It’s Three A.M.

by

Do you know where your blog is?

Ah, good gravy.  I did it.  I went dancing.  Full on slam tilt boogie.  Hollered my head off, shook my ass, got good and hot and sweaty and let it all out.

All of it.

I have not had a session like that in some time.  It was just what the dance doctor ordered.  I made new friends.  I saw old friends.  I smiled so hard my cheek muscles ached.  I sang.  I even cried a little.

Uh, I mean, I got mascara in my eye and it made them water.

Ah, yeah.

Music is cathartic.  Dancing is soul sustenance.  I need them both.

I could tell today that I might have to do a rally when the day was over.  But oddly enough, even at 9:30 a.m. this morning I knew I was going dancing.  I don’t know if it was a case of the fuck its.

Fuck work.

Oh, I’ll still be going.  I don’t know how not to work unless I am sick and even then it takes some grave ass sick to get me down for the count.  I just won’t be my normal, I slept 8 hours perky self.

I will have a lot of coffee and at some point I will probably crash the hell out. So be it.

That’s the biggest fuck it I have today.

No more calling in sick from the back patio of the End Up.  No more after hours after hours after hours parties.  No more trying to flag a cab to get home before the sun rises and my room-mate gets up.

Nothing is worse than creeping in early in the morning and running into a room-mate getting up for their job.

Shiver.

Oh, and I will be a little sore tomorrow.  I am sore now.  This body likes to act young, but it ain’t no spring chicken anymore.

I was envying the gorgeous blue suede platforms that Siouxsie was wearing this evening and half-heartedly wished I had worn my heels too.  They made a brief appearance before the evenings dancing began, but I took them back off after acknowledging that although retardedly cute, they were not shoes meant for breaking off a groove in.

Out came the Converse.

I am glad that I made that choice.  I would not have lasted half as long.  My knees are sore, my neck is sore, my arms are sore.

Such a good ache though, the tenderness in my body pure unadulterated evidence of having gone out and embraced my life and let myself get right with God.

Yeah, music is God for me.

Get your Flash Dance reference in now, please.

Music is spiritual.  Music is love.  Music moves me.  I can’t explain it, I just know it when I feel it.

I certainly felt it tonight.

I probably looked like I was rolling on some sound E.

Nope.

It’s not you, it’s the E talking.

Wait a minute.

It is me.

It is me channeling the heavens right down through the palms of my hands into my arms to radiate out my breast-plate and down through my feet and connect me to the ground.

I felt it.

“I think some one has a crush on the dj,” a friend once said to me after I heard an earth-shaking set at 1015 by Jonathan Ojeda.

Nope.

But I had seen God.

I had a white light experience.

They do happen.

It was the E talking.

Yet, still there is a fondness for that memory.  I was searching for something, communing with something, even when I was mucked up in the brain, I have always known that something was carrying me.

Maybe it was the J.Davis Trio.

Or Madisalsa.

Maybe it was Moby.

Or Dubtribe.

It might have been Jeff Buckley.

It certainly was Morphine.

Tori Amos nailed it.

Tortured Soul banged it out.

Exquisitely Soul Coughing.

Torn apart and put asunder by Terese Taylor.

Blown down and rolled over by Underworld.

Then they blew me up again.

I only mention this because I seriously had an orgasm listening to them play at the Warfield.  I danced so hard I got myself off.

It was definitely a spiritual experience.

Maybe it was the party panties.

Nevertheless, I have found God not only in the small quiet space between the notes but in the lyrics, the rhymes, the primal beat of the drum.

Music is evocative and like smell will take me back to a memory a place an emotion, so visceral, so vivid, that sometimes I can’t even listen to it.

I still have a really, really challenging time listening to Shuggie Otis.  The depth of sorrow I was in during the time of my life when I was playing Inspiration Information was devastating and horrid that even listening to Strawberry Letter Number 23 makes me cringe in remembrance.

I was very near my drug bottom and I could not play it anymore.

Music had deserted me.  I was left alone in the quicksand of my own brain.

I stopped because it was too painful to listen to.

My head made up its own mantras instead.  The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.  On loop for hours.

Horrendous.

Or

Stop it.  Stop it.  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Ad nauseum.

Shiver.

No more.

Music is my recovery, my raison d’être, my passion, my love, my inspiration

And I owe my life to the dance.

And a very beat up pair of Converse.

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One Response to “It’s Three A.M.”

  1. wmabel217 Says:

    Thanks for sharing…I have not danced in quite some time…This is going to make me put on my dancing shoes and cut a rug…lol…thanks again.

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