> Nor can he dance...
Just hand me my rubber shorts, my boots and some leather... HERE WE GO! Every time I go dancing I lose part of myself... something inside me dies and is reborn. It's the closet thing to a mystical experience as I've had. The pounding rythym as my head tosses back and my arms swing wild, one step forward, two steps left. Dancing is political with me. And I always wonder, as the Chemical Brothers storm, What would Adorno think about techno? as I smash my head down and rise up slightly taller than the person next to me... grind and thump, I feel... alive... shuffle and rage... I'm not an addict (It's cool)... I feel a freedom and absorption, would Hegel have been proud? its a letting everything go and passing it off to absolute irresponsibility: pure jouissance. Everything appears rapid, vapid, without cause... spontaneous, and illusion. The beautiful people, pass me by. How could they not? I look likey everyone else. Tangle feet, as I imitate what I see and take my response from an other. Sparkles, glitter, sheen and tight, sometimes a drink in hand (I've never liked the feeling of being drunk... something about losing control) and I loose control. Toss and turn, its a struggle - a call and response. Communicating nothing and everything... I watch myself slide into the shadow of the spotlight, hips avenging their tranquility from sitting all day in front of a class, in front of a computer... in a library... at the table. I hunger. Every time I go dancing, I lose part of myself...
ken
Kenneth also means "handsome one" in Gaelic - an object of beauty, a question of taste, a product of reason. God, I've been reading too much Rousseau.