The initial inspiration for me to take up dancing came from seeing performances of Gauri Ammal when I was very young. If this lady had not brought the dance to such a stage of development, the combination of music and dance that I have attempted to realize would not have been possible.
It may be true that I had dancing in my blood… I was a toddler when I danced deliriously with that street beggar. All called him a madman when he brought the house down with his frenetic dancing. Was he really mad? His unerring jatis (danced to rhythmic patterns) reverberate in my mind. Who knows which siddhapurusha (literally: with all accomplishments”) he was? I can still see the gleam in
his eye. If I am dance-mad now how could it be otherwise?… My first guru was a madman.
Even with all our technological accomplishments and urban sophistication, we consider ourselves blessed, healed in some manner, forgiven, and for a moment transported into some other world, when we catch a passing glimpse of an animal in the wild: a deer in some woodland, a fox crossing a field, a butterfly in its dancing flight southward to its wintering region, a hawk soaring in the distant sky,
a hummingbird come into our garden, fireflies signaling to each other in the evening. So we might describe the thousandfold moments when we experience our meetings with the animals in their unrestrained and undomesticated status. Such incidents as these remind us that the universe is composed of subjects to be communed with, not of objects to be exploited.
We are all shitty little snowflakes dancing in the universe.
You've got your mother in a whirl
She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl.
Hey babe, your hair's alright.
Hey babe, let's go out tonight.
You like me, and I like it all.
We like dancing and we look divine.
You love bands when they're playing hard.
You want more and you want it fast.
Must have counted twenty thousand cold county lines; nothing here will get my weary soul to ignite. Hold me, hold me. Put me back together, baby. Show me that you love me; feels so good together. Every single fire, started with a spark. We could feel it burn, when we're dancing in the dark. Take me in your arms, before I fall apart. Baby, we're a fire that started with a spark.
Stamping around, waiting, I cursed England aloud, hands dug deep into pockets, dancing to the wind that knocked in vain at the Sunday shops. Cigarette-packets, football fixtures, bus-tickets sailed by in dust-ghosts of Saturday. A woman with a puce face and a blancmange-coloured prayer-book was waiting also for The Priest and Pig, and she looked puce disapproval at me. Twenty minutes late, the bus
yawned in from town, near-empty, and it swallowed us in a gape of Sunday ennui. So we sundayed along, rattling and creaking in Sunday hollowness, I upstairs, tearing my elevenpenny ticket while I read the prospectus of Winter Commercial Classes stuck on the window.