dreaming of drinking in noisy locations with people surrounding me a thousand new faces a day strangers grounding me bodies covered in sweat as we move to a beat being pounded out at volumes our voices can’t compete with a favorite past-time of mine this tribal activity this dancing.
seeing but not seeing faces uncertain in shifting shadows and strobe flashes only one thing dominating the act of mating movement to music rhythm to writhing soul to sweat i can’t forget it yet the yearning for the feel of muscles burning from hours of endless frenzied whirling.
with the breath of a crowd bringing death to the dance is there even the slightest chance we will ever again see the sticky drink covered dance floors and the cover-charged roped off doors of my youth open to the sweat covered lovers of of hip hop and house?
will our children know the dubious thrill of raising the roof with their hands on their drinks at all times and their ID’s in their bras because they still don’t make club clothes for women with pockets? Or will the idea of sweating so close to so many strangers always feel like too much danger and sharing that much air alway carry the risk of too much death from the chance of sharing too much breath with too many people you just don’t know?
which way will it go?
the club life had pitfalls of roofies and date rapes unwanted gropings along with DUI’s and those sad over-dosings. It wasn’t a scene for those without armor or someone to teach them to watch out for charmers or to stomp someone’s arches “by accident” if needed. it wasn’t a place for a lamb. but it taught you to lose inhibition to let go of the need for perfection to give in to the feel of the music and just be part of something wild and primal and yes, at times, explicit.
It would be a shame if we were the last to know it.
When I was a child I spent hours writing poems in journals, sometimes I would even put them to music. Somewhere in my rambling house is a series of journals filled to the brim with the least discerning poetry ever written. Some of it is good, I remember, but most of it is the kind of stuff that makes one think of Sweet Valley High novels.
Then I took a break from poetry. I learned technical wordsmithing and stepped away from the comforting world of creative writing.
Then I discovered Haiku Fridays, right here on this blog, in 2006. I spent a lot of time writing Haiku while my kids played at my feet.
Lately the poetry has been flowing again, demanding attention by waking me up in the middle of the night with fully formed verses demanding a paper and pen.
I’ve given in.
As of the first week of February I am taking a hiatus from the gallery and spending a year collaborating with a sister spoonie on a book of poetry.