I’m dancing Salsa with a Polish musician on an open field by the countryside, both of us cheered by a crowd of strange faces, many of whom have come from other continents to be in this moment, which is to say, I’m dancing Salsa for a global audience—and, I’m dancing as though for my dear life; as clumsily as humanly possible, but also, quite determined to match the vivacity of this strange man. I’m dancing, as we say in certain spaces, ‘with all my power and might’—my right foot to his left, my hips knocking against the humid evening air, the tap-tap of my feet stilted and awkward, the grass, of course, scratching my bare ankles. After this dancing, this tangling of limbs and sweat and laughter, a comrade from Gambia would fist bump me and beam about how excellently well I have done. Another would jab me teasingly, hinting her pleasure at the outcome of the evening, by which, again, I’m saying that I’m dancing Salsa with a stranger, somehow to the amused satisfaction of witnesses. And all the time I’m dancing this Salsa, the world feels dislodged and overcome, the earth spinning so fast like breakable chinaware that could shatter any moment. I’m dancing Salsa in a short dress, with a stiff back and with the three weeks fast I’d taken from exercise, but in a body that gives itself to mimicry, and forced rhythm, and the everyday motions of being alive.
A couple of months ago, I mentioned my recent intrigue with bodies—specifically, the body in relation to space + time, the body in motion, bodies as an art of embodiment, but also as a site of resistance. And now, more closely contemplating the body and time, that is, the ways that body carries itself through time; what it means to age, to be(come) dated, to adopt the narrative posture of ‘once-upon-a-past.’ And, in addition, what it means to tune or turn myself towards a different time. For instance, once upon a life, I used to dance, and I was in a dance group, and I performed on stage—the whole calisthenics of it. I wonder: Where do bits of ourselves go when our bodies grow season by season, each limb inching out of the last pair of shoes, or jeans? And what does it mean to arrive at a space only as a specter of your former self? The past as vague as an old old song, or a long lost country?
A lot of my conjectures are loosely structured, often based on personal vanities: is that an extra line around my eyes, how much coconut oil do I need to soften my facial features without clogging my pores? when did the pain in my back return? Will I, ever, be able to do a full-minute plank? Then, there’s also the quieter narrative-making role of the body, the ways it cues and suggests, the sentiments and judgements it builds. For instance, what do my eyes say about how much sleep I got last night? What does my mid-section say about my snacking habits? And speaking of habits, I have grown fond (in the last few weeks) of watching a group of athletes taking their morning run, their lithe limbs glistening with life and sweat; our shared route is a coincidence but not my pause, or my willful stare or my shameless enjoyment of the sight, but this is besides the point.
A few minutes after my Salsa escapade, I’m walking through the open fields with three other women, caught up in a conversation and in the middle of our talking or laughter, a fly lunches straight into my throat and remains there. One of the ladies puts her arms around my waist and begins to squeeze, except that I am not choking, I have, instead, somehow swallowed this insect. I am half panicked, half trying to act casual about it, so I keep it low key that I’m on Google, searching for the morbid consequence of swallowing a live bug. I had joked to the girls that I would wake up with wings or some spider-man-like qualities in the morning. Yet, it seems that the body digests most insects as a form of protein. Till today, I cannot understand how a creepy crawly could nourish me while the cigarette from a neighbor might give me cancer.
A lot of talk about the body revolves around maintenance—treat it right, feed it well, lift weights, drink water; all of which reflect our capitalist orientation towards extracting the best possible value over time, and then doing so for as long as possible. But the body, it seems, has its own individuated timelines, based on a range of subjectivities and chance. Of course, I’m not counting off nature, there is After all, the ‘dooming’ biological clock, the inevitably looser flesh, the facial lines like baby scratches that start to form—time itself eventually and inevitably colonizing this bag of bones.
Two things are true. The body does not always carry age well. And agedness is coming for all of us. Yet, Age is not the problem. It is the judgement that age brings in a culture of people obsessed with cramming entire life expressions into single seasons. The idea of placing a ceiling on what a life can produce, as if time isn’t nonlinear and contextual for each of us. The scrutiny. The insidious narrative of timelines vis-a viz accomplished milestones. Be everything you can be, but be it by 25, or 30. And then, what next? We need a road map for getting older. Because you see, Youth is capital, true. But youth is also the interim. It is present in the here and now in a way that is both fickle and fleeting.
Now, one more thing that is true: it is only the living that will age. What a blessing it is, then, to see time come for each of us, as slowly and as jarring as it does.
Brilliant, as always.
Everyday is for the dying, really and so is the reality of old age and aging bodies.
When is your social media hiatus ending, yeah? I look forward to a "proper" conversation with you.
Cheers!