Tag Archives: music

Inside I’m Dancing

Once upon a twenties, there was a girl who loved nothing more than dancing and sweating whilst dancing and grinding and say then day that particular movement was dancing. Said girl’s only aerobic exercise for a long while, was the dancing. The pleasure she would get from the shuffle to a deep base would be evident when her hands would creep up over her shoulders. She was no ballerina. She did not have the elegance of a ballerina. Her dancing usually was reserved to prancing around her bedroom in her pants or it was directed towards a DJ booth. She had rhythm. Unsightly rhythm.

Said girl no longer dances. Not really. She has lost her rhythm. Her movement is restricted to a wobbly shuffle that she calls walking and that only occurs because she is heavily medicated. Her government has assessed her and deemed that she should only walk 200 yards at a time, thus pulsating her radiotherapy experienced hip really is out of the question. If she did not find twerking distasteful, the cement in her spine would still be a reason enough not to do it. Her arms are similarly weak and as sometimes these limbs cannot be raised above her shoulders, the distinction for her between walking and dancing, she felt, would be slight.

People adapt obviously, and our heroine has become partial to some private bed dancing, which is much cleaner than it sounds. It involves lying flat on a mattress, a bed really because she would struggle to get down on a mattress, and then wriggling her feet and hands. The activity usually takes place when the lady in question is intoxicated and attempting to recreate the euphoria of yesteryear whilst proudly listening to Katy Perry’s Fireworks. For her, this activity is still rare.

Rarer still is any form of publicly busting a move. Walking with a stick in hand is embarrassing enough for her as a 29 year old experiencing London nightlife, but dancing, her new ‘dancing’ would be impossible. Living in her brittle shell makes it difficult for her to experience London nightlife, so she would be unlikely to open herself up to the danger of being pushed and prodded on a crowded and slippery dance floor, when she is already having to manage the increased danger from the public that emerges through alcohol. There would be murder on the dance floor.

The loss was felt, until one day, after a few sherbets, in a room protected by her dear friends, she danced. For ten minutes before having to sit. She did not grind and she did not twerk, nor did she throw her hands in the air like she did not care. Importantly, she did not want to stand on the sidelines feeling self conscious and grieving. Deprived of obstacles, armed with her stick for back support, she moved from left to right to the sound of a beat. There was some backwards shuffling and even some sort of movement with other people. With stick in hand she moved from side to side. And she smiled.

Nobody bashed her and nobody drunkenly grabbed her neck and pulled it down because they were a moron, and nobody attempted to twirl her. She moved and she adapted.

It hurt her like hell the next day though, but if anybody were to ask her, she would have said that it was worth it.

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Gangnam Style

Since August, I have let many things pass me by because I have not had the energy or the brain capacity to engage. For nearly two months I could not read about film or popular culture in general, because it represents something I am missing out on as I go through my treatment. I could not tell you what was in the news in late August and all of September. Partly because my memory is diabolical, but mostly because I did not read the paper. I could not bring myself to do it. Thankfully, things are different now and I use my energy when I have it to find out what is happening outside my front door. It’s for the best and it prevents me from asking Housemate for a minute by minute account of his working day when he walks through the door at 17:00hrs.

I have spent a great deal of energy being angry with My Myeloma for making me miss out on these things. In October I was embarrassed. I had spent too much time falling asleep to Jerry Bruckheimer productions that I had seen before. These days, I find that reading helps me maintain some levels of interest in non-cancer related issues and assists me in holding a semi-interesting conversation with others. Whether it assists them, is another matter entirely.

That said, I am most grateful to My Myeloma that I have only discovered what Gangnam Style is in the last fortnight. I do not think my life is enriched by this discovery. Correction, my life is not enriched by this discovery. It is everywhere. My parents are talking about it, my niece is recreating the dance in my bedroom (I may allow this) and I do not understand why there are three articles about it on the Guardian website today. Who is Psy? Who is the ‘Sexy Lady’? Is the dance supposed to lure prospective bed partners, with the ever subtle reveal of the crotch whilst miming beating a cake batter with your hands and then waving the spoon in the air? The dance suggests that you can bounce, have rude bits and be a homemaker. Is the song actually about Nigella Lawson? I don’t get it and thankfully, because of My Myeloma, I will not be recreating the dance any time soon. Unless I really, really love you.

Can’t we all just watch ‘Oldboy’ instead?

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Rhythm

Given what I just witnessed in the mirror, I appear to have lost my rhythm. Have you seen it? I looks like childbearing hips thrusting in time to a dirty beat, but better. So much better.

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