My son and I were watching the movie Cotton Club the other night, sweating our asses off at 11:00 PM, the weather had been just brutal here, glass of Rose silently puddling at my side as I cringed and flinched at the horrible dialog and cheesed up mobster costumes but then came what I was waiting for, why I’d seen that movie more than I would ever care to admit, the dance scenes. Little beads of sweat slipping past my shoulder blades, running the length of my spine and soaking the waistband of my jeans, my weary head bobbing as I watched bodies move about to music, lost in the watching of soulful expression.
“My God, look at him” my mother in awe watching Mikhail Baryshnikov jump, twirl and suspend his body as we were watching White Nights. I had to agree, it was magical to watch, so perfect and polished, beautiful in the way classic sculpture is but I just sat, waited for the one point in the movie that had me scooting to the front of the couch, my toes digging into our thick and dusty carpet, eyes wide as my body responded the only way it knew how to, vibrate with want. Gregory Hines alone in a studio, hard floors and a wall of mirrors, his ultra-thin and slouchy frame in a tank top and baggy slacks. The energy at first coming from his feet, his tap shoes pounding out music of their own, almost dueling with whatever sound was coming from the boom box, the tap-tap-tap, gravely sounding drags and heart-thumping “bang” as he lifted both metal enhanced feet and once again slammed them against the ground. Toes, heels, ankles, knees and finally his whole body was adding motion, sound and expression as he danced. Shoulders, one just slightly before the other, dipping and shaking, making the eyes follow the beat all the way down his frame as he danced out his pain. Compared to ballet it may have seemed rudimentary….but for me, so soulful and way fucking sexy. While I could always see and appreciate Baryshnikov, it was Hines, that scratching and pounding that spoke to me, “My God, look at him”…
Been in a wicked funk lately. Not pissy, not angry, although my last two posts, upon rereading do make me sound a little bitchy, I don’t have the tell-tale signs of bitchdom…just blah. Might be the heat, could be the sluggish traffic at the shop or the fact that I practically had to beg to get ten people to sign up for my last class. Probably some witch’s brew of all the above and as someone that loathes unexplained mood swings or the blaming of hormones, (but I’m guessing as I get older I will be much more compassionate about that business) and prefers a more practical, “Okay, why is this happening?” approach, well my “Blah” has been nibbling at me. Like the picking at a scab and the, “Ouch, quit it” that comes with it.
Haven’t wanted to read, write, talk, be talked to, be ignored, sit silent, go outside and be active, be touched or find my inner seductress as I sit next to someone that isn’t touching me…inspiring them to want nothing more but to. Not angry, not sad, not lonely, not annoyed, not sexy….just not. Sucks, like hard and not in that tummy flipping and tongue flicking kind of way. Feels like some self-inflicted form of lock down where even my palate isn’t allowed conjugal visits. But…
Saturday night I was whisked off in a limo full of friends/ customers, was doused in grower Champagne and seduced with historic Los Angeles beef dip sandwiches. Rendered drunk on laughter, runny cheeses, potato chips and ladies in high heels and short shorts. Felt myself holding back, knowing I was in charge of taking at least one of the drunken revelers home, feeling in charge of the opening of the Champagnes that I had introduced that group to, making sure everyone had salty snacks to hold in their fist pumping Tom Petty sing along paws. Control, too much control, not of others mind you, nothing I love more than watching people get their “loss of” on, hell I’m the one opening the bottles! No, too much control of me….and I’m beginning to discover, the more I close myself off, the more I lose. The more I become like those sad ladies that raised me….no more, enough, I’m jumping back in the deep end and my skin is way beyond ready to be covered in bumps.
Came home after bubbles and viewing the soulful expression of a dear friend that used her art to work through her divorce. Splashed blues and blacks on draped pieces of glossy material, hung them from the ceiling, her shoulders dipping and shaking as she challenged us to watch her music move down her body, the reason we were piled in that Champagne and cheese soaked limo, to find what I know I have been aching for….inspiration. The new Dave Matthews Band, (goddamn it Google alert, I’m aging here! How am I to start my affair with that man if you don’t alert him?!) CD sitting on the dining room table, right where I sit and try to create, inspire and share my boozy lusting and findings.
“Oh My Love, if I had my way all your dreams, would come true”
“Spread yourself across my lips and I’ll spoon you in”
“Make your belly full and all your dreams come true”
“You are like a secret garden as I shuffle through this broken town”
“If you are tired I’ll bare your burden, if you’re dreaming I will not disturb you”
“Come winter I’ll build you a fire from the bones of who I used to be, before you came and washed the weary away, before you came here for me”
The slow, almost mournful twang of a banjo and callused fingertips strumming at tight strings in the absolute perfect pitch, soulful growl flicking away at parts of me that have been resting beneath my dormant flesh just aching, begging to tear through. Shifting of my thick hips, moving and sinking my toes into thick carpet once again, my heart thumping and mouth watering as my shoulders dip with each saturated mouthful of “Just what I need” spills across my needing soul, stealing my breath and lapping at my heels.
Fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle, cold air finally moving through with enough strength to lift my thin white t-shirt as I slip out my apartment, the rush of “What are you doing?” and “Why not?” covering my still skin, pulling it tight and making my ache visible….toes poorly pained and also in need of attention plunging into the cool water of the spring that trickles harmlessly through the hushed complex. A woman, a girl, in need of refreshment finding it with Dave Matthews, (Really Google? C’mon now) the sweet burn of indulgence filling my mouth as the cold water bites at my ankles. Feeling that shell crack against the pan and your soul spill out upon a surface that makes you jump….sizzle and gives “over easy” a whole new meaning. Fuck. Maybe I needed that lull to feel this high but, high I am...... Dave mixed with Armagnac, maybe not as elegant or regal, as polished as Cognac but much like Hines and his pounding, sexy as hell and has me worshiping at the altar of soulful expression. Dave’s voice and prose, raw passion and brilliance coaxing me into a state of utter….openness, the Armagnac filing my mouth with richness, profundity and a sting of seriousness that keeps me from teetering too far over the edge but raises my brow and begs for….just one more.
Now about that touching me business….