I don’t go dancing much anymore. Part of it is parking. Part is feeling old, bad neck back ached, past my bedtime and feeling out of element. Even at home, Mudcat doesn’t like it when I dance. Maybe it looks angry, or anxious, or animal. Something snaps in her dog brain and bark! bark! bark! no! stop! why! oh jeez, calm down, it’s OK, it’s just MJ or MGMT or Skinny Puppy, fine.
It’s a choice I make but it still feels awful. All that identity stuff, most at home in my mind and body when letting go, giving up. Gone now, or transformed, and I’m trying to figure out what it turned into. If anything. It has to be, it’s energy, and it’s mine.
When I do dance, it’s in the street. Live Music Capital of the World, and all I want anything to do with is brass and beat, marching band madness taking over me.
Yeah, I joined a krewe.
Wouldn’t you?
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