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Aug. 7th, 2001 11:35 amMy ankles throbs this morning. Apparently running hills in the afternoon and dancing at night were a little much for it. I may have to postpone further running and dancing this week if it's not better today.
Dancing is one of my favorite activities. The release, the exercise, the passion a good song invokes is intoxicating to me. I try to vary my dancing from song to song, different movements for different rhythms. Dancing can be an expression of desire, or joy, or hate. You can dance with other people, sharing the ecstatic moment together. You can dance near others, echoing their movements, creating beautiful symmetries. You can dance alone, just you and the music, and let everyone and everything else become a blur of lights and flesh in the background. I used to look down a lot when dancing, but that's a rarity now. I throw my head back, spin around, and I can't keep a smile of satisfaction off my face. I mouth the words and screams coming from the speakers, and swim in rivers of song.
While talking to my friend Tricia, I learned her boyfriend (and my friend) tore something in his knee. He's hopeful that it will get better, but he's in a brace right now. All the things he really likes to do are on hold until it heals: sports, martial arts, dancing. His knee may never recover, and he's only 24.
I turn my foot and feel the tendons groan. I think back on my own knees, sore after a furious night at Fuse, creaking when I get up after having knelt on them too long. Dancing is one of the few passions I have that doesn't involve an active participant other than me. It's mine, no one's opinion matters, I don't need anyone else to do it. Mine. Losing that would be... well, it would be a big loss.
I can do other things to fill the time: read, paint, write.
I know it has to happen eventually. And I'll cope when it comes.
But I'm not ready to stop yet. And I'm going to dance for as long as I can. Which should be for some time to come, if I use one of my friends as a yardstick for that. A good 10 more years at least.
So there.
Dance, motherfucker.
Dancing is one of my favorite activities. The release, the exercise, the passion a good song invokes is intoxicating to me. I try to vary my dancing from song to song, different movements for different rhythms. Dancing can be an expression of desire, or joy, or hate. You can dance with other people, sharing the ecstatic moment together. You can dance near others, echoing their movements, creating beautiful symmetries. You can dance alone, just you and the music, and let everyone and everything else become a blur of lights and flesh in the background. I used to look down a lot when dancing, but that's a rarity now. I throw my head back, spin around, and I can't keep a smile of satisfaction off my face. I mouth the words and screams coming from the speakers, and swim in rivers of song.
While talking to my friend Tricia, I learned her boyfriend (and my friend) tore something in his knee. He's hopeful that it will get better, but he's in a brace right now. All the things he really likes to do are on hold until it heals: sports, martial arts, dancing. His knee may never recover, and he's only 24.
I turn my foot and feel the tendons groan. I think back on my own knees, sore after a furious night at Fuse, creaking when I get up after having knelt on them too long. Dancing is one of the few passions I have that doesn't involve an active participant other than me. It's mine, no one's opinion matters, I don't need anyone else to do it. Mine. Losing that would be... well, it would be a big loss.
I can do other things to fill the time: read, paint, write.
I know it has to happen eventually. And I'll cope when it comes.
But I'm not ready to stop yet. And I'm going to dance for as long as I can. Which should be for some time to come, if I use one of my friends as a yardstick for that. A good 10 more years at least.
So there.
Dance, motherfucker.
