Dancing is hard, too, like writing. I mean the kind of dance you do at a club, a party, lights low or roving or flashing or spotted, music a pulse behind and current of words, a bottle rolling, a triangle of pool balls suddenly split. And you there, moving your body, an improvisation of flailing limbs, rhythmic head bounce, knees, steps. It’s absurd, as are all our human bodily functions, the necessary ones (and I count writing in there).
We name dance to honor the bizarre: freak, twerk, limbo, jam. Not everybody looks good dancing from the outside, but everyone can feel the poetry of the inside–like singing in the shower, the insistence of the loud water, the encouragement of the tile’s echo, the raw, pure need for song. For dance. For what your pen produces, your keyboard sings.
You can’t worry, much, about what you look like in the dark there, in the chaos of movement, thought you can admire the deep reflection in a piece of mirror or the window pane. Better to be matched by another body, reflected in movement and time, tiny and upsidedown in someone else’s eye. The point is to move, to learn the music and the room and other people through the persistent experiment of motion and joy.