We can go when we want to.
The night is young and so am I.
And we can dress real neat
From our hats to our feet;
And surprise ’em with the victory cry.
Say, we can act if want to,
If we don’t, nobody will.
And you can act real rude and totally removed
And I can act like an imbecile.
Who thought new-wave synthpop would help me feel better about disloyalty and betrayal and stuff?
THEY KNEW. AND NOW I KNOW. Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’ve always seen dancing as a metaphor (probably because I’ve got the moves of a spasmodic little git) for how one wants others to view their personality.
I take the piss when people are watching, but I’m unfettered when nobody’s around. If someone’s there, my eyes are usually closed (can’t see me if I can’t see you, right…? Shit…) or I’m staring dead ahead like I’ve seen war at its ugliest. The keloid scars of social rejection testify to this anomaly in my behaviour.
Someone can be watching from the sidelines and think they’re the missing part of your routine (read: somehow drawn to you) and then you’re thrown off due to anticipating what they’re gonna do. But sometimes it goes well if you don’t think about it in such a clinical way (guilty as charged). I’ve sent a lot of people trudging off leaving a faint trail of disappointment (read: your expectations are intimidating; I didn’t sign up for all that) and all of a sudden, I’m the bad guy.
I’m a bitch for not meeting someone in the middle.
I’m a snob for not wanting to participate in something imposed on me.
And if I dance when I don’t want to, it shows. A contrived performance is almost always a sad one.
Disappointment is Anticipation’s angst-ridden stepsister, I’m almost certain of it.
If I’m not mistaken, then it’s only embarrassing if your impression of yourself is constructed outside you; on the shifting sands of somebody else’s perceptions and expectations, your castle won’t stand and you’ll be the Seaside Ruler of Nothing. There are cardboard crowns for people like this (but you gotta buy a burger. If so, may I please have your fries?). Just make sure not to drop it in the water.
This is part of why I love live music so much. I can do what the fuck I want because I know it’s all about the people on stage and the sounds they make. The heat’s off me, thank goodness. I can dance like a drunk stripper. I can be as ‘interpretative’ as I like (SAFETY ARMS). I can throw horns without being bagged as a ‘poser’. Or I can stand my ground and not move much at all. I can scream things. I can be silent. Because it’s not about me.
If people are free to dance without me, that suits me fine. I dance better when I’m by myself. Let’s all be alone together, whatever that means.