Saturday, February 23, 2013
I've unexpectedly found myself dancing in Grandmom's boots before - the green rubber Huntress pair that I didn't know was a "thing" until some bar girl expressed her good natured envy. They're by no means good for dancing, but sometimes you end up at a certain makeshift music venue after a certain rainy day. And I think Grandmom wouldn't mind...I think Grandmom would be happy that I'm happy in them. Dancing is movement and processing; eyes closed, while I let a wave of motion snake up my spine and through my arms, I think slice of life thoughts, oddly juxtaposed to the present grinding, drinking and blinking. Tonight, as always, it was therapy. Those clunky rubber shoes on my feet, I felt supported, too.