The dance

I'll be the first to admit it. I'm scarce on any dance floor. I have the fluid dexterity of a large icecicle and the sense of rhthym of a deaf skeleton. Part of me would love to dance. The idea of taking some striking woman out for a tango and have the crowd part to the sides like the Red Sea has an appeal. I've given up that dream for this life time. It is not to be.

I was reading about a couple of well-known novels yesterday. I guess if I can't write a good novel I can at least know what a good novel is. I can appreciate a good dancer too.

Some of the novels were like dances. I thought of a couple of folks who must have reead the books and taught their feet to dance to the same beat. They perform the same dance only not with the grace and abandon of the written word. I thought this was surprising until I realized that the authors were just copying what they saw on the dance floor.

I guess we all take a facination at what we see and we mirror that. Some of us carry tiny mirrors in our pockets. Some of us look in mirrors in fitting rooms. A few of us have large mirrors on the walls of our living rooms. A few of us are so bold as to hang a mirror on the ceiling above our beds.

I'm not sure where my mirror is. I guess I'm looking at it. Maybe I should clean it.

G