thursday night
rubbish and recycling night

put out the plastic city council approved rubbish bags on the roadside because they don't collect at the gate anymore

tie up the old newspapers and plastic bottles and cans and leave them in the recycling bin

airline food does not get better

breakfast

mushroom omelette, smallest sausage in the world, cheap cubes of fruit

dinner

tiny mince pie,  pate of dubious origin and crackers, cheap red wine

Gawky white boy alone on the floor. Can't dance. Got no rhythm.

Someone once told me I wasn't a good dancer. Do you know how long an off-hand comment like that lasts, how deep it wounds?

And so I dance rarely.

You know what though? I like dancing. And in my mind, at least, I dance beautifully. Swaying and moving and bopping. Hearing the music in my own way and responding to it.

I'm thinking these thoughts because I danced tonight. Kind of. And because not dancing seems somehow emblematic of me. A Shh in front of my I. Shy. And because my thoughts over the last couple of days have been a tentative barefoot step to the edge of the dancefloor.

The music was by a band called Lazy, but it could have been most anyone. Matthew was lying on the floor, looking up at me, so I picked him up into my arms and we danced. His head tucked under my chin, moving amongst the chairs and the tables and the toys. We danced.

When I dance I like space around me, and others dancing are good, and I pirouette and turn and contort my body, and I spin around and around and I lose my self consciousness as I smile, often to myself, and my eyes are sometimes closed, heightening the pure sensation of movement and abandonment.

When I dance I am sometimes the me I want to be.

Never tell someone they can't dance.