So I’m minding my own business while reading the newspaper, when I pick up the entertainment section, usually filled with fluff about movies I don’t want to go see, and plays I’ll never attend, when my eyes slam against this perfectly innocent image above an article about a local dancing group, Terpsicorps.
Unlike president Bush, who falls asleep while watching ballet performances (or so I’ve been told by very reliable sources that know third parties almost in person), I love ballet. Just as it happens in gymnastics, those that have mastered their bodies to pirouette and fly and prance about make it seem as though it’s easy, yet I know full well that I’d split my noggin’ in several parts if I tried any such shenanigans on the uneven bars. Or on the horizontal floor, dammit.
So I look at the photo and think, “Yay! Tiny dancers that can also float!” And wouldn’t it be loverly if I could go to a performance of Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet” where the former was barely two inches in height, and the latter a normal size…. But not a giantess dancer, because not only would she render the stage to sad little splinters with her thundering landings, but Shakespeare would have never written the tragedy were there giantesses in the world.
Can you really see a two-hundred-foot-tall Juliet bellyaching in her room (and running off to her doom) because her father threatens to marry her off to the financially sound alternative of Paris?
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend,
…fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Drag me? Good father, my fingers itch.
I am mine, and I’ll not answer to fortune wrought upon a bridal bed.
Talk not to me, for I shall brand across my knee,
A father that listens, by the force of a single digit.
Or something like that.