Damn it’s been too long since I’ve really been able to shake my ass freely, to get the whole body moving to music that’s good enough so that it is only natural to move to it. Dancing all day, all night–it’s soul therapy is what it is. The rhythm moves through the limbs like divine wind. Pictures are made in the air, barely visible breathy traces of color and sound. Interpreted narratives of the body, spiritual made visceral. My ass shaking like a salsa drum beat, salt from the sky. There’s water and liquor and other things but all that really matters is that you move according to something beyond mere convention. That a light opens in your head and flows through out. The wallflowers know that there must be death in freedom, and they fear it. Some pursue their fantasies of freaking. The movement of dance is past desire, even as it creates it. It is past confinement in observation. It must be performed. It must be enacted. It must be lived.