The Stage

Headphones in a glass room. The casual ignorance of the lack of soundproof walls and tinted glass. Performance value.

There is always a song to be sung, a dance to begin at the most basic tapping of finger tips. I see figures floating across a stage in perfectly coordinated movements - swaying(or popping) to the rhythm of a sultry love song, or rapid pant of a heart-pounding club beat. The first jazz dance of Gershwin in a sequin top hat(glitter was an eye hazard) and the last twirl-and-dip on the sticky local bar floor are not to be forgotten.

Tap dancing with mirrors to match movement to tap dancing across a heart with no recollection of its happening. I miss the time step.

 

Sometimes the best expression of style occurs alone in carpeted bedroom. Doors closed, with only the mirrors to judge what is exposed. A song echoing off the basement walls - with only the pitter patter of miniscule paws to keep time. An existence in the partial secrecy the moon affords you.

 

The daily journey home involving a walk-in-the-park and a game. How close can a person get before they hear the words sailing off one's lips?

Better to be suspended above the viewers of the art, the recitation of words and movement. Blinding bright lights obscure the view of filled seats. No eye contact. Center stage squint. 

Hidden in the limelight for too long, it is time to return.