Thursday, June 14, 2012

When I Dance

When I dance, you better watch out. For I am a force of nature, though not a creative one; I am terror on the dance floor. And though you will recognize me, like a star, I am no pop star, I am not Micheal Jackson; but rather I am akin to a celestial star, where if you get too close to me, your face, arms and chest could melt right off of your skeleton, and you would be sucked into the gravity of my star-belly, bursting in flames.
When I dance, you better hope I am caged, like a tiger or a monkey who is really angry because you keep poking him with a long stick. For my dance is one of genuine, monkey-prodded anger. It should remain pent up, and shared only by accident, like an undercover segment on the news.
Sometimes I dance only with a leash around my neck and tied to a pole. God help us if ever I am unleashed in a public space from that pole. God help everyone if this ever happens. For I will dance my dance of monkey rage, and at this point, protective measures should be taken, not just by me, but by participants around me. Helmets are of particular importance. Set up a perimeter. Firearms will be useless. Do not use them on me, for they only feed the fury. Just let me dance it out, and know that it shall pass.
“Dance, monkey! Dance!” I hear them say. At this point, I know I am vicious. I am at the height of my powers. This is the eye of the storm. I will often times just stand there, present but motionless, and absorb the chants.
“Dance, Monkey! Dance!” they say. And some hipster will scream, “Corrupt the speakers that boom,” and then the second half of the storm begins, my arms and legs flail in permutations hitherto captured only by cartoons. But my dance is a raging monkey cartoon brought to life. And set on fire. This mesmerising abhorrence and curiosity is somehow glorious to watch. Although equally disgusted and intrigued, you find that you cannot turn away. And while I encourage you to look, do not stare, and certainly do not make eye contact. You could get sucked in. Before long, you, too, could be dancing.
And your dance is dangerous, but for a different reason. Your dance is dangerous because you are a bad dancer. You will probably salsa, or cabbage patch, or attempt to do the robot. Please do not dance, for the sake of the children. Stick to tennis, or ice skating, or other activities for white people. Leave the dance to those who have already lost their soul to the Devil of the Dance. All I am saying is this: that when I dance, you better watch out.

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