dancing in loungeroom

with the table pushed forward, the lights off, the couch out of the way, my oversized lounge is the best place to put music on as loud as my mac will play it ( not very ) and dance like an idiot in your underpants. i dance badly, well, clumsily, but almost nothing in the world makes me happier than the feeling when you are lost in music and body, music and body. it is like sex only more internal, more taken away, more alone, but in a divine way. it is soft and heavy, and oh god, you feel so alive.

i did dance classes for years. i was shit, yes, a crap tap dancer and an even worse ballerina. but i loved it. it was a strange sort of freedom, like singing along to music in the car, or loudly when you are home alone... like dancing in your underwear with the lights off in your lounge room to new order and pulp and morrissey and monaco, kate bush and the cure, the smiths, oh yes, how soon is now... sometimes sitting and just moving from the hips up, other times, whole body fluid, sloppily over the mattress on the floor, sloppily around the harder carpet, dancing up against the wall like it's your lover, and eyes closed, slipping open to the darkness, alone alone with the music, it sounds so good, just your body and the movement, there is a slipperiness there that words don't allow for. it's a place i am always at home, movement and music, music and movement, in between and over and under and senseless i need no narrative here, oh no, i have skin and bones, and muscles that are loose not taut but softly untrained, not in this movement, and i will feel tight in my shoulders because i sit at a desk, and i am so rarely in touch with my body, only with music, and painting, and sex...