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The Penultimate Waltz
May. 8th, 2009 11:42 am((This is the essay I've been meaning to post since Flurry --really, more of a narrative. UMYEAH. In the interest of not babbling like an idiot, I don't have any author's notes to preface it with. That's what footnotes are for.))
The Penultimate Waltz
(An essay detailing the happenings of my finest dance this weekend, and a short analysis of the three minute intimate experience.)
In the course of my dance weekend, I had a chance to discuss with a tango instructor the melancholic sensuality of dance. "A three minute deeply intimate experience" he described it, and, catching on to the poetry of the words, stored that thought into my head for later use.
The later use came earlier than expected, the next day, at the end of a contra set. Scouting the hall for someone to dance with, I saw a very vaguely familiar face with a button --"I give hugs".
"Hello, want to dance, and don't I recognize you from NEFFA?" We reintroduced ourselves and joined a set, and I crossed my fingers deep in the back of my mind and prayed, as I always do, that he would be a good partner, and this would be a good set.1
(In contra, the first is far more important than the second, and indeed, unless you are very lucky, there will almost certainly be those you find distasteful, or at best, merely uninteresting.)
So we begin to travel up the set. It is, in a word, exceptional. He is good and I am good and we are Good together.4
That was, unbeknownst to us, the last contra, and after the last contra always comes the Last Waltz. All around us, couples were forming. I waited a polite moment, then went ahead and asked him if he knew how to waltz.
I've danced with many waltzers, some good, some great, some exceptional. He was, perhaps, merely good, slightly on the inexperienced side5 but he had an excellent sense of rhythm and as we danced I found myself drawing steadily closer, to press more against him. He did not pull away -our chemistry palpable to us both.6
We ended, and he pulled me into a hug. (Or perhaps I pulled him, it matters not.) The dancers around us whooped and cheered the music, but we had a mutual reluctance to let go of one another. As I leaned close to him in our hug, I found courage to go ahead and ask -"Would it be impudent of me to ask to kiss you?"
(I am nothing if not terribly polite)
He answered in a positive manner, and our lips met, sweet and warm and wonderful. We pulled apart as the dance dispersed, a slight blush tinting both our cheeks.
"See you at NEFFA" I called as we trailed off in our separate directions, though I think, even if we did, the world will not be the same. But for that three minute intimate moment, nothing mattered but being there and dancing together.
The Last Waltz is meant to be the important one, the one you save, and Dance Flurry ended with one more set of contras and a truly last waltz. But for this festival, of all the dances I danced, that final festival waltz meant nothing compared to the dance (and the kiss) before it --the penultimate waltz.
((Written 15 February 2009))
~Sor
MOOP!
((Postscript, written 8 May 2009:
I danced with him at NEFFA, but we didn't wind up kissing --I may have been slightly distracted at the time. (*coff*) I danced with him last night, being as he was my ride to Concord and whatnot. Ladies7 don't kiss and tell.
He remains probably the best contra dancer I've ever met though. Sorry all the rest of you, 'struth. I've ended a contra with him and been unable to think for a couple minutes --I think the only other person who's ever done that to me just through dancing is Magus, and his glorious waltzing.
...now, to get him into a skirt...>.>))
1: Holy run-on, Batman! This is one of the big problems with whenever I try to be prosey --I get a bit ridiculous2. Also, the line was originally "prayed to the true goddess of dance, for I am merely demi3" but that's perhaps just a bit obscure.
2: I am -well, ridiculously- proud that I have finally figured out how to spell this word.
3: Long ago, mek had heaps and heaps of assorted titles --four altogether, I think, although I can only remember three of them right now. (Ritzy the Anti-Strag, Fiend of Vile Falsehoods, and Crackers of the Pointy Tortilla Chips) At some point, I complained about the fact that I disdn't have any titles at all. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter addressed to "Sor, the Demi-Goddess of Dance". Whether or not I 'deserve' that title is an essay for later, but at the time, it made me incredibly happy.
4: 'k, I was gonna go verbatim from my notebook, but I'm not sure what the hell I was writing here. Yes, that's partially because I was in a car when I wrote this and so can't really read my handwriting. Just know that it was a really unbelievably amazing dance.
5: Sooo tempted to revise this, but it'd be a lie. He is a perfectly fine waltzer, but between Magus and Larry, I have been completely spoiled for merely "fine."
6: Dear Sor. Never write prose again. No, *seriously*. Love Kat.
7: I am not a lady. I am a gentleman, however.
Original Tags:
bestof, dancing, unfiled people-fen, writings, unfiled people-alsoreal, tagged, i-have-a-crush-on-every-boy, i-love-being-poly, gendersex, sexuality, magus, i-write-good-shit: personal
The Penultimate Waltz
(An essay detailing the happenings of my finest dance this weekend, and a short analysis of the three minute intimate experience.)
In the course of my dance weekend, I had a chance to discuss with a tango instructor the melancholic sensuality of dance. "A three minute deeply intimate experience" he described it, and, catching on to the poetry of the words, stored that thought into my head for later use.
The later use came earlier than expected, the next day, at the end of a contra set. Scouting the hall for someone to dance with, I saw a very vaguely familiar face with a button --"I give hugs".
"Hello, want to dance, and don't I recognize you from NEFFA?" We reintroduced ourselves and joined a set, and I crossed my fingers deep in the back of my mind and prayed, as I always do, that he would be a good partner, and this would be a good set.1
(In contra, the first is far more important than the second, and indeed, unless you are very lucky, there will almost certainly be those you find distasteful, or at best, merely uninteresting.)
So we begin to travel up the set. It is, in a word, exceptional. He is good and I am good and we are Good together.4
That was, unbeknownst to us, the last contra, and after the last contra always comes the Last Waltz. All around us, couples were forming. I waited a polite moment, then went ahead and asked him if he knew how to waltz.
I've danced with many waltzers, some good, some great, some exceptional. He was, perhaps, merely good, slightly on the inexperienced side5 but he had an excellent sense of rhythm and as we danced I found myself drawing steadily closer, to press more against him. He did not pull away -our chemistry palpable to us both.6
We ended, and he pulled me into a hug. (Or perhaps I pulled him, it matters not.) The dancers around us whooped and cheered the music, but we had a mutual reluctance to let go of one another. As I leaned close to him in our hug, I found courage to go ahead and ask -"Would it be impudent of me to ask to kiss you?"
(I am nothing if not terribly polite)
He answered in a positive manner, and our lips met, sweet and warm and wonderful. We pulled apart as the dance dispersed, a slight blush tinting both our cheeks.
"See you at NEFFA" I called as we trailed off in our separate directions, though I think, even if we did, the world will not be the same. But for that three minute intimate moment, nothing mattered but being there and dancing together.
The Last Waltz is meant to be the important one, the one you save, and Dance Flurry ended with one more set of contras and a truly last waltz. But for this festival, of all the dances I danced, that final festival waltz meant nothing compared to the dance (and the kiss) before it --the penultimate waltz.
((Written 15 February 2009))
~Sor
MOOP!
((Postscript, written 8 May 2009:
I danced with him at NEFFA, but we didn't wind up kissing --I may have been slightly distracted at the time. (*coff*) I danced with him last night, being as he was my ride to Concord and whatnot. Ladies7 don't kiss and tell.
He remains probably the best contra dancer I've ever met though. Sorry all the rest of you, 'struth. I've ended a contra with him and been unable to think for a couple minutes --I think the only other person who's ever done that to me just through dancing is Magus, and his glorious waltzing.
...now, to get him into a skirt...>.>))
1: Holy run-on, Batman! This is one of the big problems with whenever I try to be prosey --I get a bit ridiculous2. Also, the line was originally "prayed to the true goddess of dance, for I am merely demi3" but that's perhaps just a bit obscure.
2: I am -well, ridiculously- proud that I have finally figured out how to spell this word.
3: Long ago, mek had heaps and heaps of assorted titles --four altogether, I think, although I can only remember three of them right now. (Ritzy the Anti-Strag, Fiend of Vile Falsehoods, and Crackers of the Pointy Tortilla Chips) At some point, I complained about the fact that I disdn't have any titles at all. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter addressed to "Sor, the Demi-Goddess of Dance". Whether or not I 'deserve' that title is an essay for later, but at the time, it made me incredibly happy.
4: 'k, I was gonna go verbatim from my notebook, but I'm not sure what the hell I was writing here. Yes, that's partially because I was in a car when I wrote this and so can't really read my handwriting. Just know that it was a really unbelievably amazing dance.
5: Sooo tempted to revise this, but it'd be a lie. He is a perfectly fine waltzer, but between Magus and Larry, I have been completely spoiled for merely "fine."
6: Dear Sor. Never write prose again. No, *seriously*. Love Kat.
7: I am not a lady. I am a gentleman, however.
Original Tags:
bestof, dancing, unfiled people-fen, writings, unfiled people-alsoreal, tagged, i-have-a-crush-on-every-boy, i-love-being-poly, gendersex, sexuality, magus, i-write-good-shit: personal