..thoughts and observations

About Battles

 I’d like to start this essay by first making the differentiation between a battle and an organized competition.  Battles have no judges and no criteria, so long as both dancers stay true to the music. This doesn’t necessarily require dancers to match drum patterns, as so many seem to think.  An effective battler will flow smoothly from one element of a song to another while executing their moves, while acknowledging and reacting to each element represented.  Organized competitions, while potentially beneficial, many times don’t present a platform through which a dancer can both explore creativity and musicality, as judges tend to look for clean execution and smooth arrangement of familiar moves.   The competitive portion of the dance scene seems to promote stylistic inbreeding, which isn’t limited to moves and combinations themselves but also applies to and negatively affects many dancers’ approaches to rhythm.  This seems to be a natural progression, however, as every so often, there appears in the competition scene a revival of creative energy led by various front runners who appear and gain publicity through numerous competitions, exhibit incredible musicality or conceptual set work and begin to influence scores of younger dancers.  Tragically, these original dancers’ creativity is met with conformity on the parts of those influenced and individual styles and combos are absorbed into the pool of foundational movements which serve as the basis for newer styles.  The importance of true battling, however, is the opportunity to honestly and freely explore one’s own understanding of their dance and interpretation of musicality by presenting oneself as a natural competitor.  A true battle is a physical conversation, and the language spoken is rhythm.  There is no translation necessary, nor any need for explanation or consideration of rules while dancing.

After a few hours of contorted slumber in seat 8A on the intrepid Southwest Chief, I abandoned any hopes of achieving proper sleep and looked out the window to survey our current surroundings.  The ground was painted an earthy red and littered with small shrubs and bushes, as well as numerous rock formations of varying size.  No more pristine and pure a landscape could be found in America, I thought, and allowed my gaze to extend to the far off mountain range that sat in hazy majesty.  As the train proceeded ever slowly and steadily, affording me the opportunity to truly digest the beauty of the scene, my attention was seized by an abrupt and curious peculiarity.  Atop a small hill, no more than 200 feet from the train, stood a small shack comprised of sheets of old metal and planks of sun-bleached wood.  To the right of the minimalist dwelling, a man crouched before a fire, preparing an indeterminate meal.  His garb was understated, slightly dirt stained and faded, and his hair was of medium length and accompanied by a most appropriate beard.  I was in absolute awe of this anomaly, having never seen anything of the sort, and was transfixed on the scene for the few seconds it took the train to pass, and began to contemplate this man’s life.  Where was he from?  As his current living situation seemed almost intentional, what led to his decision to leave behind all of the commodities of the modern world, and is he happy?  Few answers surfaced in my mind, but I was left with a sense of satisfaction that could scarcely be put into words.  Here was a man who was, for all intents and purposes, detached from the outside world, and yet seemed to lack nothing.  Anyone would be lucky to achieve such contentment within their own life, and, perhaps more accurately, people would benefit from cultivating such strong resolve in their own minds.

It’s interesting..hindsight and foresight bear striking resemblance to one another.  It’s important to have and use both, and while no one has perfect vision (as it pertains to this example), the good news, as far as I can tell, is that our real vision only gets better with age and experience.  Open your eyes and learn from the past (not necessarily only YOUR past)..doing so will make the future easier to handle.  

..here’s something that’s always kept me wondering. Why is it that, in any movie set before, say, the Revolutionary War, EVERYONE has a British accent? Hopefully this inquiry doesn’t ruin the period film experience, but it’s a funny detail to notice. Happy Tuesday all!

..so I’ve decided to write about any and everything that comes to mind.  Remedies for injuries, work out advice, stories where I almost die, personal philosophies, album reviews, EVERYTHING is fair game.   Some of it might prove beneficial in your life, and I truly hope it does, but some might just be entertaining gibberish.  Regardless, enjoy the perils and ponderings of the Roadbike Warrior.

            One warm afternoon, I found myself and my beloved bike (affectionately named Mad Max) riding up Crescent Heights on a 2-mile stretch of road with no cars parked in the right lane.  Remaining close to the right side of the street, I assumed that any car wishing to pass would have ample room to so without compromising the safety of anyone else on the road.  While I might’ve been correct in this assumption, I neglected to consider an ever present staple on Los Angeles area roadways; the douchebag.  I heard a rapidly approaching engine, and a quick turn of the head revealed a BMW coupe in my periphery, mere feet from my rear wheel.  (For the sake of effective storytelling, this car/driver will be referred to as Doucheman.)  Within seconds, Doucheman blasted on his horn until a suitable gap in traffic in the left lane afforded him the opportunity to pass me.  I noticed that his car is well within a foot of my left than he appeared at my side, I executed a WWF-worthy axe chop to his right side-view mirror, and my forearm hit the metal with a great deal more discomfort than I anticipated.  Doucheman passed, and a few feet in front of me I saw the glass fall from the mirror and shatter in the street, which provided an abrupt yet easily avoided obstacle.  Noticing the damage to his toy, Doucheman extended his arm through his sunroof and presented to me the only finger that matters.  “This,” I thought, “is unacceptable.”  As he slowed to approach a red light close to 100 feet ahead, I saw an opportunity to catch up and inquire as to the reason for his lack of regard for a cyclist on a 2 lane street (“Inquire”, of course, meaning pull up to the driver’s side and complete his new mirror set).  As I coasted to the light, Doucheman hastily turned right into the adjacent neighborhood and was gone from my sight.  I turned right in an attempt to give chase, but he seemed to have a good relationship with his gas pedal, so I decided not to waste the effort and energy.

            Experiences like this bring into sharp contrast the concept of the leisurely bicycle ride.  All that can be expected of one is to be patient, observant and considerate.  This, of course, means not chopping at cars as well as giving cyclists space on the road if possible.  Patience comes first.