"Those who dance are thought mad by those who hear not the music." - Anonymous
It's been ninety-seven days. Ninety-seven days to grow older, for the sinew to forget. But I will make sure it remembers.
Pulling the pieces of spandex and pink cotton and velvet out of my bag - I slip them on with pleasure. They cling to me and it feels so familiar.
I force myself to perform the most painful ritual now, my own Achilles' Heel. The uncomfortable sensation of skin stretching and normal body parts being wrenched apart is the familiar feeling I shrink away from. Suddenly determined, I push my shoulder blades farther down, I force my thighs to defy genetics and bad habits.
They scream to me.
But they are warm and ready as I step slowly onto the hard paneled floor. It is dark, the air unmeaningful. The music begins, and almost without thought, my body begins to move.
I feel the movement, feel it down through my toenails. Deep in my abdomen I feel the stirring of muscles that have become accustomed to dormancy.
This is natural, it is instinctual, but not enough. The movement now becomes mental. Technical. Internally I connect the deltoids to the lats to the glutes. I flex my sartorius experimentally.
The movement evolves.
Now it becomes married to the movement around me. As I begin to conform to the angles around me, the movement itself ripens and becomes mature. The bodies fuse and ripple as one. As each body connects, our light grows stronger. The room glows with translucent color.
The air is chocolate.
Pulling the pieces of spandex and pink cotton and velvet out of my bag - I slip them on with pleasure. They cling to me and it feels so familiar.
I force myself to perform the most painful ritual now, my own Achilles' Heel. The uncomfortable sensation of skin stretching and normal body parts being wrenched apart is the familiar feeling I shrink away from. Suddenly determined, I push my shoulder blades farther down, I force my thighs to defy genetics and bad habits.
They scream to me.
But they are warm and ready as I step slowly onto the hard paneled floor. It is dark, the air unmeaningful. The music begins, and almost without thought, my body begins to move.
I feel the movement, feel it down through my toenails. Deep in my abdomen I feel the stirring of muscles that have become accustomed to dormancy.
This is natural, it is instinctual, but not enough. The movement now becomes mental. Technical. Internally I connect the deltoids to the lats to the glutes. I flex my sartorius experimentally.
The movement evolves.
Now it becomes married to the movement around me. As I begin to conform to the angles around me, the movement itself ripens and becomes mature. The bodies fuse and ripple as one. As each body connects, our light grows stronger. The room glows with translucent color.
The air is chocolate.
1 comment:
i’ve been visiting you for a while but never made any comment. Today, after reading this wonderful and heartfelt post I connected immediately to the strangeness and yet familiarity of putting those wonderful clothes or attires again, after a long time of separation.
I used to dance, and, now that I think of it, danced through moss part of my life. But suddenly I was forced to stop.
For some strange reasons I was invited to dance and had to go back to those rituals and related to what I read today.
Thank you for remembering
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