Hundreds - sweating in motion - cycle on and off the slatted dance floor… bare feet pounding a heart-beat-drum to new-age/glitch DJs.
Broad Waltz strokes turning to heated Blues intimacy, then back.
Friends play a game of tricking themselves into dancing with “him” or “her”
When I’m tired, I crash on the huge pillows that fill the stand surrounding the Floor. Art pad out, I pull random tools from my pencil sleeve. At first I try to depict Sadie sitting next to me, but it ends up looking malformed and clownish. Suddenly shy, I pretend I don’t want to dance for a bit. “…shitty song, kinda tired…”
I flip through to a clean page and scratch angry dashes here and there, mapping an anonymous face into the ruddy cream. Nothing is direct. I stab the paper, forcing whatever might appear to be unintentional. I decide not to care, bobbing to the music, surreptitiously keeping an eye on the “her” I can’t quite get myself to dance with.
Waking to write, and watch Jack Frost work his winter touch.
In Nature we see there is no story, that every legend, fable, myth is desperate.
Sometimes I wake up hopeful in the morning.
My people call...
Flashcards. New schema for new territory.
After the musk and scent of sweat and desperate breath...
Somedays you either laugh or cry unintentionally.
The lull of Salish swaying below me.
I live in a beautiful little corner on the blue planet.