Alia's Adventures in Illumination

Nano 9

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 03:06:00 +0000

Diana lit another smoke, inhaling deeply as she watched the young couple kiss: tattooes, pierceings, skinny hipster pants and studded belts, his hand groping her ass. Diana hated them. Not personally; it was nothing personal. They were just young, beautiful, and in love, and Diana was not. Then the crowd surged, the kids were swept away, and New York honked and blared around her once again. She sighed, shifted the strap of her heavy laptop case and headed out into the stalled traffic, ignoring the red light, weaving between cars, clutching a paper cup of coffee (light, one sugar), the lid already smeared with expensive red lipstick. She stopped outside the office to drain the coffee cup, toss the empty in the trash, and take a last, loving drag on her cigarette. She knocked off the coal and left the rest of it on the [water hose thingy] outside the building. Some homeless guy would would claim it before five minutes passed, lipstick stains notwithstanding.

The elevator was crowded, hot after the grainy November cold outside. No one talked. It was Monday. On Five, the elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Diana pushed her way out, arriving into the sea of grey cubicles and morning chatter—which ended abruptly once her underlings caught sight of her. Diana glared at all of them and stalked into her office.

She was five minutes late today, and she knew this would be the topic of everyone’s conversation, since she was usually here before any of them arrived. They all kept a constant lookout for any chinks in her armor, any weapon at all they could use to hurt her. Diana threw her coat on a chair and slammed her office door. She knew they were all out there, muttering away to each other, guessing wildly about what must have made her late. There was probably a betting pool. She wanted another cigarette, but smoking was forbidden in all City buildings now, and she would not give any of them the satisfaction of nailing her for smoking indoors.

There was a tap at the door. It opened a crack and Ed, her secretary, put his head around the door. Ed looked like a Hereford steer, red, meaty and vapid, with a curly little scruff of pale hair, but he was fairly competent. “Ms. Cassel, Mr. Reed called earlier. He’d like you to call him.” Diana swore silently. The one morning in her entire life she was late.

“I told him you were in the restroom,” Ed said, then removed himself from the doorway. Diana wanted to slap him. The nerve of thinking he could curry favor by covering for her. Someone would have to be hurt today. Diana swung the door open and looked around. She saw that little snot Rafe with a donut in his hand.

“Rafe,” she barked. “I want a full status report for that project I gave you last week. Ten minutes!” Rafe looked stunned. She had given it to him at 4:50 on Friday afternoon, and it was now 9:15 on Monday. Diana shut the door again and settled happily at her desk. They all resented her and took little trouble to hide it, so she made their lives as miserable as possible. She might as well get some pleasure out of this stinking, lousy, suffocating excuse for a career.

Director of Marketing for the NYC Department of Finance was not what Diana had in mind when she graduated from Smith with a degree in Communications. But, at 56, this was where she had been stuck for the last twelve years, and all she planned to do now was twist the leash until she could retire. Not that her pension was going to be any kind of cake walk, but still. It beat being here every day.

At first she had been excited - it was a big position, and she had a lot of responsibility, with fifteen people under her. But soon the suits upstairs put the thumbscrews on, and Diana had to beat more work out of her team than they could really do. She had tried being nice and going to bat for people, but all it got her was reprimands and a pay cut, while the sonofabitch she covered for got a promotion. That was the end. Diana started looking out for Number One, and God help whomever got ground underfoot. This did not sit well with the rest of the department. The mutual resentment built and crystalized into the web of nasty backstabbing viciousness that currently characterized the department, but Diana no longer cared. The work had to get done, and she had to get credit for any that did get done; mistakes were to be blamed on someone else, and that was all there was to it.

She got Ed to get Reed on the phone; fortunately he didn’t mention her lateness. But he wanted an update on the redesign of the Department’s website, the very project she had sadddled Rafe with on Friday. “We have a status meeting this morning, Sir.” The old bastard had handed it to her minutes before she handed it to Rafe. Diana’s head began to pound. What the hell did he think, redesigns hid in trashbaskets just waiting to be pulled out? She at least knew the expectation was ridiculous, but Reed seemed to forget people actually had weekends off.

Diana squeezed her hands around her head, willing the headache to go away. She fished a couple of Advil from the bottle in her her desk drawer, tossing back the little pills with a swig of bottled water. Diana lived on Advil. The bottle rejoined all the other crap in her desk, random paperclips, pens, Post-it notes, rubber bands, and lip balm, as Diana prepared for the meeting with Rafe and the web team.

The meeting room fairly reeked of hate. Rafe’s team consisted of three men, all geeks of one stripe or another; a bluff, one-of-the-guys woman named Heather who wore khaki pants, played softball, and was happily married with two teenage kids; and Elise, a lesbian with slim, perfect ankles, short tailored skirts, exquisitely cut hair, and degree in computer science from MIT. Rafe was a pie-baking Teddy bear, a kind, soft, warm sweetheart who brought home-made snacks into the office to share. Diana particularly detested him. “Well?” she snapped, as she pulled her chair up to the chipped, ugly table, “What have you got for me?”

The meeting room did have windows, thank God, but that was all it had in the way of charm. It was an ugly room lined with dented metal filing cabinets, painted a particularly vile shade of grey-green. The table hearkened back to the days of in-office smoking, its Formica top edged with little charred stripes where countless cigarettes had burned down to the nub during meeting after endless meeting. The rest of the place was no better. Everything about the entire department was grim and depressing and desperately needed a coat of paint. By Diana’s fiat, no one was allowed to have personal items in their cubbies, though people did sneak in the odd photo of their spouse or children. Diana’s own office was a model of Spartan austerity, relieved only by the sleek silver skin of her laptop, and the flash of expensive, brightly-colored clothing that she draped around it.

Diana spent her money on clothes. Today she wore an elegant charcoal silk knit pencil skirt with a cranberry cashmere cowl-necked sweater, and none of that crap from China either; this was the real deal, straight from Italy. Her stockings were Wolford, and her shoes were Comme il Faut. That raincoat she had thrown on the chair when she arrived was a designer number with a dull copper gleam and ruffled hem. It had cost $450 on sale, and rich women stopped to stare at it.

All of which gave Diana a nice feeling of accomplishment. If her apartment was a crappy fifth-floor walkup almost as depressing as her office, who cared? Nobody saw that but herself. She turned her attention back to the meeting.

Norfolk, VA & Grovetown, GA (2/26-28/09)

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 19:30:00 +0000

Lunch with Shadiyah was so much fun, we were now officially late. We drove south as fast as we could, and arrived late in Norfolk VA, where Stacy Goodrich had offered us her sofa. You NE folks remember Stacy from her kick-ass performance at the Enfield NH Lotus Niraja show back in 2007. What was most amazing about that was Stacy had learned everything she knew from videos! I was so impressed.

Norfolk was breezy and sun-kissed, just what we needed after icy Baltimore. I won't say it was warm, but it was a lot warmer. We only had the one evening, so we were unable to hook up with the dance community down there (graciously overseen by Taaj). I hope to get back there soon and spend a little more time meeting folks. We spent the evening with Stacy and her darling husband, children, and chihuahua, and had such a good time, we took Stacey out to breakfast the next morning, so we were doomed to be late again for the evening.

At this point, William took up the steering wheel, and drove like mad for 475 miles (interstates on the east coast all look pretty much the same), reaching Grovetown GA just as it was getting dark, and yes, we were late (though not as late as we feared).

Who knows Jezibell from NYC? She is a wonderful person and a very artistic, creative dancer. William and I met her when we were all in Ankhst together (in fact, she was sort of unofficial chaperon on our first date) back in 2005, thanks to Joe Williams.

She recently moved to Augusta GA, and found us a place to crash with friends of hers, retired military officers who live in a beautiful home in the most beautiful setting. The weather had turned rainy, but we could finally take our boots off and put our sandals on.

Jezibell and Joe came over and we all talked until 2 AM, then got up in the morning and talked some more. We really wanted to just move in and stay there, but we did have further to go, so we reluctantly departed for West Palm Beach, FL.

Onward! (2/11-2/25)

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 18:50:00 +0000

We stayed a little longer in NYC, long enough for William to go down to Baltimore to hear Obama speak (he was 8 feet from our new president!) and then to Washington to attend the inauguration.

I got to take class and have (a fabulous) dinner with Aunt Rocky. Rocky's warmup is the best, and Tariq was really on my case (in the gentlest possible way) about my arms, for which I was deeply grateful. We had roast duck for dinner, Rocky regaled me with stories of the film she worked on recently, and Karima Nadirah drove me home (plus they let me take the leftovers, so my whole family feasted).

I tried like hell to take a few other classes, but fate was against me. So once my Mom was well-recovered from her surgery, it was on to Baltimore, where we stayed with Noelle Zeltzman, a brilliant artist and family friend (in fact, we stayed with almost every one of her daughters as well!).

Baltimore was COLD! We got there on Thursday, 2/19, and went that very evening to take an excellent class with Shems. Even her beginner choreography was fun. In her advanced class, she presented the styles of famous old school dance stars. We did, I think it was, Nadia Gamal's taqsim beledi. Shems pointed out the dancer's signature movement patterns to the class. A really wonderful class.

Friday night I danced with Nina Amaya at her gig in a Zeeba's, a hookah lounge in Federal Hill. Then we huddled together for warmth for a few more days, and Wednesday evening I taught a pot luck workshop at Nina Amaya's studio. Then we were off!

We didn't get very far, as we stopped off to have lunch with Shadiya, a lovely dancer from Washington DC, who turned out to be best friends with Rom Deussen from Utah! (My God, this should really be called Alia's name-dropping tour of fame, but I met so many wonderful people. It really has been an incredible trip.)

Alia's Sofa Surfing Tour of Fame 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 04:38:00 +0000

Hi Everyone!

I have finally embarked on my 2009 Sofa-Surfing Tour of Fame (woo-hoo!).

This means I'll be dancing across the country and back again over the next few months. William and I will be in NYC until mid February, then drive South to Baltimore and on into Florida, then along the southern coast to California. I'll go up the west coast to Oregon, and we'll drive home through the Midwest and Toronto, returning to VT by early May. Here's a Google map with some possible cities on it.

My goal is to meet people and have fun, so if you think of anyone I should know (or anyone I can crash with), please hook us up. I would love to perform at haflas etc, and/or guest teach classes and workshops.

So far, we've have been in NYC since Christmas (helping my Mom recover from a knee replacement). The weather here is vile: gray, snowy, windy, and cold, but probably not as vile as it is in VT ;-}.

I've taken classes with Elena and Dunya, had lunch with Joe Williams, attended a couple of great concerts with Zikrayat, and performed in the subway at Union Square and Penn Station to benefit the homeless with Bastet Bellydance and Pacita (We had a so much fun - Jerry Bezdikian came and threw money!).

Kaeshi Chai invited me to perform at Je'Bon with Djinn and a wonderful guest violin player, Chern Hwei . What a lovely evening! I was flattered to get wonderful complements from Dalia, Jehan Kemal, Jeniviva, and many other folks. Jehan's husband Hanna took some great photos (one is attached above), and I wrote a FlynnSpace NASA Grant to begin working on Medea in the spring (cross your fingers for me).

Plus I just uploaded a couple of new videos to YouTube, with more to come: Raquy and the Cavemen (yay!) and Bitwannes Beek. While you're there, check out Dorit's cool Wonder Woman video.

Lots of love!
Alia

PS: June 11-15, Amity and I are hosting Tamalyn Dallal. Save the date! Are we good or what?

Nanowrimo 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 22:03:00 +0000

Nanowrimo 2008

Breaking into a temple should be easy; you know, sanctuary and all that. But the nuns at the Church of Flowing Light were apparently unfamiliar with that concept. The shit guarding the place was astonishing. The first level was just plain subtle. The closer you got the more deeply a feeling of dread descended upon you. I had been there in the daytime, and I knew you didn’t feel it then, so it had to be a protective device. I wondered seriously if I would be better off returning tomorrow, when it would be light, but steeled myself instead. Random was in there, and I had no way of knowing if he would still be alive tomorrow.

The temple itself was a misleading little structure. Tucked away on a back street in a rundown part of the city, its smooth plastered walls gave no indication of the activities within. The front entrance was simple and unassuming, a couple of rough wooden posts holding up a rustic porch, and a plain wooden door. Once you got inside the door, however, everything changed. Inside, the place was huge. The ceilings were at least a hundred feet high. The walls, gilded and silvered, encased huge windows streaming with sunlight. Since outside, the sky was uniformly overcast and grim, you had to wonder where the light came from.

The actual altar was a soaring, gleaming concoction of fluted tubing and multiple platforms, all white and pale blue, with a sort of warm glow. Several times a day, the nuns appeared on the platforms and sang. The soaring, beautiful music gave a feeling of serenity and comfort to all who heard it. Nothing made you happier than to just stand there, smiling like an idiot, listening to the swirl of those lovely voices.

Obviously the place was a hit. The crowds came every day, packed into that huge room, shoulder to shoulder like sardines, in a haze of euphoria. Which would be all well and good, except that Random never came back out again.

Random: My friend, my partner, my lover. What a guy. I’m really not sure if he made my life better or worse, but it was certainly interesting. Making a living as wandering performers is sketchy at best, but it would have been a lot easier sticking to that instead of all the tangential enterprises – such as rescuing the man from a bunch of nuns. On the other hand, he could be having the time of his life and totally living it up in there. Which did not endear him to me any further, as it was cold as hell out here, and starting to drizzle.

I wouldn’t worry so much if I hadn’t heard some unsettling things in the day or so since he disappeared. I had waited around for him after the show, or service, or whatever it was, and when he didn’t come out, tried the door, which was locked. There were small windows high in the wall, but I had no way of reaching them. After a prolonged and useless period of yelling and banging on the door, I noticed an old man across the road watching me. “My partner never came out,” I said.

He nodded. “Some don’t,” he replied and continued on his way. Alarmed, I caught up to him. “What do you mean, some don’t? Other people have disappeared in there?”
He glanced back at the Temple a little anxiously, and leaned in closer to me as we hurried along. “Sometimes they don’t come out,” he said again, then turned into a little alleyway and disappeared himself into the shadows, leaving me standing there, puzzled and alone.

I hung around the precincts of the Temple the rest of the day, which faded fast into evening and then dark night. That sense of dread came over me, and finally I stole away to the room we had booked at a nearby inn. It was there we had heard of the wonderful singing, and decided to come hear it for ourselves. It seemed like days ago, but had really only been a few hours. We had only arrived in town that morning. The biggest problem was that we had a show to do in two days, one that would actually pay us money, and if Random didn’t come out of the damn Temple, we were not going to get paid. As buskers, we rarely had this sort of issue. We arrived in town, found a likely street, and started into our act, passing the hat at intervals. It was not the steadiest of income, but it worked well enough to feed us most of the time, and we saw a great deal of the countryside. It did not, however, seem to be quite enough to keep us out of trouble, at least not today.

In other ways, today had been like so many others. We came to town, found a bustling street of commerce, and went into our act, as usual. We had drawn quite a crowd, and were raking in the cash. When we stopped to go find a bite to eat, one man hung back after the crowd dispersed. He was fairly well dressed – lots of lace and velvet, but worn just enough to mark him as a high-level servant of some sort. Still, he had an intelligent, open face and a nice relaxed manner, which warmed us to him. “My name’s Kyle,” he said. “And you are…?”

We introduced ourselves, Random, and me, Selena.

“Look,” he said, “I’m charged with gathering entertainment for a grand celebration tomorrow night. Would you be interested?” “Would this pay?” Random asked.

“Quite well,” the man responded and named a figure both of us knew better than to gasp at.

We allowed as to how we could make ourselves available for his party. He gave us directions, told us when to show up Name of place for questioning later, and recommended a lodging house (this one, actually). He then drew out a purse. “You will need to dress in white,” he said. “This should help keep you until the event.” and he handed Random a few large silver coins, which we knew would keep us quite well, thank you. “The rest is yours upon your arrival.” He smiled (and there was something wistful, maybe even regretful in that smile), bowed slightly, and left us.

Well, we were more than pleasantly surprised. We went straight out and found a tailor for the white clothing (annoying really; white is useless on the road), booked a room in an actual inn (one gets so tired of haylofts), and ate a serious lunch. After lunch (red wine, roast meat and root vegetables, so perfect for an autumn afternoon), we asked the innkeeper if there were any sights or entertainments hereabouts, and he mentioned the singing nuns, so off we went. You know the rest.

After I left the Temple, I returned to the Twining Serpent, and found the innkeeper, a florid, stout fellow with flaxen curls plastered tight to his head and a sweet-tempered, bovine look, wiping down the bar. “We went to that temple, “ I told him, “and my partner never came out. Now the doors are all locked and he’s disappeared.”

He stopped his work and regarded me with sympathy. “Ah, that’s a shame, that is,” he said, shaking his head. “Sometimes they don’t come out.”

I was already very tired of this line. “What do you mean? People can’t just disappear!”

“Oh, they do,” he said. “No one knows why. We think the nuns just keep them. No one minds, really.”

“Well, I mind,” I snapped. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It’s not very many,” he said, surprised by my anger.

I obviously wasn’t going to get too far with this line of questioning, so I ordered dinner (a really delicious stew) and forced myself to eat it in the common room, listening hard to the conversations for any mention of the Church of Flowing Light. The common room was quite pleasant: smoke darkened, low ceilinged, fire warmed, and full of a convivial lot of fellow travelers and locals out for a beer and a bit of conversation. I did card and coin tricks for an hour to make some money (since that idiot Random had all our cash in his pockets), and listened in on the gossip.

And I heard some very interesting things. The Temple had appeared several months ago in an abandoned building. All of a sudden it was just there. Several times a day, the doors opened, and the mysterious, beautiful singing wafted out. Soon the people found their way inside, and the temple’s reputation grew. Those who went regularly found a source of solace and contentment previously unknown. They brought offerings of food, cloth, whatever they had and left it at the altar’s base. The local folks spoke reverently of the beneficial effects in their lives. I saw many traveler’s set their plan to visit the next day and hear the singing for themselves – just as we had. I wondered how many of them would fail to return. Local folks vs lords (the partygivers?

I paid my dinner bill, went up to my room, dressed all in black, chose a few useful tools, and went back to the Temple to see what I could see. I was not above a spot of breaking and entering, though I preferred an honest living. The dread hit me several yards away, but I pushed through it and approached the low, eyeless walls of the temple.

I had circled around it in the daytime, so I knew there was nothing remarkable about it from any direction: The whole building was only maybe twenty by twenty, with eight-foot walls, the one door, and a few little windows up at the top. But now I had a thin, strong rope with a hook at one end; I swung it around and tossed it up, where it caught upon the roofline. From there it was a simple matter to walk up the wall to one of the little windows and peer in. And I saw – nothing. An empty, trash-strewn, moonlit room looked back at me, no larger than the outside dimensions. How odd, I thought. As if it were still an abandoned building. That’s when the serpent appeared.

I am really not afraid of snakes in the greater scheme of things, but this one scared me. Thicker than a man’s torso, it glided along the roofline with only a cold, unfriendly rustle, like a few dry leaves scraping along a stone floor, to herald its arrival. If I hadn’t been petrified with fear, I would have fallen off the wall. As it was, the snake was upon me before I had time to react. It paused when it reached me, reared up (its head level with my chest, I might add, and its tail nowhere in sight, draped around the corner somewhere) and seemed to size me up for a moment. Then it opened its mouth and poured forth a stream of flame that would have burnt me to a crisp if I hadn’t slid off the roof on my rope and run like hell.

I stopped around the corner of the first alley and peered back at the temple, sitting smugly in its little cul de sac, sweet, innocent, and angelic. No snake, of course, adorned its roofline. No burn marks, either. Annoyingly, my rope had disappeared as well. This was getting very personal.

In the morning I went to see Kyle. Well, to be specific, I went to the location of the party and asked a worker where Kyle was. He turned pale, bowed deeply, and gestured vaguely across the field towards a manor house. Clearly it was going to be quite a party. Lavishly decorated tents were springing up on all sides of me as workers grunted, pulling on ropes and setting stakes. A furious hammering rang from a newly constructed stage, and I felt a pang of sadness at the thought that Random and I might be denied the pleasure of performing on such a lovely surface. I was half-tempted to go walk it and feel it out, but resisted. When I got to the house (huge, crenellated, black stone, ivy-covered, and highly imposing), I found a woman carrying a load of clean laundry and asked again for Kyle. She gave me a look of such shock I made a mental note to find out just who the hell Kyle really was. “Just a moment, Miss,” she said, curtsying despite her heavy load. “Please, just you wait right here.” She gave another look of alarm and scurried away.

I passed the time examining my surroundings. copyright Alia Thabit 11/1/2008

Post-Thanksgiving, 07

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 20:51:00 +0000

So I did not do a damn thing for Thanksgiving. Okay, I cooked food for myself. Lamb chops and zucchini, if you must know. But I went nowhere, saw no one. I meant to read papers, but i didn't even do that. Just read, and screwed around with my profiles on all these various communities I've joined (and today I screwed around with this blog, changing the colors and whatnot; and now that I've procrastinated for over an hour refining the settings, I thought I better actually write something - which is what you are currently reading).

And by gosh, I noticed something about MySpace!

It started simply enough. I put up a new picture (actually this was Wednesday, but who's counting?). It's just my face, and it's a nice picture. I cropped it out of a performance shot Carl Sermon took at Rakkasah. I thought it looked friendly and cheerful. Apparently it does.

Within hours, the friend invitations started arriving. I think I got 10 in less than 24 hours. All from men (except one spammy one advertising a business). All professed either undying love or at least momentary lust - including those from a 70-something who identified himself as "horny" and some kid who asked if I spit or swallowed. I guess romance is not dead.

Now, I had already been on MySpace for over a month, and no one had noticed me except for a belly dancer buddy or two and my own kids. So the question is, What the hell? Is there someplace you can view newly uploaded pics? Is this a popular pastime of which I was previously unaware? Where do these people come from? Yeesh!

The worst of it is, it was such an unappetizing plague that it meant I really couldn't in good conscience reply to the couple of genuinely intriguing ones, like the hot guy from the Netherlands with the private profile. Okay, not really - the sum total of his message was "sexy, love." Or the guy who identifies himself with only a pic of his remarkably muscled torso, all of whose "friends" seem to be women in bondage lingerie. Again, just kidding; I wouldn't have written him back, but I'll probably lurk on some of his tribes, just out of abject curiosity.

It died down after that. It must be just the new day's pics. My son confirmed that it is a nice, flirty pic ("You do look like you'd like to get laid," is what he actually said).

My daughter said, "What exactly is it that you want out of MySpace? Because that picture really looks like the kind of picture all the party girls post. Think of your target market." Then she showed me how the Browse function works and how recently updated sites can be targeted.

What's really funny is, one of the reasons I changed the pic was so I could be friends with some young people I know and they wouldn't have to have this sexy pic for all their teenage frinds to look at and misapprehend. How incredibly ironic that the pic I thought was so innocent and sweet is the party-girl pic!

"That other pic is really professional, Mom. Put it back," she said.

So I did.

Alia enters the post-modern age

noreply@blogger.com (Alia Thabit) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 13:53:00 +0000

Hi everyone, and welcome to my blog!

Love,
Alia