This essay mentions current events, war, and crime. Please exercise discretion when reading. Also, I say the word "dick" twice.
I throw the thick blue ballot book onto my work table, where it lands with a heavy thwack. I stack my unopened ballot on top, shifting the location of the items to be strategically conspicuous so that I will definitely not forget. Constitutional duty aside, I don’t pause to consider if my vote really even matters because, at this point, I am okay with lying to myself that it does. The truth is, I’m anxious, and cracking that packet of council people, measures, bonds, propositions, and levies is daunting. The two biggest names, the two that everyone has been talking about, the ones that have been plastered on my news feed for months, are even more exhausting to think about.
I look away from the ballot and pull up a YouTube video of a dance clip from a cartoon called Gravity Falls. In the cartoon, one of the main characters, Dipper Pines, performs a dance called The Lamby Dance. He starts by leaning back and singing while he makes his hands shake, then he points three in three different directions. I take careful notes, because I’m doing research for an upcoming dance solo I’m making for the Children’s Museum of Denver. To me, anything can be research: going to a museum, reading poetry, or sitting on a park bench watching people’s body language.
This isn’t the first time I’ve taken inspiration from cartoons. Last year, I made a duet based on a child’s artwork. The piece shows two figures, maybe amorphous trees or possibly even living creatures, leaning into each other. The picture is done in various tones of blue, with interesting swirls that jut out from the figures like branches. The two appear to be talking, or fighting, or maybe just taking stock of each other. Underneath the earth, each reaches for the other, as if they were two parts of the same larger organism. When looking at the artwork, I thought of a unique alien ecology that is interconnected.
Certain animated worlds I love capture this idea well, and I used them as “research” too. Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind is a 1984 film directed by Hayao Miyazaki is set in a devastated, post-apocalyptic landscape. Nausicaä, the princess of the Valley of the Wind, works to understand and protect the toxic jungle—a sprawling, mutated ecosystem that absorbs the pollution left by humanity's past. Miyazaki uses animals (and fictional creatures) in films often, but this film in particular was rich with ideas for me. There’s a small squirrel-like creature in Nausicaä called Teto, whose movements and design I channeled when working with Rebecca Allen Stewart’s character. Killian’s Von Holdt’s character more resembled Nausicaä, a prophetic character clothed in blue who saves the Valley of the Wind. The name of the duet acknowledges the inspiration, “A Friendly Toxic Jungle”
I love working with the kind of vivid, fantastical worlds Miyazaki creates. Recently, I became drawn to Scavengers Reign, an animated sci-fi series where stranded survivors navigate a hostile alien ecosystem. The bizarre flora and fauna in Scavengers Reign inspired me to imagine the dancers as elements of a connected ecosystem. At one point, a character picks fruit from a tree and “sanitizes” it with her foot before offering it to a curious creature. When the two connect, they seem to charge with energy, their costumes glowing as though powered by the planet’s core.
After I’ve carefully noted the “Lamby Lamby” dance, I unlock my phone to clear my brain. News stories of ballot boxes being set on fire in Washington state pop up. I feel a pit in my stomach because it is one thing to have an opinion and exercise it online, like my cousin who posts relentless Catholic-leaning pro-life content–often endorsing one of the two big names I don’t want to mention here–and another thing entirely to plant incendiary devices inside of boxes intended to destroy the rightful votes of others. Everything feels more than tense, an endless simmering of frustration, violence ready to erupt at any moment. There have been instances of violence erupting at political rallies, assassination attempts, and mass shootings, of course. At one of the high schools I taught at this year, one of my students got expelled for sending an email threatening violence. I never saw the student again after that.
I make an effort to release my fear and refocus on my work.
“Lean back and shake your hands spirit fingers style, pop up like you’re asking why, and point jauntily in 3 directions,” I’ve written in my notebook, with a little stick figure drawing illustrating the opening positioning beside it.
Yes, the “work.” The “research.”
In 1939, the world stood on the precipice of World War II. Adolf Hitler exploited rising tensions and frustrations in Germany, Mussolini attempted to expand Italy into Africa, Japan invaded China, and Spain engaged in a Civil War.
Also, in 1939, the Wizard of Oz premiered (Spoilers). It’s an escapist film about a girl sucked up through a tornado from her glum, boring life in Kansas and thrust into a sparkling world of color and fantasy. The film taught its viewers a wholesome lesson that important aspects of self, like courage, heart, and intellect, lie within us, and our friends and community can help us find them. (And of course, there’s no place like home, we all know.)
I think about this dichotomy of history and popular culture often, how it must have felt to read the news in 1939 and see entire societies falling apart and turning to violence. In high school I read Iris Chang’s book “The Rape of Nanking,” which detailed the horrifying torture of an entire city in China, sanctioned by the Japanese Government. This was also happening the same year that Judy Garland skipped down the yellow brick road in front of all those newfangled cameras. There’s no place like home except for when your home has literally been invaded by blood-hungry soldiers from a foreign nation who feel completely justified in treating you like you are not human.
It is so hard for me to look at what’s happening in the world around me and feel like I have any control over it. The only tool I feel I have at my disposal is the art I make, yet I am drawn repeatedly to oddly specific motifs, dreams and fantasies, childlike ideas, and comedy. I am aware that it’s a privilege to want to run away from reality and ignore the heavy grief and trauma that is affecting the country I live in. I acknowledge this fact, and I cannot help what interests me.
The piece that I’m making now, the one that I’m using the “Lamby Lamby” dance for, is about storytelling, specifically about exaggerating the truth to tell a more exciting story. It’s about someone in your life whose stories are so engaging to listen to, but you always wonder if they’re really true. My father was like this. Once, we were driving in New York City and committed a cardinal sin, apparently, by pulling into the intersection as the light was turning yellow. We got stuck in the intersection, blocking oncoming traffic. I’m aware that this was a dick move, but when in Rome, be a dick. A man, who looked and sounded like Larry David, but was definitely NOT Larry David, yelled at us “You’re blocking the box! Don’t block the box!” This became a joke between us because it felt like we were in an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I’d overhear him retelling the story to others later, describing the man as Larry David. I’d remind him, “That wasn’t really Larry David, Dad” and he’d respond, “I know, but it might as well have been.”
My partner Tim once drove down to Mexico to race in the Baja 1000 with his friend, who had gotten a custom-built Fox suspension for his cool vintage Volkswagon Rabbit truck. Unfortunately, the suspension broke in the first 15 minutes of the race, and they had to get towed out. He doesn’t mention this, or if he does, he describes the events in excruciatingly accurate detail. I’d never understood why he didn’t make this story more sparkly, more grand. If it were me, I’d be telling everyone that I raced in the Baja 1000, omitting the fact that it had only been for 15 minutes. People didn’t need to know that, and I wouldn’t be telling any lies.
In the solo, I dive into amplifying my movements and gestures, pushing them to exaggerated extremes until they feel larger than life and humorously out of sync with my body. Then, I carefully reel them back in, grounding them until they’re as natural as possible. The process is playful and exciting—I’m enjoying each variation of the "Lamby Dance" and the chance to interact with every prop around me in the children’s museum space.
Recently, I showed a video of “A Friendly Toxic Jungle” to a group of 4th graders. They loudly speculated about it while watching. One student proclaimed “she died!” anytime one of the two dancers fell to the floor. They giggled when the two dancers put their bottoms together and Killian does a flip to her back. One student raised his hand at the end, smiling. “That was weird,” he exclaimed with joy. He especially liked the part where Killian’s character lightly kicked Rebecca’s character on the bottom. This is exactly the reaction I was hoping for. “Yes,” I explained to him, “I like it when the things I make are kind of weird.”
When I create, the question “what will people think of this?” always lingers in my mind. But I choose to push it aside, knowing how much it once stifled my inspiration throughout my twenties. Back then, that worry became so consuming that I could barely tap into my creative spark. So, I made a promise to myself not to let these thoughts interfere with my process. My work doesn’t have to be revolutionary; instead, I want to explore ideas that genuinely captivate me. I aim to create pieces that are engaging, accessible, and fun for everyone involved. If I can make a fourth grader crack a smile and think, “That’s weird,” then I know I’ve done my job.
Maybe exploring these small pockets of joy can help alleviate the existential dread of being human in a world that often feels like it’s unraveling. While I’m aware of the many daunting, seemingly unfixable issues around us, I don’t want to ignore them. Yet, when I create, I want to craft something that speaks to the child within us all—the part that longs to be curious, to play, and to laugh. As I prepare to premiere this solo at the Children’s Museum on November 2nd and 3rd, my greatest hope is that it offers a brief, lighthearted escape, a reminder that there’s always room for playfulness, even when life feels overwhelming.
More information about my upcoming show in the poster below.
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Dear Breegan, you are amazing! A talented dancer, fantastic Ballet Instructor, and a Lady Rich in Humanity. I am honored knowing you! Zoe Toth at CCD.