The intrigue of the dance has captured me and I allow myself to be lead, not by the hand, nor by the nose, but with the whole of my body. And solely my body (I stand to the side of my self, watching, amused, waiting to see what will happen) is twisting and turning to the music of your smile and the depth of your stride, while I let you lead.
Don’t get me wrong.
No one ever taught me how to dance. I have never taken a single step from another, never took the lead of another to make it my own. I have followed a different music altogether.
I have always danced as my bones have felt it, moved to the singing of my own strings and muscles, the hum of my own throat, the thrum of my mind. The music is secondary; the music is always and all around.
I do not lead and I cannot follow, but my joints go oiled and my limbs flow out like sex. It is nothing that I can explain and nothing that I can control, but simply a reaction to the pull of others; a contraction away, and a pull back towards the self.
The music is always and all around, and the dance is ingrained, woven tight and intricate through every nerve, every fiber, every muscle (even the heart, a muscle like any other), every physical atom of the body. There is no need for a partner in dance; the design supplies all that is necessary.
But the syncopated step of four feet in perfect meter is a tapestry created purely by desire. There is a certain amount of planning involved in knowing where to place your self; it is this mystery of precision which leads us to wonder. It is this wonder which causes us to tie our legs in knots (not always about each other, more often about our selves), and fall
I dance a little differently than the rest. It is my own body which calls me back, again and again. No one ever taught me how to dance, and I cannot dance the steps of another. (but I can improvise)
There is something to feel in the looseness, in the fluid motion of the body, which extends beyond the tips of my fingers and the rings of my toes, washing over me in waves of sweat and tickling tendrils of hair brushing across my belly. Cycles of cells pulsing and beating to the course of my limbs like waves, right to left, sine to cosine, alternating vibrations in highs and lows of liquid motion, of a body warmed up with life, of the energy effect on a solid mass. My molecules are run to writhing as I slide and glide within myself.
(these bones are nothing)
The bonds have loosened, the hold is tenuous; I flow outward from my self, yet I never leave my self behind. (this skin is tough)
My A is pitched higher than that of others.
I am waiting to reach the next state, when the bonds break and loose all hold from one to the other, when the energy exerted becomes so great, when the pieces go flying and are free.
I will not turn down the opportunity to dance; I would do it all the time if this living did not keep getting in the way. It does not surprise me when I find myself stepping in time to you (but dancing a different tune). One way or the other there is a potential I cannot resist, even if, in the end, it has nothing to do with you, but only to do with me, and my arms and my legs and my belly and my back (and my circles, and my cycles and my); dance.
For now I will watch as you lead, until my own music takes over, to dance me where it may.