Last night’s dancing aches all the way into the marrow of my bones. It’s surgical, how my muscles are taut, leaning on my sinew, tight, as if I were a supplicant who crawled to her pilgrimage, high voltage, a stanza of sore and continuous dull pain. I move slowly today, proposing to each group of movements in turn. Please, my left, my right, my feet, my hips and belly and back, only five more steps until we get to sit, rather than stand, rest rather than walk. They are deaf, restricted, injected with distrust for higher brain functions. It’s you who got us into this mess! they cry, as heavy as a wounded heart. You and your dancing, your twisting wrists, your skirt flaring more lightweight than rain! They are sassy, unhappy, a smashed set of porcelain. Save me if I ever have to run.
The festival was beautiful. At the last, I stood in the pit between the fenced off crowd and the stage, eyes stinging as a thousand people held hands and sang. Security shooed me to the very front, smiling at my camera, at my shining, perfect moment. I wished with all my heart for someone to hold there with me, to pin me to that place and time, and keep me there, a flower blooming precisely, forever in shared memory.
Best seat in the house, barring the stage, that. Best seat anywhere.
I’m looking forward to my pictures.