window dressin' for emptiness.
And that leaves me, not scared, nor even skeerd.
Damn skeerd. Ain't no two ways about it. Skeers the fucking shiznit right out of moi.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)