Just an old-fashioned girl

I was at a tribal dance residential course, at the weekend. I mostly dance and teach in an Egyptian cabaret style, but have become seduced by the fusion of belly dance, flamenco, ( any style that comes to hand, really,) that is Tribal Style (or American Tribal Style, if you want to follow one particular school of dance,). I eagerly signed up to a class that promised to give my Tribal a new edge of 'Hip Hip' attitude, to be drilled, for 1 and 1/2 hours by a charming sadist (or was she an optimist? Half my age, 3/4 my height, and 10 times my stamina.) whose 'warm up' left most of us for dead, never mind her 'little combinations'...
She said. 'We'll do the worm. Just imagine you are climbing into a tight tunnel...' She demonstrated. We gamely tried to follow her. Unfortunately, I seemed to get stuck in mine, and had to engage the emergency services to pull me out. That, though, was fortunate for the lady behind me, who needed resuscitation, after an enthusiastic attempt to 'pop'.
I'm just glad she didn't.
My point being, I suppose, that, in my mind, I'm throwing some shapes on the floor, with the best of them. In reality, I'm throwing out my back on the floor, in agony.
I can, really, actually, 'lock' without appearing to be having a seizure, but won't be appearing on a bit of lino, anywhere near you, soon.

I had a dream- woke up with the sensation there, behind my eye lids:
In an exhibition; a woman,a critic, I think, or a journalist, was standing in front of my work.
Her face was very close to mine. She was waiting for me to finish what I was saying- moaning about- I presume, arty things.
She said' But, That's what I love about your work, it has relevence!'
I say 'But it has no relevence.'
I am awake.
Dreams sometimes have a magical quality to them, I think; Like being a visitor to some world, with only a 2 zone pass; Places, images, symbols remain mysterious, often seductively so, and i will ponder on a dream for days...
And sometimes they are akin to being told, by a stranger, that your skirt is tucked into the back of your knickers.

First Post

Hello, my name is Sarah; this is my first blog- Okay, not exactly my first; My really, really first was on myspace, and...well, Ididn't enjoy it very much. I don't like to talk about it. Oh, really? Well, okay- I'll tell you:

I set up my own page (lorluvaduck, little old me?) to promote myself as a painter, a dancer, and general all round finger-on-the-pulse networking creative. Without really checking out the 'scene' I joined the tens (hundreds?) of thousands of profilers, who all seemed so profficient at updating, networking...generally being hyperactive in cyberspace.

I agonised for days over a photo, then had to go and have a little lie down, after seeing myself, there, on my little screen, and knowing anyone, ANYONE could go look, and comment...I took my photo off my home page. Baby steps, Sarah.

I was not ready to jostle with the legions of razor-fringed, pouting babes, out there- this was supposed to be a serious attempt to establish my profile as a serious, proffessional painter/teacher of dance. All I seemed to have succeeded in doing, so far, was establish myspace as my untamed monster, fit to air my most groomed hang-ups, rather than promoting my bestest features.

Terri liked me, so did Toni, and Trish. Paul wanted my to listen to his songs, so did 'Bad Blister', or somesuch.

I thanked them all.

Like the party guest in the kitchen, my profile hovers by the crisps, saying 'Hi' to anyone who wanders in, towards the fridge. Folk say 'Hi!' Grab a beer, and go and join the party; which, it seems, (by the flashing, throbbing, disco-strangeness of each profile I'm invited to read,) going on in another room.

Be gentle, dear reader, make comment- I can take literary critisism, but let this myspace refugee in!