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October 26, 2002
let’s dance

Hello, what is your name? oh, my name is Witold. I am doing this for the first time. Are you doing this for the first time? Oh, I did not think so. And quick, quick, sloow and quick, quick, sloow, and side and and siiide and side and siiide and quick, quick slow, and quick, quick, slow. And switch. Hello, how are you, my name is Witold, what is your name, if I may ask?, oh, and are you doing this for the first time? Me too. Let’s enjoy the mistakes. And quick, quick, sloow and back, back, sloow... and...
It was a very packed room and in the hour spent there I must have “danced” with 20 or so partners, each one of them such completely different personality and age and of course “skill level” as this seems to matter in a dance school. My hands were touched by new perfume last night, a mixture of scents that tend to transfer easier from sweaty palm to sweaty palm. “I should not be leading you, I know. My husband always tells me I should not lead.” “Oh, I can see, this is not really your first lesson, is it?” “Oh, noo, it is definitely not the first.” She was a head taller than her husband, both of them dressed in sheer, tightly fit black clothes. One of the women used the 10 seconds we had to actually talk to tell me that there was a guy somewhere where she did not want to point to, who had absolutely no sense of rhythm. I was amazed and wondered what she would tell the next man about me. He was an obviously professional dancer, maybe in his 50’s, wearing an outfit that must have looked quite stunning when he got it a few decades ago. Some hands were shaking, some hands were shy, some hands were holding on, a set of hands would just not stop stroking my fingers. I am afraid of dancing, I might admit it again. I am afraid of large groups that are asked to perform a certain task in synchronicity. I do not really enjoy latin music very much. I would have rather stayed at home last night and maybe drawn. But as the evening progressed, as the stress levels went down, there were some tiny observations that went beyond the direction placement of feet on the parkett floor. It took a split second to just feel that the other person was somebody I could talk to for hours, or somebody I would run away from for years. I could feel if the other person liked to cook, or only some hot things. I could feel what mistake the other person would make in the next split second, even though she might not have known and even though we saw each other for the very first time. I had the illusion that I understand, I had the illusion of communication. It was a very good, a post modern tribal experience.
That was salsa, what will be next, swing?

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