There are some things that I just can't resist. Linoleum is a horrible temptation. Wide open spaces, ditto. Hardwood floors, old, new, shiny, roughed up. Almost any hard surface. Slick floors and socks. A parking lot will do. A good beat. Or lyrics that say something, that invite you to show them to people.
My feet are shameless. They haven't learned yet that it's not proper to
tap dance in line at the grocery store, or mambo on the corners at a
volleyball game, or pirouette while I'm supposed to be Skypeing or
weaving or sewing. My legs and arms don't get that 38 year old men
aren't supposed to skip across parking lots or chasse down hallways,
arms in extended center third. My shoulders, the only part of me not
confined in a car, don't realize that someone in the next car probably
has a camera phone.
I dance in my head. I watch dancers and I dance for them, or with them.
Some tiny piece of my brain, whenever there is music on, is creating.
Whenever I think about it, or oftentimes when I don't, my body gets in
on the act. I don't long to be on the stage. I lack too many
essentials-line, extension, spin-to ever be a successful performer. I
just want to create for others, to see the dancers in my head
multiplied on a stage, to see the teeny tiny steps I work on obsessively
when I find a perfect song turn into something more than what I make in
my living room, in my rubber ducky bathrobe and mismatched slipper