Do you ever notice how our lives are like vinyl recordings? They are imperfect and sometimes repetitive. Sometimes the needle skips on something rhythmic and pleasant. And sometimes it will stick on something jarring, even torturous.
It is promising that there will be someone who changes that, someone powerful who carefully pushes the needle to the next groove, deferring the cycle if not for a brief moment in time, revealing new and unimagined rhythm and soul. There is a dance, a shared experience between them. They soar around, almost without gravity, exuberant and vivacious.
Trust forms along with anticipation. The art is persued so that more elaborate routines are choreographed and skilled maneuvers are flaunted. The impressions are visible in the eyes of the dancers as well as their audience, but they are only human and their physical limitations supplant.
In carelessness, or perhaps overzealousness, one missteps and painfully drives a heel into the soft top of the foot of the other dancer. Imperfection. Disillusionment. The trust is diminished and the dancers are now more aware of themselves and less aware of the reason for dancing.
They realise, suddenly, that their dance is not above and not so different than other dancers. The dance floor becomes engulfed with reminders of unfinished songs, injured partners and a general lack of equanimity and composure. Even so, they remember to keep a level glance to maintain a powerful image as they were once instructed. But they tire. What is the point of continuing to dance despite exhaustion if their dance is not clearly more taking than the next partner's? The hesitations and reservations actually begin to scar the performance and everyone is aware of the absence of chemistry.
The song ends and they stop.
They rest and work out the tension, only for a moment, admiring or rejecting own physique and that of others. They reflect on what more can be learned from this partner. Would the performance improve with a different dancer? There are, most certainly, better looking prospects in both minds. They secretly watch each other, trying to follow the other's glance.
Occasionally another dancer will smile invitingly, or even motion an offer of union. Some dancers attempt to cut in with desperation of lust or loneliness, ut for the moment these new eyes meet, there is an opportunity for exchange, for this dance , this song, has become slaving for everyone at one point or another. Even though rounds are being performed randomly, the entire production perpetuates itself in a whirring, anticlimactic parody of itself. There are even perished dancers who have devised their exploit in a way that marks many surfacing tenderfoots.
Perhaps the suggestion is taken, and they are merged. Maybe it is declined and comfort is secured in something familiar for another song. At times, there are dancers that leap from the stage so that the performance becomes solitary but unpredictable. This is where the needle scratches off the recorded, produced and sold album. It scrapes and defies anything assumed. The dancer becomes a new kind of performer who moves with spontaneity and intuitiveness to its surroundings, rather than some pointless masquerade and rote.
The desire for music and dance will most definitely return. When it is again practiced, it does not seem to render its once naively assumed completion.
That's when you drink 'til you become a river-dancer!
I am in a cycle
I am unhappy
It is promising that there will be someone who changes that, someone powerful who carefully pushes the needle to the next groove, deferring the cycle if not for a brief moment in time, revealing new and unimagined rhythm and soul. There is a dance, a shared experience between them. They soar around, almost without gravity, exuberant and vivacious.
Trust forms along with anticipation. The art is persued so that more elaborate routines are choreographed and skilled maneuvers are flaunted. The impressions are visible in the eyes of the dancers as well as their audience, but they are only human and their physical limitations supplant.
In carelessness, or perhaps overzealousness, one missteps and painfully drives a heel into the soft top of the foot of the other dancer. Imperfection. Disillusionment. The trust is diminished and the dancers are now more aware of themselves and less aware of the reason for dancing.
They realise, suddenly, that their dance is not above and not so different than other dancers. The dance floor becomes engulfed with reminders of unfinished songs, injured partners and a general lack of equanimity and composure. Even so, they remember to keep a level glance to maintain a powerful image as they were once instructed. But they tire. What is the point of continuing to dance despite exhaustion if their dance is not clearly more taking than the next partner's? The hesitations and reservations actually begin to scar the performance and everyone is aware of the absence of chemistry.
The song ends and they stop.
They rest and work out the tension, only for a moment, admiring or rejecting own physique and that of others. They reflect on what more can be learned from this partner. Would the performance improve with a different dancer? There are, most certainly, better looking prospects in both minds. They secretly watch each other, trying to follow the other's glance.
Occasionally another dancer will smile invitingly, or even motion an offer of union. Some dancers attempt to cut in with desperation of lust or loneliness, ut for the moment these new eyes meet, there is an opportunity for exchange, for this dance , this song, has become slaving for everyone at one point or another. Even though rounds are being performed randomly, the entire production perpetuates itself in a whirring, anticlimactic parody of itself. There are even perished dancers who have devised their exploit in a way that marks many surfacing tenderfoots.
Perhaps the suggestion is taken, and they are merged. Maybe it is declined and comfort is secured in something familiar for another song. At times, there are dancers that leap from the stage so that the performance becomes solitary but unpredictable. This is where the needle scratches off the recorded, produced and sold album. It scrapes and defies anything assumed. The dancer becomes a new kind of performer who moves with spontaneity and intuitiveness to its surroundings, rather than some pointless masquerade and rote.
The desire for music and dance will most definitely return. When it is again practiced, it does not seem to render its once naively assumed completion.
That's when you drink 'til you become a river-dancer!
I am in a cycle
I am unhappy
tawejea:
Come to think about it, your dang right. My life is rather redundant at the moment as well.