Body parts
A small town. Dancing was scarce. When there at last was a class, I never went. I had become old enough to hate… My crooked legs, to short as well. Belly fat and tiny breasts. Upper arms too soft and round and the butt did not have the right shape. Even alone in my room there were laughs weaved into the music.
Another town, ten years later, I still hated everything I saw in the mirror but sometimes I went to nightclubs. Other people’s drunkness and my soberness was a filter and suddenly a beat passed by without scanning for evil eyes on the dancefloor. A beat when there was just me and the music.
Another town, another ten years later. I took dancing classes. All friendly ladies around me. The teacher said that it is about fun and not achievement but the fluorescent tubes scorned. Shimmies… shake the legs I hate. Undulations… make an s-shape with the chest and stomach I hate. Hand on the forehead to frame the face I hate… turn 45 degrees to the right… that angle that makes my nose look even bigger. Hear the music! Feel the music! Follow the beat! But I heared no drums just echoes from children and teenagers of the past.
Five years later. In front of the screen projecting a tutorial video. In front of the mirror. In a nightclub. Shimmies and undulations and figure eights and snake arms and hands moving to frame the hip, the butt, the stomach, the breasts and all other parts that I love to shake… and yes I even frame my face. The small town voices are scattered like confetti on the dance floor, they are just pieces of plastic, not gold, not worth any attention all, nothing by garbage under my shoes. And the only voice weaved into the music is that of my teacher: Feel the beat!
Another town, ten years later, I still hated everything I saw in the mirror but sometimes I went to nightclubs. Other people’s drunkness and my soberness was a filter and suddenly a beat passed by without scanning for evil eyes on the dancefloor. A beat when there was just me and the music.
Another town, another ten years later. I took dancing classes. All friendly ladies around me. The teacher said that it is about fun and not achievement but the fluorescent tubes scorned. Shimmies… shake the legs I hate. Undulations… make an s-shape with the chest and stomach I hate. Hand on the forehead to frame the face I hate… turn 45 degrees to the right… that angle that makes my nose look even bigger. Hear the music! Feel the music! Follow the beat! But I heared no drums just echoes from children and teenagers of the past.
Five years later. In front of the screen projecting a tutorial video. In front of the mirror. In a nightclub. Shimmies and undulations and figure eights and snake arms and hands moving to frame the hip, the butt, the stomach, the breasts and all other parts that I love to shake… and yes I even frame my face. The small town voices are scattered like confetti on the dance floor, they are just pieces of plastic, not gold, not worth any attention all, nothing by garbage under my shoes. And the only voice weaved into the music is that of my teacher: Feel the beat!