Merry Sherri

For the last several days I’ve been in the Kansas City area with my pregnant daughter, Kitten. She’s been quite sick and so she and my “still in the oven” grandchild have taken top priority.  No matter how old your child, when THEY are not OK, YOU are not OK.

Back at home, a few hours away from here, presents are scattered around my bedroom still unwrapped. I haven’t bought Christmas groceries. I haven’t done the Christmas prep. The Christmas work. The Christmas shizzle.

And I don’t much give a slutty Tiger, either.

So long as Kitten gets better and that tiny lime-sized angel who has taken up residence in her baby maker is unharmed, I can and will appreciate this holiday as though it were picture perfect.

Yes, we may eat instant oatmeal instead of a Christmas goose, convenience store cheese from a pump instead of figgy pudding and sing Inagaddadavida instead of Jingle Them Bells.

It’s true that my stockings aren’t hung anywhere with care. It’s also true that the odds of my suddenly experiencing tremendous stocking hanging feelings of care are slim to none.

I’m going to have a house full of people sleeping over in my tiny ghetto house, so I’m not feeling “nestled snug in their beds” is as accurate as perhaps “crammed in like festive sardines.”

There are no mother trucking candy canes, but there is Mr. Man’s cane, so maybe Santa can get on board with it.  If he won’t allow the substitution of cane for cane,  it’s strictly because of that bad break-up we had in ‘92 and has nothing to do with cane envy.

I was drunk and Rudolph was lonely and get the hell over it already.

I have baked no Christmas cookies, formulated no wassail, nor fruited up any cakes.

In short, the look and smell of Christmas will be absent from the OCD Chick house. Sad as that is in some ways, there is no question in my mind the FEEL of Christmas will be so heavy in the air, it’ll stick to the very walls. We’ll open our small number of presents and we’ll laugh and by freaking-sweetened-condensed-milk- fake-fudge, we will carve the roast beast.

Merry Christmas to each of y’all. I love you terrible.

Disclaimer! Erma Does Not Live Here will not be held responsible for Sher’s misuse of the following words as she has NO idea what the hell they mean: Wassail, figgy pudding, slutty Tiger.

PawPaw C.J.

For weeks prior to the 25th, my PawPaw would spend every available non-cotton-mill-working moment stapling lights to the house. They’d be on top of the house, on the side of the house, around the front porch, and if he still had a single strand of brightly colored orbs left, by jiminy something was getting lit up.

When he wasn’t going about the business of stapling, we’d spend hours upon hours, my PawPaw and me, talking about Christmas. I’d tell him in detail what I wanted Santa to bring me and he’d tell me in detail how his plan to finally catch that fat man in the red suit was all coming together once and for all. “When ‘ern I git my hands on him, I’m gonna take over and I’ll be the richest man that ever were.”

Even up until I was practically grown, his Santa nabbing plans seemed to me to possess all the necessary elements for success.  He knew his target well and he was all up in his head. If anybody could catch Santa, it was gonna be my PawPaw. While I felt some sadness for all the other little children around the world who would certainly be sad at not finding anything under the tree, I could never really contain my selfish delight as I knew my primo status as the apple of PawPaw’s eye ensured I would get to lay my hands on the whole pile of loot for myself.

Being a good Southern Baptist girl, it did cross my mind a time or two that Jesus might not look too favorably on me for being so selfish. That’s why I’d usually toss in a disclaimer meant strictly for Jesus’ ears. “PawPaw, if you catch him this year, I thank we should still take presents to all the other kids anyway.”

On the other hand, the public-North-Carolina-elementary-school educated side of me said if someone of Santa’s considerable training and experience could be nabbed by a chain-smoking, coffee-swilling, PawPaw, surely I could not be held responsible in this life or the next.  Just in case this kind of thing was covered in the Book of Revelation though, I felt it best not to take chances.

I have to say, if my sense of humor came from somewhere along the path of my blood line, it was from C.J. Willis. He was a clown in every sense of the word. He was quite handsome, too, my PawPaw. He kept his blond hair swept straight back  and he fancied himself a snazzy dresser.  He enjoyed looking good and smelling even better.  I can still picture him, getting so tickled about something, that tears would pour down his face and he’d shake all over. Lord I loved that about him.

“Why you so purty, PawPaw?” He loved for me to ask and so it became a running joke between us.

He’d flash those teeth, clench his Lucky Strike tight in his teeth and hold up his favorite coffee cup, stained from years of use, “Coffee makes you purty. If you wanna be purty like me, you need to learn to drank coffee.” He especially loved it when I’d ask him that question in front of company.

“How you gonna do it this year, PawPaw?”

“Let me tell you something, Honey,” he’d say. “That old man is gonna come down that chimney this year expecting to find cookies and when he does, Ima gonna jump right out at him, slap my hands around his belt and hang on fer dear life. I don’t aim to turn him loose until he hands it over. Ever last bit of it. Won’t we be fine with that sled parked out there in the yard?”

I thought to myself we surely would be fine. The nicest thing I’d ever seen parked in front was the long, black, shiny, hearse that would carry our people home after they’d passed away. I was almost positive the sleigh would be bigger.

Year after year, no matter that I wasn’t seven years old any more, PawPaw and I would spend countless hours talking about kidnapping Santa Claus and what in the big, wide, world we were going to do with all those presents. MawMaw would sit smoking and listening and every now and again, if she felt like PawPaw was getting too carried away, she’d shake her head and say, “Daddy.”

MawMaw Rosie & Me

“What is it, Mother?” That’s what he called her. She was Mother, or if he was willing to risk her pretend scoffing, it was My Sweetheart. He was Daddy. “Can’t a man sit in his own living room and plan to kidnap Santa Claus with his grandbaby?” She didn’t argue. Anything that entertained Sherri Lynn was always OK.  I was a princess in their eyes, and although we never had much money, come Christmas time they’d break the bank on my behalf.  Every candy, cookie, toy, shiny tinselly thing was rolled out for me.  Of course there were other grandkids, but no one in the family had any doubt about what was what.

The last Christmas I spent  in my PawPaw’s house I was eighteen years old and it was the only Christmas we didn’t plot or plan. On December 10th, fourteen days before their 50th wedding anniversary, My Sweetheart went home to be with Jesus – as C.J. would say if he were telling this story.  I lived with them by this time, and so it was just the two of us who came home from the business of burying MawMaw to live in a house that still smelled of the carnations in funeral arrangements instead of Christmas pies and cakes.

I didn’t know what to do, so I laid down where she had always slept and I hoped to drift away to wherever it was she’d gone. The pain in the house seemed almost loud to me.

Three or four days before Christmas I heard the front screen door slam and the sound of something being dragged across the floor. I drug myself to my feet and when I walked in the front room, I saw PawPaw pulling behind him a cedar tree he’d chopped down that was so big it just almost didn’t fit through the door.

“Your MawMaw would not rest if she thought her baby did not have a Christmas tree,” he said through tears. “You know how much she loved you.”

Christmas was rough that year and the year after and truly, for several years to come. She’s been gone for many, many years now and still this time of year always brings memories of her.  I wear her Poinsettia apron on Christmas Day – even though I’m not 1/100th of the cook she was.

I have no doubt that if I live to be one-hundred years old, I’ll never have another gift given to me that was so much from the heart as that one. I was truly, truly blessed to have had such a precious, pure, love in my life.

Merry Christmas C.J. & Rosie. I love you.

Kitten

Dear My Beautiful Kids: Kitten & Big Dog (and My Son-in-Law Guy and My Unborn Grandchild Whom I Am Now Calling Baby Fetus Britches),

I know that you are used to receiving traditional Christmas gifts from me, and that if I do say so myself, they always rock in a big way. Like remember that one time I got you a tiny beer keg thingie, Guy? What about that sweet iPod, Big Dog? And Kitten, you know how Mama do you right every year with the clothes and the shoes and the whatnot.

This year though, Mama has been busy. What with doing that thing I do and feeling that way I feel and then of course, my working so hard at getting this whole tap dancing business off the ground – I have not had time to shop.

Now with Christmas merely days away, I can either drag myself to the mall and try to purchase some sub-par, last minute gifts, OR, I can do what our North Carolina ancestors did during Christmases long, long ago. I can give you something that really matters. Something from the heart. Something you won’t have to take back to the store on the 26th.

Big Dog

A poem. A festive Christmas poem.

Once upon a Christmas cold and snowy…

Mama didn’t buy presents when she should have and so was gonna have to go the the mall at the last minute

And she didn’t wanna do that because she hates malls and hates mall people and those mall germs could kill a bitch

So she decided just to write a poem, print 4 copies of it, wrap it in some Christmas paper, and slap a nasty ass bow on it

Except she forgot she can’t rhyme and she hates poems, but hey – it’s the thought that counts – and I thought I could pull this off.

Merry Christmas kids. Please don’t put me in a nursing home.

After a long hiatus while I finished up my semester (my second-last at Penn!) I’m back at eartotheground.

On Sunday, I had the privilege of playing in my synagogue’s klezmer band for the début performance of the Philadelphia sher at our annual Chanukah party.  The sher is a traditional Eastern European/Ashkenazi Jewish social dance in 2/4 time for four couples, with an accompanying set of tunes. Eastern European Jews who came to the United States brought it with them, and by the early twentieth century, Philadelphia had its own characteristic sher medley, as did New York and other major cities.

The sher was hugely popular at weddings and other social events and quickly became beloved by the Philadelphia Jewish community and beyond, eventually becoming the preeminent American sher medley. Unfortunately, widespread performance of the sher died out by the 1960s due to the pressures of Israeli music and dance, assimilation and suburbanization. It is kept alive in klezmer circles at events like KlezKamp, but not often performed at everyday parties and events.

Over the last few months, the Simcha Band, Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann and the Religious Life Committee of Kol Tzedek, and I put together a grant application to the Jewish Federation of Greater Philadelphia’s Kehillah of Center City to fund an exciting community-based project built around the sher–and we received $2200 from them for this project and a concurrent prayer leader training program!

Sherri Cohen, the Simcha Band’s trombonist, and I have been taking lessons with the eminent klezmer trumpeter Susan Watts, whose family has deep roots in Philadelphia’s Jewish music scene, and learning the sher.  Naomi Segal, a member of Kol Tzedek, re-learned the sher (which she danced as a kid growing up in Philly) and taught it to the congregation on Sunday.  People had a great time dancing it and the band (featuring Susan and her mom, fantastic drummer Elaine Hoffman Watts) certainly had a great time playing it.

Right now we’re recruiting volunteers from Kol Tzedek, the Philly Jewish community, and beyond to help with this project.  Community members can get involved in any number of ways:

• Coming to Kol Tzedek events where we will be performing the sher (TBA here, or if you get in touch with me)
• Learning how to perform it with the Simcha Band
• Volunteering to learn the dance and teach it to others in the area
• Getting involved in the historical and archival research on the sher and on klezmer in Philly that I’ll be conducting beginning next month
• Conducting oral interviews about Philly’s Jewish music scene with members of the Philly Jewish community
• Designing the final web archive, where we will be storing educational materials, video, audio, sheet music and historical and ethnographic information about the sher

By April, we hope to have:

• Published (online and in hard copy) the sher music, recordings, performance notes, video of events at which it was performed, instructional video, and a history/ethnography of the Philadelphia sher.
• Performed and taught the Philadelphia sher medley at area Jewish events and simchas, along with a short historical presentation.
• Established a foothold for the Philly sher as a meaningful, living, breathing part of Philadelphia Jewish life, and self-sustaining methods for its transmission to future generations of musicians, dancers and partygoers.

There might also be a documentary film somewhere in there, depending on how things go.  Stay tuned for the launch of the official Philadelphia Sher Project blog within the next week or so, with photos, video and audio of this year’s Chanukah festivities!  Drop me an email or comment here if you want to get involved with this project at any level.

Together with Henk Borgdorff, Sher Doruff, Scott deLahunta, Marijke Hogenboom, Evodie Koolstra, Sanne Kersten, Karen Lancel, Jan-Phillipp Possman, Pim van den Wijngaard, David Weber-Krebs.

]

I haven’t been in the very best of moods recently upon receiving some unpleasant news from my lecturers. We had our assesments not very long ago, well specifically about a month ago, and was told to re-submit my studio module as the panel felt the idea I was trying to communicate visually was not clear enough. It’s really funny at how I’m able to communicate the idea in words but hardly ever in my design. It’s also sad because I’ve never had a problem such as this in the whole history of my study in lasalle. The classmates have changed, the lecturers have changed and everything has become such an unconducive environment for learning. It’s been really hard for me to cope and I now realise why most didn’t continue with the degree.

Upon the resubmission, we were told that we were to get our results back the following week on the portalk, but as usualy we had some insensitive lecturers who refused to put the results up keeping us in anxiety. The next morning I received an email from my class rep, and I knew it wasnt something to be happy about. I couldn’t have been more correct. There were a list of names of some people to meet with the subject head the next morning, which was to be specific, just yesterday. It was not something I was looking forward to at all. As we entered the room, sat down, she spoke to us and said how me and another girl are neither in a bad nor good situation either. We had done ok to meet the credits for the essay module but we had a failure to meet the studio aspect of the study. This was 80 percent of the total credits for semester one, and clearer a lot more than the 20 percent for the theory module. With that said she told us we had an option of either coming back next year to repeat the whole year and maybe do slightly bettter to get the honours, or continue with the next semester and graduate with a non-honours degree, so in other words just a General degree.

I was speechless for a bit and just asked as many questions as I wanted to get the answers to. I got all my answers and all that’s now left are the decisions to be made. I spoke to a couple of people even a lecturer who taught me in my foundation year, adn everyone said to continue with it, because after all what matters at the end of the day is a curriculum vitae, work experience, and above all the ability to work. The degree or the certificate is just the incentive.

Inspite of everyone cheering me up and telling me not to worry, I still can’t get over the fact that I would attend the convocation next year graduating with a general dgree with an honours course and how everyone elses’ name will be called out as an honours but mine as an ordinary. I don’t think it’s an achivement anymore, I don’t think there’s a need for me to attend the convocation now anymore. I don’t know really.

My prayer for the year 2010, is to be able to work a lot harder and pray that the in his eyes, I’m worthy of the honours, and then hopefully put my appeal through. I can only hope for the best.

Sher.

Ry:  What are you doing?

Sher:  I’m shopping for a black dress.

Where are you shopping?

I don’t wanna tell you. It’s not Wal-Mart though.

Auto-Zone?

Yes. Aut0-Zone.  They’re sold out of black dresses.

Jack Allen, Mommy would appreciate it if you would please put your gun down.

Did you just tell your three-year old to put his gun down?

I did. Is that bad?

No. It’s a reasonable thing for a mother to ask.

Well I’m trying to get on the freeway and his gun is distracting me. Jack Allen, Mommy really needs to concentrate on her driving. Please put the gun down now.

That’s not how you say it, Ry. You sound like a goddamn flight attendant. Say it like this: JACK ALLEN EITHER PUT THAT GUN DOWN OR SO HELP ME GOD I AM GOING TO THROW IT OUT THE WINDOW. And not for nothing, you’re on the PHONE. Let’s set an example here.

I know, right?

I have to go. I am trying to back up onto a busy road and I almost had a head on crash.

If you’re backing up, it would be a back on crash. Jeez Sher. Don’t be stupid.

I love you.

I love you, too.

” मन की ओस की गर्म बुँदे “

सच कहते हैं
जिंदगी के फैसले
कभी जंग से नहीं होते।
पर्दे के पीछे
तय हो जाते फैसले ले देकर
कटवाते है वही सिर अपना
जो इससे बेखबर होते।
कहीं गद्दारी तो
कही वफदारी बिक जाती है
दौलत और शौहरत वह शय है
जो ईमान भी खरीद लाती है
खून खराबे के आदी होते कायर
बहादुर तो जमाने के साथ
बांटकर खाने वाले होते।
जिंदगी की जंग जीतते हैं वही लोग
जो जमाने का दिल जीत चुके होते।
———-
इंसान के चेहरे बदल जाते हैं
नहीं बदलती चाल।
खून खराबा करने वाले
हाथ बदल जाते हैं
वही रहती तलवार और ढाल।

इंसान से ही उगे इंसान
संभालते उसका खानदान
जमाने को काबू करने का मिला जिनको वरदान,
पांव हमेशा पेट की तरफ ही मुड़ता है,
दौलत से ही किस्मत का साथ जुड़ता है,
बड़े आदमी करते दिखावा
जमाने का भला करने का
मगर लूटते हैं गरीब का दान,
छोटे आदमी के हिस्से आता है अपमान,
थामे अपनी अगली पीढ़ी का झंडा
लुटेरे लूट रहे जमाने को
लगे हैं कमाने को
अपनी दौलत शौहरत देकर
अपनी औलाद में जिंदा
रहने की ख्वाहिश पाले
मौत की सोच पर लगा ताले
दौड़ जा रहे हैं इज्जतदार लोग,
लिये साथ पाप और रोग
वाह री कुदरत! तेरा कमाल।

लेखक संपादक-दीपक भारतदीप, Gwalior

————————————-

यह आलेख इस ब्लाग ‘राजलेख की हिंदी पत्रिका’ पर मूल रूप से लिखा गया है। इसके अन्य कहीं भी प्रकाशन की अनुमति नहीं है।
अन्य ब्लाग
1.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्द पत्रिका
2.दीपक भारतदीप का चिंतन
3.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्दयोग-पत्रिकालेखक संपादक-दीपक भारतदीप

हमदर्दी जताने की कला
हमें कभी नहीं आई
किसी का दर्द देखकर
मन रोया मन भर आंसु
पर आंखें दरिया न बन पाई।
शायद लोग दिमाग से सोचते हैं
इसलिये हमदर्दी के शब्द जल्दी ढूंढ लेते
दिल तक नहीं पहुंचता
दूसरे का दर्द
कर लेते हैं दिखावे में कमाई।
नहीं करना सीखा पाखंड
इसलिये दूसरे के घाव पर मरहम लगाकर भी
अपने लिये ओढ़ लेते हैं तन्हाई।
——————–
कवि, लेखक और संपादक-दीपक भारतदीप, ग्वालियर

http://anantraj.blogspot.com

——————–

यह आलेख इस ब्लाग ‘दीपक भारतदीप का चिंतन’पर मूल रूप से लिखा गया है। इसके अन्य कहीं भी प्रकाशन की अनुमति नहीं है।
अन्य ब्लाग
1.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्द पत्रिका
2.अनंत शब्दयोग
3.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्दयोग-पत्रिका
4.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्दज्ञान पत्रिका

1. 

   This has nothing to do with this post, but I think she's cool.

   Knitted penis cozy. Every year I swear I’m gonna knit all my boyfriends a penis cozy. Not like in ONE penis cozy for them all to share. They’d each get their own. I realized today that the thing that’s held me back is my inability to knit.

2. Macrame penis cozy. I can tie knots like a knot tying fool, plus there’s all that left over rope from my last wedding.
3. A kidney. I have two, but I’ve already promised to give like 83 people a kidney if they ever need it. Not for free though. I always get something in exchange. (Fries, the last piece of pie, stellar divorce representation.) This year some damn body is getting a kidney from me. Now all I have to do is lure someone into my bathtub filled with ice.
4. Sex. I know, I know. You think I surely have given away sex for Christmas at some point in my lascivious past, don’t you? In fact, I have never given away sex for Christmas. Business is business, kids. This year though, I’m feeling benevolent and whatnot. The bell ringer at Wal-Mart needs love, too.
5. 6789346 British Pounds. I just won like ten times that amount, so it’s the least I can do.
6. A fruitcake. I don’t think anyone has ever received a fruit cake from me and that makes me sad. Once I procure a bow big enough to wrap around my cousin Wendell, someone can expect a FABULOUS surprise under their tree. (Not to mention a new beehive hairdo and handmade pillow shams.)
7. Coal. I think it would be funny to give someone coal for Christmas. If that someone is Hilary Clinton and I could convince her to carry it around in her vajiminy for a couple days, we could go halfsies on the diamond that would most certainly fall from her pressure cooker AKA lady business.
8. A new car. How Oprah would it be for me to give away a brand new car? Right? Since Mr. Man can no longer work and I am the sole breadwinner – and let’s face it kids, I’m not winning that much bread – the reality is that the closest I will come to this is to give away that new car smell instead. Luckily I have a bottle. It’s nestled right between the cases of new husband smell and Eau de Desperation I keep in my closet.
9. Jacks. I used to love to play that game with my MawMaw and for some reason it’s gone out of style. They probably don’t even make it any more. Oh well. I know where I can get at least one jack and like I always say, one Jack is better than none at all.
10. Peace on Earth, good will toward men. I always have good will toward men, but I’m not sure I’ve ever given anyone peace on Earth. Unless that’s code for something sexy, and then I’m positive I’ve given at least fitty men peace on Earth. This year I’m doing it!  Since I can’t cover the entire Earth because of stupid space and stuff, I’m going to make sure I at minimum give peace on the sofa in my living room while at the very same time, having all sorts of good will toward at least one man. (Note to self: make sure to wait until Mr. Man is busy getting his do did by Wendell.)

God Bless America. %

PS: It’s almost 2 in the morning, so please ignore any and all spelling mistakes, Ryland. That part of my brain went to sleep hours ago.

गड़े मुर्दे उखड़ कर भी
इसलिये ताजा हो जाते हैं।
क्योंकि जिसे मुद्दे पर
चला चर्चा का दौर एक बार
फिर वह कभी मर नहीं पाते हैं।
जो लोग मुद्दे बनाकर
जिंदगी जीते रहे
वही उनको अमर भी बनाते हैं।
——–
नायकत्व का आकर्षण इतना
कि लोग मरों की राख से
अपना चेहरा सजाते।
एक नारा खोजकर
अपनी जुबान से वाद की तरह बजाते।
दिखावे की जिंदगी जीने की आदत
इस कदर हो गयी लोगों में
अपनी ही सच से मुंह स्वयं ही मुंह छिपाते।
—————————-
कवि,लेखक संपादक-दीपक भारतदीप,Gwalior

—————————

यह कविता/आलेख इस ब्लाग ‘दीपक भारतदीप की अभिव्यक्ति पत्रिका’ पर मूल रूप से लिखा गया है। इसके अन्य कहीं भी प्रकाशन की अनुमति नहीं है।
अन्य ब्लाग
1.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्द पत्रिका
2.दीपक भारतदीप का चिंतन
3.दीपक भारतदीप की शब्दयोग-पत्रिका

<a href=”http://kajalkumarcartoons.blogspot.com”>http://kajal.tk</a>:)
<a href=”http://kajalkumar.tk”>http://kajalkumar.tk</a>
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corset da Madame Sher

Será que erramos? Todas as janelas do prédio estão fechadas neste final de tarde, início da noite. Estamos numa das avenidas mais movimentadas da cidade de São Paulo, e – ao menos para quem vê esta antiga construção por fora – parece não há mais ninguém no endereço que temos em mãos.  Mas havia alguém ali.

Passando pela recepção do conjunto que procurávamos, a sensação inicial é que adentramos num outro tempo. O papel de parede, os móveis, a cortina, tudo parece remeter à aristocracia européia antes da Revolução Francesa. Ou – o que é mais surpreendente – ao artista que é centro de nosso trabalho agora, Ray Caesar. Não, nós não tínhamos errado. Na verdade, parecia que não poderíamos estar mais certos.

Quem nos recebeu é uma mulher de 28 anos. Seu nome é Leandra, mas preferimos chamá-la pelo apelido, Sher, que combina muito mais com tudo que está ali. O nome veio de uma abreviação de um outro apelido, relacionado à transparência, e sugere poeticamente uma combinação entre “she” e “her”. Ela tem a pele muito branca, o cabelo preto liso, roupas pretas, e um pequeno corset que desenha sua cintura.

Ali é a sede da grife dela, chamada apropriadamente de Madame Sher (um pronome de tratamento que já indica bem o universo em que estamos). É a primeira grife que fabrica corsets no Brasil, um espartilho rígido usado entre o busto e a cintura, e que é usado para modelar a cintura das mulheres.

Sher nos conta num português impecável (coerente com sua postura, seu gestual, sua roupa e seus adereços), a história do corset: desde que surgiu na história da moda, no século XVI,  até seu uso em figurinos de inspiração punk, BDSM e afins. Atualmente, no Brasil, a fama de sua loja ultrapassou os segmentos, e há clientes dos mais variados estilos.  Uma visita ao seu site já dá uma idéia da sua difusão hoje: seus corsets estão em editoriais e anúncios com Gisele Bündchen e Juliana Paes, em cantoras como Zizi Possi, em revistas como Vogue e Sexy, e em matérias para programas de TV, como o “Superpop” (de Luciana Gimenez, na Rede TV) e “A Noite é uma criança” (de Otávio Mesquita, na Band), entre outros.

Tanta difusão tende a levantar fumaça sobre alguns dos aspectos mais interessantes do corset no Brasil. Segundo Sher, quando ela começou a fabricar essa peça, muitos de seus compradores eram ligados ao universo do fetichismo (que é uma dimensão do erotismo presente em “Darkland”). Um assunto que não tem pudores em tratar, tal como ela mesma diz e mostra (para não deixar reticências sobre isso, e desfazer meias palavras diante de tabus, ela apresentou-nos um chicote de dominatrix, que guarda no armário de sua sala de recepção).

A palavra “fetichismo” originalmente tem a ver com “feitiço”, isto é, com a magia que se atribui a objetos inanimados (tal como viu Charles De Brosses no século XVIII). Num espetáculo que trata – como bem observou Alejandro Ahmed, numa conversa com a Vitrola Quântica -  de sujeitos que querem ser objetos, e objetos que querem ser sujeitos, nada mais a ver.  É isso que ele bem viu, sem dúvida, e também – tal como pretendemos ainda investigar – o fetichismo no seu sentido erótico.

Para não voar, ou adiantar demais nesse momento, basta pensar que o erotismo pode ter uma íntima ligação com um corset: numa relação sado-masoquista, por exemplo, o dominador pode punir seu submisso com o uso de uma peça como essas, assim como também pode resolver usá-la, ainda que seja por puro ornamento. Um teatro de poder e sexo, que pode envolver a modificação do corpo.

Aliás, a relação entre corpo e corset, como lembra Sher, é levada quase ao limite numa outra prática, o “tight lacing”. A primeira vez que ouvi falar disso foi numa entrevista que fiz anos atrás com Karina Raquel, a Fascinatrix, que estrela pocket shows burlescos inspirados nas pin ups, nos anos 40, em Dita Von Teese, e muito mais.

Em linhas gerais, o “tight lacing” é a prática de usar corsets por um longo período, com o objetivo de curvar em definitivo as costelas flutuantes, e reduzir a cintura. Uma prática instigante para refletir sobre as influências do corpo sobre a moda, e da moda sobre o corpo, que são algumas das questões da Vitrola Quântica.

imagem retirada da internet

As bailarinas da companhia já haviam usado o corset em alguns ensaios, e também num primeiro vídeo gravado para o Rumos Itaú, por sugestão da estilista Karlla Girotto, responsável pelo figurino de “Darkland”. Como já dissemos, ela já tinha utilizado esta peça no seu desfile inspirado em Ray Caesar, e foi graças a ela que chegamos à grife que visitamos.

No seu atelier, Sher tirou as medidas das bailarinas – cujas cinturas já são desenhadas pela própria dança – e apertou-as com vários modelos de corset. Dentro de alguns dias, elas vão receber novos corsets, desenhados especialmente para elas pela própria Karlla, e confeccionados na Madame Sher.

Assim, mais um mundo de investigação se abre para o movimento em “Darkland”. Com as cinturas apertadas, as bailarinas descobrem novos percursos, novas sensações, novas “lands” dentro e fora de si mesmas.

Escrito por

Daniel Augusto

(Ustozim Ravshan Xizirga)

Zim-ziyo yo’llarda shamchiroq bo’lib,
Bilim ummoniga bir qirg’oq bo’lib,
Nurli sohillarga tik so’qmoq bo’lib
Hayotga boshladi, aziz Ustozim.

Qo’limga tutqazdi ilm kalitin,
O’qishga undadi hayotning xatin.
Yashashga ishonchim yaratib butun
Hayotga boshladi, aziz Ustozim.

Yangi olamlarga intildim shitob,
Qo’limda kitobim aylagach xitob.
Yangi dunyoimga beraman hisob:
Hayotga boshladi, aziz Ustozim

Qalbimning mudragan ko’zlarin ochib,
Yo’limga yo’lboshchi ziyoni sochib,
Ustozim borlig’i yurakka ko’chib
Hayotim boshlandi, aziz Ustozim!
Hayotga boshlagach aziz Ustozim!

2004-yil

MawMaw Rosie & Sherri Lynn - 1980

Like so many of us this time of year, Thanksgiving always makes me think of flicking ants off pumpkin pie.

When I was a kid, the happiest place on Earth wasn’t Walt Disney World. It was MawMaw Rosie & PawPaw CJ world. They lived in a little white house that had strings in every room that turned on the lights, and no place for the washing machine so it was in the kitchen. They both worked at a textile mill in a nearby town, which apparently was more fun than you might imagine.

MawMaw would come home from working 2nd shift absolutely bubbling with stories about what she’d heard sitting in the “canteen” on her smoke breaks. “Lord have mercy, I hope I never,” she’d say.  No one ever knew what it was she was hoping never to do because finishing sentences would get in the way of her next long pull off a Virginia Slims cigarette.  Her habit of trailing off into a new thought instead of completing her first one must have had an impact on me, because even though there is no cigarette in my hand to distract me, I do the same thing.

My grandparents house was small and everything that couldn’t get away from MawMaw was covered in plastic (furniture, lamp shades, my head on a rainy day with a plastic bonnet that she’d whip out of a quarter-sized container in her purse), but it was Ground Zero for all family gatherings.

So it was on Thanksgiving each year. Every cousin, every aunt, uncle, brother, sister, or in-law within a 100 mile radius showed up with more casseroles than any decent God-fearing person should ever see under one roof. “I want you to look!” MawMaw would say when my Aunt Reba would whip out a green Jello thing with cream cheese & nuts in it. That was the end of the sentence of course, so you sort of had to guess where she was heading.

In the front room of MawMaw & PawPaw’s house was a giant monstrosity of a thing known as a player piano. The player part had seen better days, but all the keys still worked and I was a piano playing fool. I’d been forced to take lessons from a wicked mean piano teacher who made me crap my pants, but the only thing I gained from that experience was where “middle C” resided and how to fake recurring bouts of appendicitis. This lack of technical knowledge did not stop me from giving a great many concerts on holidays though. “Down at Papa Joe’s” was my bitch.

The day before Thanksgiving at MawMaw’s was every bit as good, if not better, than the actual holiday. She and I, absolutely wired for sound on a gallon of sweet tea the likes of which most mortals will never know, were baking fools.  Cakes, pies, puddings, vegetables – we cooked as though Thanksgiving meant Jesus was coming back and he was planning on eating at our house along with all the dead that were gonna rise from their graves.

Of course every pie, with the exception of pumpkin and apple, needed a meringue and nobody in the history of beaten up egg whites could meringue like Rosie. She never owned a hand mixer in her life, so everything she did, she did with a wooden spoon and a 90 pound old lady strength and speed that could only come from weaving cotton all those years. I don’t think I could stir Tang in a glass of water without a mixer, much less knock out 10 meringues in half an hour.

We’d fix so many desserts that we’d very quickly run out of places to sit them so MawMaw would put a festive autumn colored bath towel over the washer in the kitchen and Voila! Pie display! Every blooming year, just as it was our tradition to bake them, it was an army of ants tradition to try and eat them.

I’ve lived in a LOT of places in my life, but even in foreign countries I’ve NEVER seen ants the size of our Thanksgiving, pie eating ants. They looked brawny, like they were on steroids and they were black as night. You didn’t dare kill ‘em with your hands because MawMaw said they’d bite you. Bite me, hell. I was convinced Thanksgiving Pie Eating Ants would just hit me over the head and carry me back to their ant hill.

“MawMaw! They’re back again!” I’d holler. Why it was a surprise to us each year, I do not know.

“Well commence to getting ‘em off of there,” she’d say laughing and then she’d remind me that a little old ant never hurt nothing. “They won’t eat much,” PawPaw would tease me.

We’d flick ‘em off and it was our little traditional secret. Until I’d tell every relative I had, including Everett … the one who used to chase me because he was mentally challenged and wanted to hug me inappropriately, that there had been ants on the pies but we’d flicked ‘em and they didn’t eat much.

How I miss those days. Lordy, Lordy, how I miss those days.

Money is so tight this holiday season, “tight” is not a big enough word.  Therefore I am contemplating doing a thing so heinous and so awful, I get a lump in my throat even talking about it.

I think I’m going to the Black Friday sales.

I know. Insanity.

If you’ve never been to a Black Friday sale, let me break it down for you.

1. Arrive at the store at approximately 3:30AM thinking that you will beat all the lazy women who are still putting on their running shoes & and Christmas sweatshirts.
2. Upon your arrival, face the reality that YOU are the lazy one as there are already a good 500 women in line that look way more desperate and much more burly than you do.
3. While in line, try not to make eye contact with anyone else. This is war and we don’t want to acknowledge any of these other chicks are human as we will likely have to elbow at least 20 of them in their larynx within the hour.
4. The moment the doors finally swing open. run over anyone & anything that stands in the way of getting your hands on one of the two 32″ TVs your son wants for Christmas.
5. Watch helplessly as a woman weighing roughly 400 pounds nabs BOTH TVs.
6. Try to make your way to the HD video cameras. That’s second on your boy’s list and you know he’ll be happy with it in spite of not getting the TV.
7. Ask yourself how in the HELL a 400 pound woman in Crocs can be so stealthy and so fast. Could she be an evil twin? What could she possibly need with TWO TVs AND TWO HD VIDEO CAMERAS? Clearly she is trying to buy the love of at least four people.  She is pathetic.
8. Note the mountain of $3 hand mixers in the center of the store. There must be at least 800 of them.
9. Convince yourself a 15 year old boy would love nothing more than to own his own hand mixer. Just think of all the cool things he could mix with it.
10. Hobble back to your car and head for the ER. Your larynx isn’t going to heal itself.

mere kisi sher ko mahaz sher naa samajho,

har sher mein kuchh khaas chipaa hota hai,

rangon ki raunak par hi naa rook jao,

harek rang mein antrang baabastaa hai.