Movement means bodies doing something in my mind, and Beastie Boys too, get on down, the mic drops, Geronimo, and Good & Plenty’s and coupon dropping grannies, we all gotta get our spines a-going, a-bending, a-springing, or they start to rust and creak and crack, and the skin not so supple and the cottage cheeses, long pans of ricotta-lasagna-mess on my thighs seems to multiply while the legs get pencil-thin in jeans and knee’s in line with out of time hip start to skip a bit on the AAMC dance floor, so much fun though, and I throw my head back and laugh, watch the young-uns get real far down to the tunes they think are retro, butt scrubbing the floor and polishing their partner’s with their brick-bouncing behinds, static so slow, 2001 is still hot to me, and that’s how I know that I am old, but I push my own mower and paint circles around many a gym rat—shake crazy, arms free from my sides in frenzied movement. And, look! Not a one period in an entire paragraph, no stops, just FLOW!
Me, as ecstatic dance teacher takes them from meditative-five, story-telling journey’s—and then you find a music box, or you see a flashing shape, now YOU take it to the floor and let it escape or blossom, your choice, there are markers and white sheets if you’re the type who takes down notes of body/psyche wirings, oh, feel so free, roll around on the second-story floor if you must, leap, turn, shuffle, advance, run the entire odd-fellows length, bust into robot, or tip-toes ballerina your way back home, just don’t be confused by what your body wants,
to MOVE!
Video Credit: BeastieBoysSolidGold/youtube
Video Credit: Ludicris/youtube