So, it seems that I won't be voting in my first US election after all. And I blame it firmly on the DMV.
During the naturalization ceremony, we were handed huge voter registration packets. I should have been smart and filled it in then, instead of trying to optimize and do it at the DMV. I ticked the little box that said that it was my first registration to vote and then filled out exactly the same form. I turned it in; I talked to the lady about it. And I waited.
The Wizard's vote by mail packet came. I waited a week to see if mine had got lost in the mail. But nothing happened. It took me another couple of days to figure out where to go, who to call, and to get a human. I told the human what I had done and got the following response: "Oh yeah, the DMV is such a black hole. Sorry."
Sorry doesn't cut it. The DMV is understaffed and overworked. DMV employees have been subject to the same enforced "holidays" as other state workers. They are probably also underpaid. And, yes, two different bureaucracies have no incentive to talk to each other. I should have known; I probably could have guessed. But as it is, I am apparently not on the electoral rolls, and I didn't figure that out until after the deadline for voter registration had passed.
insert all possible swear words.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Getting Older and Creakier; Longer and Stronger
Today, I was tightening some screws on my seat pan. During the tour, my chair had begun to groan. By the end of rehearsal this morning, my chair had its own voice: it wasn't happy. It was tired. It was cranky. It's tires were crappy and dirty and noisy and had no grip. It had given up. I know how it feels. We're getting towards the point in the season where I feel scared of the random events that might hurt my body. Over work. Over tired. And.... I feel careful. Watchful even.
No one dances in every section, but when we ran all of the new piece for the first time, there was a sense of running a marathon. This is weird because the new piece requires very little of the kind of movement that has rivulets of sweat running down my face (generally a good thing for the makeup and for my general appearance). That said, the positions, the angles, the torque, even the liquidities feel more extreme. My body feels like my chair: we're both coming to the end of a long, long period of activity and complaining about it.
At this point in the process, we owe it to each other to be careful. To take care of ourselves. To eat, sleep, and not go sky diving. It is strange to write it this way, but it is work. I am working to make sure that I am keeping my end of the deal. The self care necessary to be able to go on and do this is more than it ever has been. I would do it on willpower alone, but the marathon doesn't end with the end of the show. We just keep going. So, I'm here for the long haul. So, yes, I am AM going to hesitate before committing to evening activities. Or weekend parties. I am even going to hesitate before trying to body experiments. Safe and sound. Slow and steady.
I had a note the other day -- about being bigger, about extending, about lengthening on stage. I will need to sleep on it in order to be able to find the body that can grow in that way.
No one dances in every section, but when we ran all of the new piece for the first time, there was a sense of running a marathon. This is weird because the new piece requires very little of the kind of movement that has rivulets of sweat running down my face (generally a good thing for the makeup and for my general appearance). That said, the positions, the angles, the torque, even the liquidities feel more extreme. My body feels like my chair: we're both coming to the end of a long, long period of activity and complaining about it.
At this point in the process, we owe it to each other to be careful. To take care of ourselves. To eat, sleep, and not go sky diving. It is strange to write it this way, but it is work. I am working to make sure that I am keeping my end of the deal. The self care necessary to be able to go on and do this is more than it ever has been. I would do it on willpower alone, but the marathon doesn't end with the end of the show. We just keep going. So, I'm here for the long haul. So, yes, I am AM going to hesitate before committing to evening activities. Or weekend parties. I am even going to hesitate before trying to body experiments. Safe and sound. Slow and steady.
I had a note the other day -- about being bigger, about extending, about lengthening on stage. I will need to sleep on it in order to be able to find the body that can grow in that way.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Driving While Black and Disabled
Before you get concerned, no cause for panic. I haven't been stopped recently. This post is more about my fear of being stopped, my visibility in general, and, in my case, the literal dance of the drive home.
Though I live only 30 or so miles away from where I work and though I drive a freeway, my commute regularly takes anywhere between 50 and 70 minutes -- the difference being traffic, accidents, rush hour and general dingbattage. It's not as exhausting as you might think. Yes, it's the worst thing for my body: I warm up in the therapy pool or at home or in the gym and then have to stuff my body into the awkward angles of my car and sit still. Same deal for the way home. After hours of rehearsal, I need a hot bath and stretching; being jammed up in a vehicle is not what you think you would need.
Some drivers I know play games with themselves -- how few times do you have to brake? Can you keep your chosen constant speed? Any constant speed? That's not me.
I like it because I am invisible on the freeway (or like to think that I am). I have a chosen and preferred speed, yes, but as much as I like to drive it, I mostly prefer to make my car as much like the others on the road as possible. I try never to drive with open space ahead of me. I prefer to be a corps de ballet dancer on the road. I slip into the traffic, choose my following distance, and settle into being just one of a constant stream of commuters. I seek; I desire not to stand out.
My invisibility is a fiction, of course, my "crime" driving while black is somewhat mitigated by my gender. But I am nonetheless visible through the windows of my car. My disability may also be visible: I have a disability related plate and my car usually sports wheels and wheelchairs that poke up at odd angles. Nonetheless, I take pride in my skills of being able to "sense" a slowdown, a lane intrusion, a hiccup, a .... It's the closest I get to being in a crowd without the horror of actually being in a crowd and being subject to/surrounded by crowd mentality.
I need to be invisible after a day of dancing. Even in rehearsal, I feel exposed and vulnerable. The movement works its magic on us; the choreographers take, take, take, shape, push, occasionally nurture, but mainly take and push. And the cycle continues. Six hours later, I float onto the Interstate; the rhythm and music are set by the traffic; I don't drive to the beat of my own drum. I do what I am told; I vanish in the crowd. There's a kind of mental recuperation that I need and seek as an invisible commute dancer. Only then, do I feel whole enough to arrive at home and begin to settle in as human.
There's a slight irony to this post. It's taken a couple of days to finish, but as I was driving to work just after having started it, I realized there was with not enough traffic on the road. There was a speed trap; the cop didn't pick me up, but he did point his big old radar gun right at me as I drove on past. He had an odd expression on his face. But then, so did I: I was doing face warm up and vocal warm up exercises. I can't imagine what he thought, as I sped (not too literally, I hope, past). For a second, the myth of invisibility, the very illusion I was writing about here, popped.
I was driving to my own music; a soloist, not a corps dancer. And boy, was I exposed.
Though I live only 30 or so miles away from where I work and though I drive a freeway, my commute regularly takes anywhere between 50 and 70 minutes -- the difference being traffic, accidents, rush hour and general dingbattage. It's not as exhausting as you might think. Yes, it's the worst thing for my body: I warm up in the therapy pool or at home or in the gym and then have to stuff my body into the awkward angles of my car and sit still. Same deal for the way home. After hours of rehearsal, I need a hot bath and stretching; being jammed up in a vehicle is not what you think you would need.
Some drivers I know play games with themselves -- how few times do you have to brake? Can you keep your chosen constant speed? Any constant speed? That's not me.
I like it because I am invisible on the freeway (or like to think that I am). I have a chosen and preferred speed, yes, but as much as I like to drive it, I mostly prefer to make my car as much like the others on the road as possible. I try never to drive with open space ahead of me. I prefer to be a corps de ballet dancer on the road. I slip into the traffic, choose my following distance, and settle into being just one of a constant stream of commuters. I seek; I desire not to stand out.
My invisibility is a fiction, of course, my "crime" driving while black is somewhat mitigated by my gender. But I am nonetheless visible through the windows of my car. My disability may also be visible: I have a disability related plate and my car usually sports wheels and wheelchairs that poke up at odd angles. Nonetheless, I take pride in my skills of being able to "sense" a slowdown, a lane intrusion, a hiccup, a .... It's the closest I get to being in a crowd without the horror of actually being in a crowd and being subject to/surrounded by crowd mentality.
I need to be invisible after a day of dancing. Even in rehearsal, I feel exposed and vulnerable. The movement works its magic on us; the choreographers take, take, take, shape, push, occasionally nurture, but mainly take and push. And the cycle continues. Six hours later, I float onto the Interstate; the rhythm and music are set by the traffic; I don't drive to the beat of my own drum. I do what I am told; I vanish in the crowd. There's a kind of mental recuperation that I need and seek as an invisible commute dancer. Only then, do I feel whole enough to arrive at home and begin to settle in as human.
There's a slight irony to this post. It's taken a couple of days to finish, but as I was driving to work just after having started it, I realized there was with not enough traffic on the road. There was a speed trap; the cop didn't pick me up, but he did point his big old radar gun right at me as I drove on past. He had an odd expression on his face. But then, so did I: I was doing face warm up and vocal warm up exercises. I can't imagine what he thought, as I sped (not too literally, I hope, past). For a second, the myth of invisibility, the very illusion I was writing about here, popped.
I was driving to my own music; a soloist, not a corps dancer. And boy, was I exposed.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Doing and Being
Our home season performances will start soon -- in the next weeks. I feel an intense focus begin to settle into my life. You could, I suppose, call it closing down, but I prefer to think of it as the creation of a part tunnel, part bubble like existence in which I will dwell until we are done.
It's kind of like nesting in preparation for a new birth; I've begun ordering. Bills, paperwork, mail, junk: processed, sorted, ordered and tidied. My clothes are clean and mostly put away (yes, usually, things are more scattered). My favourite foods have appeared; my diet has more protein and less fat in it (though, oddly, ice cream, french fries, biscuits, and cheese featured a lot this weekend). I'm trying to go to bed, even if I can't sleep. I'm resting when I am at home and not making a lot of commitments to go out and do stuff. I'm beginning to get into a routine which I know will carry me through the next weeks. It's just as well because, dammit, I'm tired.
I'm tired. That's why I haven't been blogging as often as I would like. We've been rehearsing up to 6 hours a day, five days a week since mid-August. Then, there's the commute. And we've done two major touring engagements. I'm so tired that I have neither mental nor physical energy at the end of the day; I come home, flop on the couch, eat whatever Wizard puts in front of me, and lie there procrastinating the moment when I have to heat, stretch, ice, or whatever. I slop around in bed until I fall asleep and then when I wake up the routine begins again. I'm beginning to feel it though. I want to stay at home and sleep; my body needs at least a week of rest and light, recuperative movement.
The new piece is staggering. I've never done anything like it or felt anything like it (except when watching work by this particular choreographer). I wrote about the power and emotion of last year's premiere here and here. I wrote about how it made me into a character, my responsibilities to my character, the moment that makes me want to cry, the visceral emotionality that is so deeply present. I wrote about the piece the year before that here and here. I talked a little about the risks of a too easy identification between my character on stage and my person -- I was concerned about the risks and the exposure. These were and are tough pieces -- they remain in our touring repertory -- but dancing in them has not prepared me for the piece this year.
In some ways, it would be easier -- perhaps because it is more familiar -- to be performing more conventional modern dance. You know, the kind where the movement is clearly delineated into a phrase that has been set, shaped, and directed by a choreographer. As a dancer, my job is to move through this movement in such a way that it communicates with the audience. I'm the instrument through which the audience encounters whatever they are drawn to in the dance. In the new piece, I don't so much dance through the movement; I create a world. Boom! An image, a tableau, an interaction. Boom! Another one. It extends this time, deeper, deeper, deeper. I am not doing; I am being. Each movement is part of a deeply meditative practice. So while I am using everything I know about my body and my technique, I am also using my mind so much more.
This intensity of being gives the piece its depth. I am overwhelmed and honoured to be performing in it.
It's kind of like nesting in preparation for a new birth; I've begun ordering. Bills, paperwork, mail, junk: processed, sorted, ordered and tidied. My clothes are clean and mostly put away (yes, usually, things are more scattered). My favourite foods have appeared; my diet has more protein and less fat in it (though, oddly, ice cream, french fries, biscuits, and cheese featured a lot this weekend). I'm trying to go to bed, even if I can't sleep. I'm resting when I am at home and not making a lot of commitments to go out and do stuff. I'm beginning to get into a routine which I know will carry me through the next weeks. It's just as well because, dammit, I'm tired.
I'm tired. That's why I haven't been blogging as often as I would like. We've been rehearsing up to 6 hours a day, five days a week since mid-August. Then, there's the commute. And we've done two major touring engagements. I'm so tired that I have neither mental nor physical energy at the end of the day; I come home, flop on the couch, eat whatever Wizard puts in front of me, and lie there procrastinating the moment when I have to heat, stretch, ice, or whatever. I slop around in bed until I fall asleep and then when I wake up the routine begins again. I'm beginning to feel it though. I want to stay at home and sleep; my body needs at least a week of rest and light, recuperative movement.
The new piece is staggering. I've never done anything like it or felt anything like it (except when watching work by this particular choreographer). I wrote about the power and emotion of last year's premiere here and here. I wrote about how it made me into a character, my responsibilities to my character, the moment that makes me want to cry, the visceral emotionality that is so deeply present. I wrote about the piece the year before that here and here. I talked a little about the risks of a too easy identification between my character on stage and my person -- I was concerned about the risks and the exposure. These were and are tough pieces -- they remain in our touring repertory -- but dancing in them has not prepared me for the piece this year.
In some ways, it would be easier -- perhaps because it is more familiar -- to be performing more conventional modern dance. You know, the kind where the movement is clearly delineated into a phrase that has been set, shaped, and directed by a choreographer. As a dancer, my job is to move through this movement in such a way that it communicates with the audience. I'm the instrument through which the audience encounters whatever they are drawn to in the dance. In the new piece, I don't so much dance through the movement; I create a world. Boom! An image, a tableau, an interaction. Boom! Another one. It extends this time, deeper, deeper, deeper. I am not doing; I am being. Each movement is part of a deeply meditative practice. So while I am using everything I know about my body and my technique, I am also using my mind so much more.
This intensity of being gives the piece its depth. I am overwhelmed and honoured to be performing in it.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Day In A Tour: I
I am at home today. We don't have rehearsal; we don't have a performance. I am at home, alone. My big project for the day is to do the laundry; I've used every last piece of danceable clothing. Right now, though, I am procrastinating by blogging; I'm sitting on the deck listening to the acorns smash down to the floor and bounce on their way to the ground. This all feels good.
We returned from our last tour residency over the weekend. Ever wondered how we spend our time?
Some trips -- the really short ones -- we don't do much during the day except self-care and explore. We're free to sleep late -- and we often do. In this regard, given our at home rehearsal schedule and all of the things we do for our bodies and ourselves -- the rigours of daily life -- touring can seem like a break. We sleep late and then we have a relatively open schedule during the day. I often use this time to catch up with my body; I approach it with more care and detail than I might at home. If the hotel has a pool and hot tub, I will certainly get down there to swim and soak. Otherwise, I will look in the fitness centre for some space to do my floor work and a physioball to stretch over. Other members of the company use the exercise equipment and/or go running.
There are other things to do, too: we might go to a local art museum or a shopping area. I try and figure something out about the place that we are in. I've learned that this is an important part of touring. If I don't do it, I never feel like I've been anywhere and everywhere seems to be the same. I've taken some time to wander a couple of blocks around the hotel and to find somewhere to sit in the sun or drink coffee.
The short trips are only 2-3 days, depending on how you count them. We arrive on one day and then do our tech rehearsal on the next. Tech in a new place is always interesting. Every theater is different. I relish the first time that I roll onto the stage through the wings. I'm listening to what the space has to say. The architecture is deeply meaningful -- not just from the technical place of sightlines -- each place reveals itself in smell, light quality, colour, and spatial arrangement. When we dancers come into the theater at first, it is a work space. The tech crew are doing their thing: "leg coming in," "going dark on stage" "work lights pleeeeeeeze," "testing ...." I wonder at how we will ever be ready and at how this place will become a magical arena where no one -- neither dancer nor audience member -- knows what will happen. It's the mystery of theater and performance, yes, and it happens every time, yes. But to me that first moment is always special.
As dancers, tech rehearsal is mainly about hurry up and wait. We have to get used to the new space and that means figuring out where to be, how much room we can take up on stage, where we are in relationship to each other and the lights. The crew and our stage/production manager have to get used to each other and to us. So, we run things; we stop; we go back; we run. We set up our stuff in the dressing room, hunt down a hot water source, look for hangars for costumes, find bathrooms, work, and generally settle in. I like to figure out how "fast" the stage flooring is. Will we be mired down in sponginess or will we be going so fast that stopping will be an issue? Where are the unevennesses? Will there be unwanted roll?
And then, finally, the show.
If we don't have the remains of tech rehearsal in the afternoon, dancer call is usually around two hours before top of show. In that seemingly huge time slot, we warm up, run stuff that we need to run as a company -- the things that we need to do so that we are all feeling each other -- dancers wearing lavaliers have them put on by sound techs, we sound check, the production manager tests lights, crew test cues and props, and a bunch of stuff that I have no idea about. Wardrobe stops by to steam the costumes and talk about who needs help with which changes. There's usually a plate of snacks; we might eat some and save the rest for later. We change, put on makeup; someone usually the production manager pops by with a countdown: "hour to top of show." A chorus of voices responds, "Thank you." We head out to the stage.
Until I became a regular performer, I never really thought about what happens behind that curtain. I was used to orchestra pits or spaces in which we just walked on as musicians. It's a hive of activity. The stage crew is doing more checking -- gels in place? We're on stage warming up, running stuff, checking in with each other ... "Remember, I'm going to ..." "If you..." Finally, we get a call from the front of house staff: we need to hold. A larger than expected crowd has bought "walk-up" (non reserved tickets), and it will take a while. We hold. Then, the call for "places" comes, the lights go down, and the curtain rises (slowly and often noisily).
We returned from our last tour residency over the weekend. Ever wondered how we spend our time?
Some trips -- the really short ones -- we don't do much during the day except self-care and explore. We're free to sleep late -- and we often do. In this regard, given our at home rehearsal schedule and all of the things we do for our bodies and ourselves -- the rigours of daily life -- touring can seem like a break. We sleep late and then we have a relatively open schedule during the day. I often use this time to catch up with my body; I approach it with more care and detail than I might at home. If the hotel has a pool and hot tub, I will certainly get down there to swim and soak. Otherwise, I will look in the fitness centre for some space to do my floor work and a physioball to stretch over. Other members of the company use the exercise equipment and/or go running.
There are other things to do, too: we might go to a local art museum or a shopping area. I try and figure something out about the place that we are in. I've learned that this is an important part of touring. If I don't do it, I never feel like I've been anywhere and everywhere seems to be the same. I've taken some time to wander a couple of blocks around the hotel and to find somewhere to sit in the sun or drink coffee.
The short trips are only 2-3 days, depending on how you count them. We arrive on one day and then do our tech rehearsal on the next. Tech in a new place is always interesting. Every theater is different. I relish the first time that I roll onto the stage through the wings. I'm listening to what the space has to say. The architecture is deeply meaningful -- not just from the technical place of sightlines -- each place reveals itself in smell, light quality, colour, and spatial arrangement. When we dancers come into the theater at first, it is a work space. The tech crew are doing their thing: "leg coming in," "going dark on stage" "work lights pleeeeeeeze," "testing ...." I wonder at how we will ever be ready and at how this place will become a magical arena where no one -- neither dancer nor audience member -- knows what will happen. It's the mystery of theater and performance, yes, and it happens every time, yes. But to me that first moment is always special.
As dancers, tech rehearsal is mainly about hurry up and wait. We have to get used to the new space and that means figuring out where to be, how much room we can take up on stage, where we are in relationship to each other and the lights. The crew and our stage/production manager have to get used to each other and to us. So, we run things; we stop; we go back; we run. We set up our stuff in the dressing room, hunt down a hot water source, look for hangars for costumes, find bathrooms, work, and generally settle in. I like to figure out how "fast" the stage flooring is. Will we be mired down in sponginess or will we be going so fast that stopping will be an issue? Where are the unevennesses? Will there be unwanted roll?
And then, finally, the show.
If we don't have the remains of tech rehearsal in the afternoon, dancer call is usually around two hours before top of show. In that seemingly huge time slot, we warm up, run stuff that we need to run as a company -- the things that we need to do so that we are all feeling each other -- dancers wearing lavaliers have them put on by sound techs, we sound check, the production manager tests lights, crew test cues and props, and a bunch of stuff that I have no idea about. Wardrobe stops by to steam the costumes and talk about who needs help with which changes. There's usually a plate of snacks; we might eat some and save the rest for later. We change, put on makeup; someone usually the production manager pops by with a countdown: "hour to top of show." A chorus of voices responds, "Thank you." We head out to the stage.
Until I became a regular performer, I never really thought about what happens behind that curtain. I was used to orchestra pits or spaces in which we just walked on as musicians. It's a hive of activity. The stage crew is doing more checking -- gels in place? We're on stage warming up, running stuff, checking in with each other ... "Remember, I'm going to ..." "If you..." Finally, we get a call from the front of house staff: we need to hold. A larger than expected crowd has bought "walk-up" (non reserved tickets), and it will take a while. We hold. Then, the call for "places" comes, the lights go down, and the curtain rises (slowly and often noisily).
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Touring: Fears, Pain, and Relief
Our last touring engagement for the year begins on Sunday; we will be gone a week. And I am having an utter "princess" and body meltdown. Utter meltdown.
Body-wise, I woke up with a small tweak in my right hip flexors somewhere. Oh, no problem. Wizard fetched ice; I cooled it down. Then, I sat up and as I leaned forward, I felt my back/diaphragm spasm: so painful, so painful. Today has been spent on the roller, in hot water, on heating pads, with therabands and drugs (not that kind, though if I had had a prescription and if Prop 19 (legalize mj) passes....). Finally, nearly six hours later, I can say that the spasm has been released enough that I can eat, move, twist and turn mostly without pain.
I'm sure that the Shrink would tell me that the spasm (which was bad enough that I feared not being able to tour) is related to my emotional situation: frazzled and weepy. I'm pretty tired of travelling in general and travelling in particular to places where I suspect that I will be living out of a hotel microwave and fridge for a week. I'm tired of sharing a room. I'm tired of not my own bed. I'm tired of not shiny and not pretty. I'm tired of presenting myself -- the same things, the same jokes, the same histories and stories. I don't want to feel vulnerable and out of place any more. I'm away from my friends and support folk. I hate my suitcase, and I hate packing. That's just for starters.
I think that the travel to places that aren't my own, combined with intense work schedules (both while away and at home) and nagging stomach issues has finally caught up with me. This last one will be hard.
That said, I'm not tired of dancing, though, nor even of the pieces that we are doing. In fact, the more I perform them, the deeper I am able to go in the work. I am able to sink in with my teeth, push my body to new limits and gain new emotional and physical understanding of the choreography. I'm clinging to this happiness. This is why we go on tour; this is how it is *supposed* to be. You just have to go on tour to get there.
So, I have a plan. I have to take little bits and piece of myself with me. A sweater or two that isn't a sweatshirt that I can dance in. Some "treat" shampoo. Luxury lotion.
We are the sum of our things.
Body-wise, I woke up with a small tweak in my right hip flexors somewhere. Oh, no problem. Wizard fetched ice; I cooled it down. Then, I sat up and as I leaned forward, I felt my back/diaphragm spasm: so painful, so painful. Today has been spent on the roller, in hot water, on heating pads, with therabands and drugs (not that kind, though if I had had a prescription and if Prop 19 (legalize mj) passes....). Finally, nearly six hours later, I can say that the spasm has been released enough that I can eat, move, twist and turn mostly without pain.
I'm sure that the Shrink would tell me that the spasm (which was bad enough that I feared not being able to tour) is related to my emotional situation: frazzled and weepy. I'm pretty tired of travelling in general and travelling in particular to places where I suspect that I will be living out of a hotel microwave and fridge for a week. I'm tired of sharing a room. I'm tired of not my own bed. I'm tired of not shiny and not pretty. I'm tired of presenting myself -- the same things, the same jokes, the same histories and stories. I don't want to feel vulnerable and out of place any more. I'm away from my friends and support folk. I hate my suitcase, and I hate packing. That's just for starters.
I think that the travel to places that aren't my own, combined with intense work schedules (both while away and at home) and nagging stomach issues has finally caught up with me. This last one will be hard.
That said, I'm not tired of dancing, though, nor even of the pieces that we are doing. In fact, the more I perform them, the deeper I am able to go in the work. I am able to sink in with my teeth, push my body to new limits and gain new emotional and physical understanding of the choreography. I'm clinging to this happiness. This is why we go on tour; this is how it is *supposed* to be. You just have to go on tour to get there.
So, I have a plan. I have to take little bits and piece of myself with me. A sweater or two that isn't a sweatshirt that I can dance in. Some "treat" shampoo. Luxury lotion.
We are the sum of our things.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Spine of Steel
Earlier this week, in the first wannabe gubernatorial debate against Jerry Brown, Meg Whitman claimed that the next governor of California would need a "spine of steel." I've written a little about backbone and spine imagery here. It's only a figure of speech when politicians and others use it, but I've long been fascinated with the back and "back" words. For me, back speech has a more literal meaning and context. I keep seeing and thinking about the literal use of these words -- a kind of imagistic cartoon bubble, if you will.
Steel rods, plates, screws -- all the bits and pieces that fuse a spine together to produce a stability that is made vulnerable by its rigidity. My first thought was metaphorical: if the next governor were to have a spine of steel, she would be inflexible and thus unable to solve the state's problems. My second was literal: if she really had a spine of steel, she'd be disabled.
And that dear friends would change everything.
Steel rods, plates, screws -- all the bits and pieces that fuse a spine together to produce a stability that is made vulnerable by its rigidity. My first thought was metaphorical: if the next governor were to have a spine of steel, she would be inflexible and thus unable to solve the state's problems. My second was literal: if she really had a spine of steel, she'd be disabled.
And that dear friends would change everything.
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