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.
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!