The Battle, Day 3

My spider kit is ready.

A board is propped upright beside me, for dropping on the enemy from a height. It also doubles as a place to practice that tap sequence from Monday that I seem to have forgotten (which annoys me, because how am I supposed to practice and improve if I can't remember it in the first place?).

A slab of pure marble that I found on the dryer rests in my lap. The sucker's got to be at least eight pounds, probably more. This is also for dropping on the enemy from a height.

A long piece from a set of wooden blocks sits on my choreography table beside me, for parry-thrusting the enemy as it tries to scale the walls. Provided I can bear to bring my bare hand to within eight and a half inches of that thing. (Ugh. I can't even bear thinking of the crunch it'll make... ugh. *shudders*)

And though it's annoying me to no end, I'm still wearing my shoes.

You, spider, will die. I have to finish a very intricate piece of choreography and do my dad's tax papers before the first of November. The more you ruin my concentration and throw off my project-accomplishing trajectory, the more horrible your end will be.

So, last chance. Get out of my room. Lest it become your coffin.

War

I am crouching on my chair. My left foot is clothed in my brother's massive work boot, my right is wearing one of my dad's work shoes. Every two seconds I look down at the floor below me, then glance at the wall just a foot and a half beyond my computer.

Because I know it's here. And I know it's still alive. Probably not even frightened.

Little bugger. It knew exactly the one location it could sit on its fat butt and taunt me with its presence yet be unreachable. It's moments like these which make me want to put 'machine gun' on my Christmas wish list. I don't care what one of those would do to the wall, I just want that thing out of here.

Oh, I've heard the stories of cockroaches. Of rats. Of tarantulas the size of dinner plates. You might say I'm being a little irrational here.

But listen, here in Alberta, the spiders get huge. Huge. And freaking terrifying.

Black, with thick legs, a good inch long (when bent!), and tiny spindly bodies which somehow makes them all the more threatening. And huge. You know that famous Alberta beef? If we ever get a shortage of cows we could move on to the spiders that grow here and no-one would be any the wiser.

And it's October. October. The spiders should all be dead. Spring is the dawn of the spiders, what the freak are they doing still hanging out in my room now? Why can't they ever go live in the bathroom or something? At least you don't sleep in the bathroom. I have to somehow manage to get to sleep tonight. And I had planned on knocking out another thirty seconds on this choreography that's almost done...

That's slightly impossible when just putting your feet on the floor -- even shod for battle -- is cause for terror. If my bed weren't a loft bed, I would definitely be sleeping upstairs tonight, I don't care how uncomfortable the couch is. As it is I doubt I'll sleep easy knowing that thing, that horrific grotesque freak of nature is still here, in this room, alive and unafraid.

My feet are falling asleep. Last I saw the enemy, it was under the desk, too far back for me to reach. Probably still hiding under there, just out of sight, just out of reach, laughing at me.

I guess I'm going to bed early tonight. Wasn't quite the motivation I was looking for though.

National Choreography Month - Day 21

1.49 am -- Just spent two hours reading stuff on contemporary dance, jazz technique and the Shim Sham on the Internet. My eyes are tired now. Thinking maybe I can throw some jazz walks into Apathy Alert somewhere. Also, now I have a really annoying song in my head but I don't know what it's called -- just some song on one of the videos of some girl in a really skimpy dress that was actually more like a shirt. How can anyone walk on a stage before hundreds in that getup without either dying of embarrassment or freezing to death?
Sort of dreading choreographing The Gift. Yesterday morning I realised I've only heard that song like five times in my entire life -- I only picked it because it was short and I was feeling like an underachiever for only planning two dances.
Apathy Alert has picked up a little (as of early yesterday morning, before I went to bed), but it's fast becoming a Sing Your Freedom-like show of potentially-impossible-to-execute technical prowess. And speed. Because technique and complex sequences are nothing without speed to make it look even more amazing.
Also, getting sick of the song Apathy Alert. I've been solving the problem by listening to Sheila Walsh and reading random dance articles online. Unfortunately, that's not very choreographically productive.
Sort of intimidated by all the stuff I read on choreography though. Most of it was modern/contemporary-based, but still. I can't expect any of my output so far to get noticed. It's horrible stuff. But I only have till September to get some solid performance-worthy choreography in place if we want a shot at getting our first decent-sized gig. Thank goodness I'm not the only choreographer on the team...

3.10 am -- Just killed spider the size of a dinner plate. Off to bed now... though whether I'll actually sleep now is another matter.

12.39 pm -- My mother is yelling at me again because I'm apparently not productive enough.

7.39 pm -- Finally starting work (of the choreographic persuasion). Apparently today was spring cleaning and as such I was unable to report for duty till now. Am starting work at about the 2.04 mark of Apathy Alert.

7.59 pm -- Got a phrase divisible into threes? Eschappés are your friend. I doubt the poor saps -- I mean, highly skilled and amazing dancers -- who actually have to perform the sequence will agree, though.

8.30ish pm -- Am now at the 2.34 mark. (I'd like to know how I managed that kind of speed because I'll definitely need to replicate this feat in the future...)

11.45 pm -- iPod just randomly crashed and made me lose my place. Continuing on... Almost done notating the eschappé/relevé sequence.

Why I Hate Spring

According to the calendar and the sun-watchers here in Canada, it is now spring. This is a revolting development if you ask me. I hate spring. And here are the reasons why (in no particular order):

1. Mud.
I live in a very rural area. The only roads for the next four kilometres are all dirt. In the spring, this means industrial-strength mud. I have seen tractors get stuck in the stuff. No lie.

2. Melting snow.
I love snow. I don't even mind driving through it that much (in fact, it's preferable around here to drive through snow because you can at least follow the tracks other vehicles have left behind rather than dry your eyes out trying to see the centre line that hasn't been repainted for fifteen years).
One of the most painful things in the world is to watch the lovely pure white snow melt. Even more painful is to listen to people callously say things like, 'hopefully the snow melts soon' and 'finally some sun -- maybe the snow will melt.' It's like they actually enjoy watching something so beautiful shrivel up and die a horrible lingering death (see also #4).

3. Standing water.
While admittedly fun to splash around in if you're dressed for it, when you're not dressed for it the only parking space you can ever find anywhere is right in the middle of a puddle deep enough to rival Lake Winnipeg.

4. Inanely cheerful people.
No offense to my dear friends who like spring, but collectively you tend to get very annoying very quickly. Especially on Facebook. Few things are more irritating than logging in and having to wade through posts from 72 otherwise fairly mature people saying 'Sun, sun, Mr Golden Sun, please shine down on me.' (See #8.)

5. Chronically warm housemates.
I don't care that the calendar says spring. That calendar was most likely printed in California. If you haven't heard yet, they have a completely different seasonal schedule than we do in Alberta. Do not tell me to put on a sweater; in case you haven't noticed I'm wearing seven of them already and in fact do not own any more sweaters to put on.
Furthermore I do not care that the weatherman says there might possibly, maybe, perhaps, if you're lucky, be one ray of sun peeking through the clouds for about ten seconds. One ray of sun is not sufficient to melt the thirty-foot high snowdrift on your yard, so stop squealing like an idiot. Nor is it sufficient to warm the air to the point where one can wear shorts and a t-shirt and go barefoot. I have a news flash for you -- it is still minus fifteen out; SHUT THE FLIPPING WINDOWS!

6. 'Fresh' air.
In the city, spring means fresh air. Like actual fresh air that I really don't mind breathing in because it's nice.
In the country, however, spring means fertiliser. Fertiliser means animal dung. Spread all over the abundance of fields around here. And trucked back and forth and back and forth across the roads you live on to get to said fields. Also, the increase of sun (see #8) means an increase of heat, which leads to an increase of smell.
Even more intolerable are the people who have been in the country long enough that their brains have been permanently warped by the smell and claim to enjoy it. These unfortunate folk will actually roll down windows, stick their heads out and breathe deep whenever they pass a fertiliser truck or a tractor fresh from the field. Then they will spend the next ten minutes asking if you were dropped on your head as an infant because you still have functioning olfactory glands.

7. Bugs.
I despise bugs. We don't get that many here in Canada (I'm told from those who have been Stateside), but the ones we do have are massive and seem to have an unnatural love for my bedroom. When you require three hours and a cement block larger than your dog to kill the three-inch-round spider on your wall, you have a problem. It's 1 to 4 am. You should be sleeping.
You also have a problem if a moth the size of a semi trailer gets caught in the fluorescent 'twisty' light bulb and literally burns half to death but can still fly fast enough to evade your cement block.

8. Brighter (and longer-lasting) sun.
I don't mind the sun -- to a point. However, when you spend an average of an hour a day driving into the sun, you get a pounding headache very quickly. Add to that logging into Facebook and finding an abundance of brainwashed robots singing the sun's praises (see #4), and it all makes you want to go out and buy yourself a firearm.
I'll admit that I'm one of those famed 'night owls.' I do my best work in the dark. The longer lasting sun forces me to stay up later to get anything of worth done and thus I oversleep the following morning. Mornings are bad enough without having everyone biting your head off because you're late for everything. (Also see #9.)

9. Daylight Savings Time. Enough said.

There are many other reasons why spring simply should be skipped over, but I'm sure you get my drift. Spring sucks, winter's cool, and that's all I have to say. Thank you for your time and attention to this very pressing matter.