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"Do you juggle?"
Not in the traditional sense. I do manipulate objects, but not balls and clubs. I spin a little poi, or rather I spin MEGA poi, a little. Best when performed to music, and also very effective for traffic flagging at car lots and the like.
The most dramatic example of object manipulation that I practice is what I call Sky Painting or Sky Dancing.
I manipulate - what an inadequate term - while on stilts, equipped with a 20 foot long "fishing pole" to which is attached a stroboscopic ribbon up to 60 feet long.
Beset, nay, near drunk with music, I dance with my pole and ribbon. This is an interactive performance, mind you. The ribbon caresses the sky, and my audience: a cheek here, a shoulder there, a small hand. With little or no encouragement, children - and adults- reach - to reach, grasp and release the flowing colors.
The breeze is my friend, enabling spirals, figure eights, circles and more. The wind teases me as I dance over the yielding ground. Near and far, left to right, forward to caress my , yes my audience. For they are mine. The fourth wall? What wall? Backwards, dancing to prepare for my next attack, my dance, dare I say, love, covers the stage. One performer covering a circus tent of volume, air and space, emotion and imagination. The colors flow, blend, separate, rejoin as the speed and patters change. My audience, seated, leans in to experience all the better. Faces up turned, some in joy, others in dumbfounded amazement. I am exhausted. The band continues, I continue, the kids are eternal in their quest for the ribbon. I am determined to conduct the music to its finish.
Finally, the music is concluded. Drenched with sweat, my hair, hat, shirt, waist, soaked, saturated, I turn to face the crowd. Silence, more silence - I bow, the applause begins. The band leader takes the mic, and I hear: "well, we can't compete with that".
I am shocked. Competition ? No, not that. But I understand. You take a risk when you do something that is outside of your audience's vocabulary. "he was a good juggler" is how you compliment a juggler. But how do you compliment the nearly indescribable?
Later I hear "hypnotic", "mesmerizing". Soon, soon please, I hope to hear "spiritual".
"Do you spin plates?"
No, I prefer to stalk them.
Like a giant jungle cat, or your tabby, I am always wary, alert to opportunities. Searching, seeking, observing. On the look out. The ebb, the flow of the jungle's - er, festival's- occupants. The trails to and from the watering hole, the buffet line, where my prey congregates. Places of concealment, possible distractions, dangers, impediments to my quest.
For I am hungry. Deeply, urgently, hungry - for the chase!
For the best tasting hot dog, desert, ice cream cone, funnel cake, pop corn or brisket, any where, any time, is the one you track down and stalk yourself!
Ah, look! Over there: FOOD! a funnel cake on a plate! An ice cream cone, and a burrito!
Observe:
Quick, which opportunity is the best: the prey borne by the darting child, the athletic looking youth, or the lumbering, distracted adult?
Choices matter. If I pick the wrong one, the chase will be too soon over. Ah, the child spots my cleverly here to fore concealed out sized telescopic fork. I put my finger to my lips, make eye contact, and gesture, ever so slightly to her brother's funnel cake. She understands. She consents to play along. The drama begins!
Crouching like an invisible nine foot tall house cat, silently- surly, only I can hear the bells tinkling on my feet- I begin the stalk. Deftly keeping in his shadow, out of his peripheral vision, I pursue, hovering, dodging, twisting, even skipping as needed, I remain concealed. My near two foot long feet do me no favors, but I am adept. Occasionally bringing my fore finger to my lips, I signal my audience for cooperation. For we are all part of this drama of life and death!
I close in. My stomach is hungry. I rub, my hand circling.
My mouth involuntarily is opening and closing, as if taking bites of the funnel cake. My senses real: the sweet, greasy, aromatic funnel cake calls to me. My self discipline crumbles, I moan.
I am discovered!
Graciously he offers me some cake. A piece, perhaps is all he has in mind. Perhaps even a generous piece.
Instead I deftly take the entire plate from him. I smile. I thank him profusely, over and over again for his generosity, his understanding. Breaking off a small bite of cake, I offer it to him. He takes it, swallows, perhaps in confusion and realization: The trickster clown has taken advantage of his generosity and trusting nature!
I explain the culinary facts of life to him: The best tasting treat is the one you stalk yourself! He smiles. Laughs even. I return his funnel cake to him, after perhaps reserving a bit for myself. For even the clown deserves an award for a job well done!
I look about. Ah, over there . . .
web page
Not in the traditional sense. I do manipulate objects, but not balls and clubs. I spin a little poi, or rather I spin MEGA poi, a little. Best when performed to music, and also very effective for traffic flagging at car lots and the like.
The most dramatic example of object manipulation that I practice is what I call Sky Painting or Sky Dancing.
I manipulate - what an inadequate term - while on stilts, equipped with a 20 foot long "fishing pole" to which is attached a stroboscopic ribbon up to 60 feet long.
Beset, nay, near drunk with music, I dance with my pole and ribbon. This is an interactive performance, mind you. The ribbon caresses the sky, and my audience: a cheek here, a shoulder there, a small hand. With little or no encouragement, children - and adults- reach - to reach, grasp and release the flowing colors.
The breeze is my friend, enabling spirals, figure eights, circles and more. The wind teases me as I dance over the yielding ground. Near and far, left to right, forward to caress my , yes my audience. For they are mine. The fourth wall? What wall? Backwards, dancing to prepare for my next attack, my dance, dare I say, love, covers the stage. One performer covering a circus tent of volume, air and space, emotion and imagination. The colors flow, blend, separate, rejoin as the speed and patters change. My audience, seated, leans in to experience all the better. Faces up turned, some in joy, others in dumbfounded amazement. I am exhausted. The band continues, I continue, the kids are eternal in their quest for the ribbon. I am determined to conduct the music to its finish.
Finally, the music is concluded. Drenched with sweat, my hair, hat, shirt, waist, soaked, saturated, I turn to face the crowd. Silence, more silence - I bow, the applause begins. The band leader takes the mic, and I hear: "well, we can't compete with that".
I am shocked. Competition ? No, not that. But I understand. You take a risk when you do something that is outside of your audience's vocabulary. "he was a good juggler" is how you compliment a juggler. But how do you compliment the nearly indescribable?
Later I hear "hypnotic", "mesmerizing". Soon, soon please, I hope to hear "spiritual".
"Do you spin plates?"
No, I prefer to stalk them.
Like a giant jungle cat, or your tabby, I am always wary, alert to opportunities. Searching, seeking, observing. On the look out. The ebb, the flow of the jungle's - er, festival's- occupants. The trails to and from the watering hole, the buffet line, where my prey congregates. Places of concealment, possible distractions, dangers, impediments to my quest.
For I am hungry. Deeply, urgently, hungry - for the chase!
For the best tasting hot dog, desert, ice cream cone, funnel cake, pop corn or brisket, any where, any time, is the one you track down and stalk yourself!
Ah, look! Over there: FOOD! a funnel cake on a plate! An ice cream cone, and a burrito!
Observe:
Quick, which opportunity is the best: the prey borne by the darting child, the athletic looking youth, or the lumbering, distracted adult?
Choices matter. If I pick the wrong one, the chase will be too soon over. Ah, the child spots my cleverly here to fore concealed out sized telescopic fork. I put my finger to my lips, make eye contact, and gesture, ever so slightly to her brother's funnel cake. She understands. She consents to play along. The drama begins!
Crouching like an invisible nine foot tall house cat, silently- surly, only I can hear the bells tinkling on my feet- I begin the stalk. Deftly keeping in his shadow, out of his peripheral vision, I pursue, hovering, dodging, twisting, even skipping as needed, I remain concealed. My near two foot long feet do me no favors, but I am adept. Occasionally bringing my fore finger to my lips, I signal my audience for cooperation. For we are all part of this drama of life and death!
I close in. My stomach is hungry. I rub, my hand circling.
My mouth involuntarily is opening and closing, as if taking bites of the funnel cake. My senses real: the sweet, greasy, aromatic funnel cake calls to me. My self discipline crumbles, I moan.
I am discovered!
Graciously he offers me some cake. A piece, perhaps is all he has in mind. Perhaps even a generous piece.
Instead I deftly take the entire plate from him. I smile. I thank him profusely, over and over again for his generosity, his understanding. Breaking off a small bite of cake, I offer it to him. He takes it, swallows, perhaps in confusion and realization: The trickster clown has taken advantage of his generosity and trusting nature!
I explain the culinary facts of life to him: The best tasting treat is the one you stalk yourself! He smiles. Laughs even. I return his funnel cake to him, after perhaps reserving a bit for myself. For even the clown deserves an award for a job well done!
I look about. Ah, over there . . .
web page
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