I don’t know if it is right to call it dancing.

The word for me carries with it notions of skill and craftmanship.

Of which I have none.

So I guess what I did last night was moving my body and the parts attached to it in a way that matched – as best as possible – the invisible shapes and forms of the music that washed on me.

Moving away from self-observation and onto the world-that-isn’t-me I would say that the music on that specific two hour stretch was good stuff. Fuckin good stuff.

That however was not on its own sufficient to change what is for me the most frustrating thing whenever I find myself in performances of this kind

Sausagefest.

Again and again.

Or in the cypriot we love:

Πολλοι βιλλοι.

Damn.

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