Dancing Badly
Going into 2023
Dancing badly is better than not dancing at all.
But Then Some People Had to Talk to Me
“Dancing badly is better than not dancing at all.” That really should be the whole essay. What else do you need to know?
But people won’t let you alone when you dance.
My son: “Yeah, we were just walking and this guy was playing music and mom started dancing like an idiot, for about THIRTY MINUTES, wasting everyone’s time like a derp.”
A new teacher, who might be 24 years old: “Are you sure you want to put your pointe shoes on? You might hurt yourself.”
A man in the audience, at an interactive Nutcracker fundraiser gala: “What are YOU supposed to be?” (All right. I was in drag as a party dad, but there are never enough men in a small company, and anyone can be a party dad without getting shot, right? No, wait, this is Chattanooga, drag carries a distinct risk of getting shot.)
And Then I Gave It Too Much Thought
Let’s put the Audience Man aside for a while; he probably just liked what he saw a little too much. But the young teacher, who’s a perfect Diana, strong and golden as a lion, means me no harm. She’s really concerned.
I don’t answer her back because a 50-year-old student doesn’t answer a 24-year-old teacher back in front of a room of teenagers; it’s wretched form to undermine a teacher when you’re the only other adult in the place. So I say something like, “I’ll just do barre and switch to my flat shoes today,” and hold my tongue until I get to The Rebel’s house.
The Rebel’s an old friend, an anarchist let’s say for the sake of giving him a cause — it might be a different cause — and veteran of many battles fought with the heart and mind. He has a big white beard and keen eyes.
His wife serves coffee and shows us their lovely house. I tell the story to the Rebel and his wife and my partner. “And I didn’t know what to say; I’ve been on COVID hiatus and I need to retrain, but I do have a feel for what I can and can’t do, I’ve been this body for decades now — and she’s like, ‘Don’t hurt yourself.’”
The Rebel, speaking as if for me, answered: “‘I am mine to hurt.’”
That’s it. That’s it exactly.
But it’s not quite right either, is it? That’s just the start.
Water shone on the wooden bridge and water gleamed in the river below and the busker was in excellent voice and he was singing all the grunge and nu metal songs: Disturbed’s arrangement of “Sounds of Silence” and something by Audioslave and —
How can you hear the songs, without dancing them? How can you understand the words, without dancing them? How can you think properly? The body thinks; the mind’s just — the file clerk, maybe.
Leap, fall like a line of dominoes — oh, it looks dramatic to passers-by, a big fall — swirl, rise to your knees, arch back head to heels, roll, rise, spin shifting the spot, the focal point, as your thoughts spin you — tree, bricks, graffiti, riverboat, tree —
Here’s a little line from Audioslave, if you’re interested:
Nail in my hand From my creator You gave me life Now show me how to live
That’s the question. How to live. But I can’t understand the question sitting down, can I? I need to be on my feet. I need to just step through it, mark it, block it, then maybe dance it full out. Then — if I’m lucky — I’ll feel some response.
Or if dancing’s not your thing, let me tell you about my father, an environmental engineer, a water management guy, who’s going demented but not there yet. He plays a word in Scrabble: “Weat.” “What?” we ask. “Wait,” he says. “To wait for something.”
“I think you spell ‘wait’ differently.”
“No. No, that looks like ‘wait.’”
Then ask him about an oil spill 40 years ago. His mind contains a map of the groundwater for a hundred miles around. Tell him where something went into what creek or swamp and he’ll tell you where to look for it in an hour, a day, two days. He knows where the caves go. If you’re in a blowing cave tunnel he’ll tell you where the wind comes from.
He thinks, he exists in, depth, darkness, water, limestone, karst.
I think in, I exist in, rise, balance, fall.
Sure, I dance badly a lot of times, okay, pretty much all the time, but then maybe the gods are doing me like they did Lancelot when he had to ride in that shameful cart.
Dancing badly is better than not dancing at all.