On the Fine Art of Dancing

One of the nice thing about dancing in public with your woman is that you know you only have one moment in time, one fleeting wisp of a lifetime, to touch people. To combine your physical form, your compounded atoms, molecules, and muons, with the atmosphere that surrounds you. The atmosphere of oxygen and nitrogen and music and laughter and tears, and you have that one wisp of a moment to combine with all the world around you and claw your way into people's hearts via their ocular cavities. Scratch your way into their optic nerves, travel the path that leads to their mind, and then into the region of the brain that controls involuntary muscle functions such as that of a beating heart, and to nest inside that heart, with your art, curled in their hearts like a small blood clot waiting to explode with the emotion of a perfect moment. That is what my dancing can do.

Not to say that Lori is a prop when we're dancing, of course, because she's more than that. But she's not quite a partner either. A partner implies a level of equality that I'm not quite comfortable with when I think of her dancing abilities. But one thing that's important in a marriage is honesty. That's a very important thing, ask anyone. So when I tell Lori that she's a fine dancer, I mean it.

But I am divine.

I know that sounds conceited, perhaps, but think of it, rather, as honesty. I am only being honest, and when you're honest about something you know you're good at, it inevitably sounds like pomposity. I am an incredible dancer, though, and Lori will tell you as much. In some circles I have been described as "otherworldly" and "tantalizingly envelope-pushing." The remarkable thing about me is that I combine the dancer's two most important traits: I am able to both recreate a certain movement and I am able to create moves of my own.

Example: if I see a dance move, but once, I can recreate it perfectly. I am born with the gift of Xerox, the Greek god of mimicry. You're hopping on one foot, you say? Watch this: perfect mimicry. I'm hopping on the very same foot at the precise height and speed as yourself. What's that? The human worm? Observe my undulations as I careen across the room. Did you do the same dance twice they'll ask you? No, you'll have to admit. The second time, that was Andrew. But that's not all I have in my bag of tricks. Even a monkey can mimic. A parrot can speak, but there is no true meaning behind its words. The mimic is my animal half, the part that makes me steppenparrot.

The humanity, the sheer creativity that I can produce of my own will and essence, is the part of me that creates as I dance. I am born of Natraj, the Indian god of dance, and in the moment I channel the world's energies as my limbs instantaneously calculate windspeed, magnetic field viability, levels of various gasses in the surrounding atmosphere, and, of course, the spirit of the audience that seems to constantly surround me, and based on these instant calculations I move. A foot here. A hip there. Back flip. Front flip. Somersault. You don't know what you'll see next. All you'll know is that what you're seeing is perfection embodied. I'm just saying the truth, and if the truth bothers you, well... I guess you should just come watch me dance.