Brittle Bones and Bass

Deep within the coastal mountains I taught a boy to move to the beating of a drum.

“I can’t dance” he said to me.

Nonsense.

I’ve always felt that moving to music isn’t much at all about our bodies or ourselves but rather the action of forgetting it.

To forget our limitations-

To disregard our limbs and worries as if to say,

“Oh, body of mine- you are no wretched thing that keeps the essence of me or what I think I should be encased tightly within the crevasses of my bones.”

Let the music move you.

If Art is to decorate space as Music is to decorate time,

Then be not the bristled wooden brush, firm and unbendable in the palm of musics’ hands…

Be paint,

Dripping all pinks and blues.

-

To dance is to consume music.

Allowing it to pass through your flesh and bone, conductors of vibrant expression without limitation.

“I can’t dance.” He told me long ago,

And what a ridiculous notion-

To think that consuming music through the joints in your knees and the tips of your fingers is something we can in fact control.

And to that I say;

If you are human

And the music is well and good.

We are all dancers,

Just paint, dripping at the will of the weight of color -

All pinks

and bass

And blues.