The Smug Blue Rooster

Last night I met a beautiful Spaniard. Santiago was his name, and I shall never forget his eyes: dark, mysterious- and wide with fear and surprise.

You see I- uh- well... I threw a shoe at him.

It was an accident! I was dancing with the tall red-bearded fellow who always lifts me in the air when we swing, and my shoes kept falling off. I had 2 1/2 beats between my do-si-do and balance-and-swing. I'd planned it during the last allemande: in the next free moment I would gently kick off my shoes to the side of the set and dance the rest barefoot.

No sweat.

Of course anyone who knows me knows I rarely do anything "gently." The thud with which the second shoe hit the wall (three feet from Santiago's beautiful head and about 15 feet from the other shoe) was startlingly audible over the 13 piece band, 60 dancing people's stomps, and frequent raucous "yee-haws!" As Red-Beard lifted me off the ground he laughingly remarked that he'd never had a partner try and kill anyone in the middle of a dance before.

My flush at that moment cannot be attributed entirely to the exercise.

The "kicker" was getting the shoes back. The first was in a corner by the door. The second posed more of a challenge. I made brief eye-contact with my near-victim as I bent to pick up my worn out red flat. Keren is of the oppinion that the next thing I said to Santiago-the-beautiful-spaniard qualifies as a pick-up line. I disagree. You be the judge.

"Sorry about that. You know, I promise I didn't throw a shoe at you to ask you to dance but...would you like to dance?"

That's totally not a pick-up line. Right? Right?!

So we danced. Either Mr. Beautiful-Eyes was traumatized by his near-disfigurement, he has a jealous girlfriend he doesn't want to cross, or he's just naturally very shy (hence his position in a chair in the path of my shoe). Regardless, he was quiet through the last dance, and we ended the night with a rather tame but well coordinated swing.

I laughed all the way home.

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Today I saw a terrible painting by a wonderful painter. The proportions were off, the brushstrokes haphazard, the eyes looked creepily asymmetrical, inhuman and cold, and the light was confusing. My primary reaction: inspiration. If Mary Cassatt, one of my favorite painters, can produce something like this, then I figure it's ok when my paintings are terrible.

I went to the SPEED museum with my mom today. Did you know we have a Chagall there? It's pretty cool too, with the characteristic bright yellow cow, smug blue rooster, and busty bride floating over a red and purple village clutching bright yellow and red flowers. I've never seen a Chagall in anything but books before, and I kinda expected the paint to have more texture. The strokes seemed meticulous and deliberate, not at all what I was expecting. There was also a Cezanne still life of (what else) apples, some Matisse line prints (naked women), a Monet view of a cathedral in Normandy, and a beautiful still life of peaches and raspberries that made me so hungry I had to leave. Overall a successful trip.

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Only two more days till I go to California!