Some weeks you’re in the groove. Some weeks you’re not.
Tonight I’m feeling decidedly disconnected from the music. I feel like I’m astral projecting above my body as it moves to the rhythm of its own synth. I’m syncopating out of sync.
Usually I would feel verklempt about this. Swimming in a frustration of non-connection; with the music, my body, my coalescing conspirators.
Tonight it doesn’t bother me.
In the growth of a dancer not every moment can be poetry. Or perhaps not all poetry is Petrarch.
Sometimes you have to dance out the bad dances. Sometimes you have to move out the mud.
Tonight is muck.
Yet there’s some glint in the mire.
For once I can see that.
It’s like that moment where the meticulousness of trying to stay clean gives way to the absolute ruthless joy of getting dirty.
Tonight muck can be mirth.