I went to my first rave in the mid-’90s and remembered that i can dance. That i had always danced, that dancing was in me, as it is in every toddler and each child in the womb. I realized that dancing had never left me, and never will. Even when i can no longer walk or talk or blink my eyes my heart will beat, and i will dance. But for now, while i still can, i leave my ego behind and I take my body to the dancefloor.
Last night towards midnight I felt the call. Put on my special orange wig and my bandit mask. Got on my bike and rode downtown, to a back-alley techno party. Good people, good music, good sound: the three key ingredients held promise. My friends all jammed out but no matter. Carmen was needing to dance.
It still takes some courage to plunge into the party alone. To find comfort in communal solitude. Knowing that my age is far above the party average, transcending generations. Will I be a fool, will i be lonely, will i be sad? Take a risk. Find my breath in my body. Bless the room with my sweat. Let go of all of my self-definitions. To the thump of the bass I give it up, give it up, give it up.