BBC News reports: “Children can be taught to use their imagination to tackle frequent bouts of stomach pain, research shows.”
I think we all can remember what playing make-believe felt like when we were children. That incredible feeling that upon sheer belief in what was taking place in our minds, we could transport ourselves to a completely different world. A world that existed in no other location but within our self. Although many of us wish we could return to that state of being, some have gone a step further and have made having fun a full-time job.
“When the fun thing is there, it becomes an obsession.”
My first encounter with the tall, gangly figure was sheer chance. He’s made up of four protruding limbs that stretch like Gumby, but has a much sharper nose and chin and doesn’t have the green hue in his skin. I notice these features only after he has dropped from his twisted posture- poised in a hand-stand; the first thing I notice is a pair of ratty blue converse sneakers. It was a Thursday evening. It was drizzling on and off. It really wasn’t much different from any other evening.
In the distance, a saxophone croons. Drums beat beneath the city soundtrack. Salt-water stained glasses wiped dry, they are spotted taking cover beneath a parking garage littered with cigarette butts and parking receipts, urban mold and algae. They kick, lift, pirouette, jump and jive to the jam. They are much like their city; rewind and deconstruct, fast forward and reconstruct.
Stop, play; create, recreate. Make the next one better, bigger; crumble, stumble, dive;
submerge, emerge.
The break dancers came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They watch with curiosity as I stroll in, parking my bike, focused on the center of their ring. I stand and watch. When they weren’t contorting their limber limbs, they were in full stretch mode, groping for the grunge of the ground like slugs embracing their rotting turf. The guy I called Gumby slyly maneuvered himself off the “stage.” He asks me for a light. He told me his name was Henno. He was a jack of all trades. He had a short attention-span and he did a little bit of everything- whatever he likes.
“It isn’t like something we go out along the street asking for money to do. We just get good people
together and do something we like.”
The city keeps on stumbling along, waves churning and wind whipping, and we’re safe below. Duffel bags, jackets and bikes dropped haphazardly as the dancers gather in a circle plunging into the beats. Henno passes the joint.
He says that three years ago, a lot of money came into Rotterdam and things seemed to go under-
both literally and figuratively speaking.
“Too much money is too much commercialism and that always takes a hit on people looking for positive vibes- not positive checking accounts.”-
He gives me his number and we agree to meet for coffee.
“I have a friend you should meet.”
He slips back into the synergy of the circle. I stay a while; time passes slowly. Soon, I slide out of the scene.
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November 5th, 2009 at 20:45
[...] long ago, in a post entitled “Children Can Imagine Away Pain,” I wrote about a group of breakdancers I met under a parking garage on a rainy afternoon in [...]