Thursday, October 1, 2009
There are worlds within worlds, we all know it, and we've always suspected that some of those worlds would astound us if we caught a glimpse of them down an alley one night, or surprised one in a sunny field, or, in Amanda and Liz's case, came upon one in full swing in the bus lot at 9th and H. The Trapeze School of New York, now in Washington, DC, is just such a world teeming with squads of clear-eyed, timber-thighed folk - lean as brisket, beaming from swings, beckoning like sirens.
Where do all they come from for god's sake? It seems there are worlds within worlds within worlds. Liz's teacher, Everett (which made her chuckle), was wearing nothing but Ray Bans, piratical hair, and, orange camo tights when he swung into view beneath her, storm clouds and sun boiling up 12th Street, and Chinatown wheeling over his oak-leafed bottom making her think of Death and pumpkins as he grabbed her well-chalked forearms, quietly said, "straighten your legs," and took her with him off the bar. At 24, he had spent six years in Israel training tigers.
The woman who signed us in, whose eyes were the color of Windex, had until recently trained dolphins in Baltimore. The girl with watermelon-pink hair and cannonball delts who winched us like freight hauling on pulleys yelling "Let the back-flip do YOU!" and "...Knees UP!....Release your HANDS...Arch BACK...STRONG hands...GOOOOOD!" was fresh (if you can call it that) from riding horses upside-down and bare-back in tiny circuses in Northern England. A woman at the gate sped along on a powder-pink Elite bike stand squirting Orange Vanilla Goo in her mouth with one hand and taking our waivers (it's nobody's fault but our own) with the other.
They're still calling the Metro stop "Gallery Place" for now, but A and L are feeling like Persephones just back from the Underworld. For P, one pomegranate seed, and you're never the same. For us, maybe it was the Goo.