Okay, I dance.

I dance, unfortunately, like a comedienne, with lots of exuberance and little discipline.  Ask poor Darlene, a Balanchine trained ballerina who tried to choreograph me in a dance to Tuxedo Junction when we worked for the Arts Council.  We got a free souvlaki out of the deal, but that’s about it.

Darlene was always surprised I can’t point my toes, such a simple act for her.  But somehow, this body, with the big flat feet, won’t do it.  Since I didn’t see myself as my body, it didn’t surprise me too much.

I used to go to t-dance at local clubs,  but that was as much about the crowd who came for one price beer, wine and wells.

But sometimes, when I am alone, my body starts to move and it surprises me.  The vernacular of Broadway style dance surprises me, just like when I would watch late night Astaire movies and then feel the urge to jête on the grass, or see Singin’ and ship down the mountain from McGill.  How do I know these moves?

My sister went to Joan Wolff, but my ballet desire was spurned.  Too weird, too much in the wrong direction, and besides, wasn’t I altogether too clumsy?

Bette Midler, when asked what women wanted, said that the answer is simple.  Women want to dance, and watching the women behind the screen on Live With Regis & Kelly, I am sure that is true.  So many bits about exuberance, expression, partnering and abandon come into dancing well, into sweating it out and heating it up.

Trannys, well, we inhabit our bodies in ways that aren’t normative.  For many people, dance is a body thing, which then reveals something.  For me, though, dance is an inner thing, that comes crudely out of the body I have.  I do feel it, below my mind, but not in my muscles and bones — they are only on top of what is important.

Dancers have trouble with this notion.  They usually lead with their bodies, and that helps them know something about their head, while I lead with my head & spirit, and something, sometimes comes out of my body.

But sometimes, I dance.  And I wonder what it would have been like to have a body that could dance with me, vertically or horizontally.

Oh well, next life.

No Ranking

I was in the international dollar store this morning — you know, the one where none of the staff speak English and I always want to whistle “It’s A Small World After All” — when my cell rang.

That’s a rare event for me on a rare day when my parents took the bus to see the Christmas Extravaganza at Radio City Music Hall.

I looked at the phone and it was Ms. Rachelle. I answered the phone with a phrase I use routinely, “Hello, Gorgeous!”

I have known Rachelle for over a decade now, and Rachelle has commented on my affirmative approach to others in the past, saying that she thinks of it as the Callan approach, and it works when she has tried it. She likes it.

This time, though, it wasn’t Rachelle. It was Rachel’s partner, Zooey.

Well, partner is stretching it. They are roommates, and Zooey does promotion/business management for Rachelle, and she stable pony too, listening and calming. She’s about the same age as Rachelle, but she keeps her head shaved and worked for a bunch of Roman Catholic perverts in SF before coming here. She’s still looking for a man, but knows how to use Rachelle, in the way that Farrah did for so many years.

You see, Rachelle is butch, but she doesn’t really want to know that. How could she have had surgery in 1972 and still be butch? It’s not hard, thinks I, but I know anyone who tells me there is no big difference between men and women isn’t deeply woman.

Zooey, well, Zooey does one thing well. She holds judgments. Judgments about southerners and priests and trannys and lots of other people. It isn’t, at least to me, an endearing quality.

Well, there in the dollar store I heard her respond to my “Hello Gorgeous” by saying that she wasn’t the gorgeous one. Or at least she was less gorgeous than the other one.

I said that she was gorgeous in her own way, that I don’t rank gorgeous.

“Well, I think I’m going to sit you down and force you to rank gorgeous,” she told me, her own judgementalism being projected onto me.

She invited me down to Rhinebeck for Thanksgiving, and then put “the really gorgeous one on.”

“I won’t rank gorgeous!” I said to Ms. Rachelle when she took the phone.

Rachelle laughed, but I was serious.

Ms. Rachelle hasn’t spoken to me in a while, not since I moved her hosting & reconfigured her e-mail. I was expecting a technical query on the phone, though after some bad experiences, I don’t support Zooey anymore. Rachelle tried to comment on the blog, but it was mostly intelectual comments on posts that weren’t really intellectual at all, and stopped when I told her that the blog is a testament, “for after.”

It seems a gift not to have to go to my brother’s house for Thanksgiving, even if the drive there is risky, and gifts are to be accepted.

But this gift comes with Zooey, her ranking and judgements. Not pleasant.

I’d probably rather be alone.

But I knew I couldn’t write this up on the blog. I don’t get between R & Z.

And I work to not hold judgements to not rank people, but sometimes, you answer the phone, and get reminded who someone is right away, if you know what I mean.