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I WON'T DANCE..
DON' ASK ME......
"Dancing... she said...
Let's go dancing..."
It was a time worn debate..
the one unsurmountable argument that she could levy at me
whenever things had just gone a tad too smoothly
for too long,
and a pout was needed to restore the equilibrium
the magical abrasive disharmony
that prevented a sugar attack in our lives together.
I tried pretending not to hear her,
I don't know why it is that men do that..
it has never worked,
doesn't now
and almost assuredly never will..
and yet we continue to simply bury ourselves
in whatever we happen to be doing at the time,
even if it's just daydreaming...
it didn't work now either.
She stood steadfastly between my eyes and the picture on the wall
that suddenly needed adjustment...
I moved around her, gracefully.
"c'mon..let's just dress up, for once,
and go pretend we can still have fun with each other"
I ignored the attempt to denigrade the wonder of our lives together
in the suggestion that
we were meaningless in casual clothing...
but it was to no avail.
I knew what was coming..
knew where it would go,
and how it would end...
and yet it had to go there anyway,
had to be said..
had to be cried over...
had to be apologized for...
there was no escape,
no quarter asked or given..
it was an omnipresence in our relationship...
as queried and unending
as old loves and lovers.
This time, I would stop it,
once and for all.
I sat next to her, on the couch..
took a deep breath..
and began to speak....
"I know that I have told you many times why I don't dance
except under very carefully delineated circumstances,
and I know that you don't consider my reasons to be valid..
or even real,
and yet to me they are very real..
very... tangible.
I know that there are lots of men,
who love to dance..
love to wear boots or soft leather imported shoes..
love to whirl like satellites
in time with the beat...
They dress well,
they make the right moves
and they interact.
these are good men
but they make life very difficult for the few of us out there
who don't actually like to dance...
I don't make their lives difficult
by allowing women to know that some men like to cook and clean...
why must they make a hell out of mine
by suggesting that dancing is anything more
than ritualistic foreplay...
a prelude to bedding
or worse
to rejection.
I used to dance..
used to be quite good at it actually.
But one day I realised that I didn't actually like it..
it's an odd combination really..
music and romance...
nothing in my life..
no one single thing
has meant more to me than music.
It lights me,
carries me smoothly and effortlessly
to entirely different places than most folks.
when the music comes..
I lose all control,
all sense of power
and I become one with the harmony of the universe.
My entire body moves
and taps and sways...
I don't control it..
don't even want to.
My face contorts,
my eyes half close..
I forget where I am,
and with whom..
it is the magic of music..
the drug of decadence .
The idea of going specifically to a place,
with the premeditated intent
of just sort of casually using
the rhythm..
the beat..
to act out some form of primal mating exhibition
is just a little ... sacrilegious to me.
and then,
on the other hand..
there's Fred.
It was in the dark days of my youth,
huddled from the winter England cold,
in front of my parents flickering black and white t.v.
that I first saw Fred.
I had been raised on good jazz..
raised to hear
musicians that could curl the small hairs on the back of the neck..
dragging and kicking and flying high
into the truth of the cosmos
with every chord they got..
it was freeform,
liberating..
just the thing to set free the soul of any young man..
and so,
when the big bands roared out of the tiny tv speaker..
I began to pay attention..
and there,
before my amazed eyes,
was the most refined form of human achievement
since we first crawled from the ooze..
dressed in clothing that only Disney could have designed..
clothes to make a woman swoon,
moving in front of the most perfect sets to ever grace a movie screen...
there he was.
And with consummate grace,
he moved.
moved like quicksilver
moved like light itself..
moved like warm air.
In some intricately designed form of matter transfer
he became one with the sound..
breathing the very breath of life
into notes and chords and harmonies..
a man in full and total control of each and every cell of his being,
he rode the music like a wave,
like some effortless sound surfer
he stood above the noise
and tamed it..
made it his own personal chariot
and toyed with each small nuance....
I don't remember the movie..
or the song..
or even the setting ..
I only know that I was devastated..
unable to even breathe for many minutes after the credits rolled.
Since that dark evening,
I have seen every move the man ever made
for public appreciation.
I agree that he was a fine interpreter
of wonderful songs,
blessed with some of the most spectacular partners
that any dancer could hope for....
I have learned,
since that day,
of his obsession with perfection,
of his careful rehearsal of every tiny movement...
and yet
I don't believe any of it...
I believe that the rehearsal was all a carefully crafted act,
to convince us of his mortality,
his imperfect humanity...
I will never believe anything other
than that he was then and for always,
the living embodiment
of the god of life..
the muse come to earth
in spats and tails
to teach us of the impossible dream..
When my teenage friends came out of the darkened movie theaters
walking like Wayne..
talking like Connery..
I came into the light
in wonder and awe
at the magic in the movements.
I never wanted to BE Fred...
never wanted to be able to do what he could do..
never wanted the responsibility...
never wanted the power...
But I saw no sense in dancing after that..
saw nothing to be gained.
Why enter any race that has already been won,
in such devastatingly effortless fashion
and by such an unapproachable margin??
I can't begin to imagine the fear that must have dominated
his every waking moment..
the joy when it worked and the dread that it might not,
some day.
I never bothered to learn to play the guitar
after I heard Django,
never wanted to paint
after seeing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,
and never tried to sing jazz once I heard Ella.
Why try to dance,
after Fred.
And then there's the sex of it.
When I see the macharina,
or the tango..
there is too much sex..
and too little romance.
When I see the waltz
or the foxtrot..
there is too little sex
and too much romance...
and linedancing...????
what the hell is linedancing...
who invented that...
some demented hallroom monitor
obsessed with walking a straight line..???
some half crazed drill Sargent
giving in to too much agent orange induced control fantasy???
line dancing is the paint by numbers of the dance world...
it's like eating spaghetti out of a can..
it's not really spaghetti,
it just reminds you of spaghetti.
When I'm with the woman I love,
I want to gaze into her eyes,
and make small and tender gestures
with my fingertips..
I see nothing to be gained from standing several feet away
and gyrating at her,
surrounded by sweat and swagger.
I told her all that..
again..
and she nodded... again.
But she still doesn't get it...
still doesn't understand...
even though she knows that
even now,
after all these years,
there's not a week goes by that I don't settle down
in the late night
alone
and watch the black and white flicker of
Top Hat
or Rio.
And some time
she'll ask me again..
and she'll hate my answer..
but
it won't change.
If you found any of these pieces educational or at least amusing, drop a note of encouragement to
and maybe more such pieces will appear....
and
Remember to hug your Kids
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