SHIFT Work

The Muse and I had decided to picnic amongst all the Little Brothers this Sunday night, but our plans were laid to waste by snowfall. It started early Sunday morning, and has not stopped, though at least it has died down to a few small flakes here and there. So instead we stopped by our favourite haunt to catch Master Dervish in play once again.

His musical choices are lightening up a bit, while still keeping within a few darker, more underground tones. His partner in crime, who is currently Nameless, did a fantastic job of holding down the fort while Dervish himself got down to the art of moving. The man is connected, no doubt about it. His own unique style of aggressive punk movements, bedrocked in the intricate subtle motions of vintage gothic underworld, is a wonder to behold. It uniquely reflects his own style and personality, is not contrived or preplanned - simply the result of his own internal reactions to the sounds around him. Dark Tribe at its finest; it is good to have an artist like this in control of the music itself. Small wonder his sets are so immensely satisfying.

I had a hard time getting into the music, but through no fault of the sound itself; firstly, my side still feels empty, and I had a hard time keeping my mind off it. I usually light my myself up, that is to say, open a channel to all the nerves running along my skin, and use that energy to seek out movement. There is a sort of critical mass that must be built, all the pieces are put into place, and then everything begins to work synergistically with each other- becoming more than the sum of its parts, so to speak.

Without the pieces on my right side to cart over and transport that energy effortlessly and efficiently, the system as a whole begins to suffer. It takes more work, more effort, to maintain myself, and the resulting self consciousness takes away from the connection to the music. The deep bass only ripples on one side, the lighter trebles that demand quick arcs and arm placements are nearly unfelt. The whole experience is ungainly. In such cases, one should allow form to dictate motion, series of movements performed a thousand times can still be called upon despite the roots of their origin being displaced.

If I were counselling on a psychological disability, say, unhappiness towards a specific person, I would say 'fake it'- put on a smile as close to genuine every time you see someone whether you feel it or not, and soon one will find their disposition towards that person improves. The body moves, the mind follows; this is human nature. And so it goes that I take this same advice towards my body, even though I feel nothing there, I should move as I wish to move, as though those feelings were in place, and perhaps they will return. Nature will always fill a vacuum, if the pressure is strong enough.

Secondly, I thought I had enough supplies to manufacture two handlights for the session, and turned out to be mistaken. I love my rings, I love moving them, I love watching them. I love the endless flow that comes from bearing them. Their movement makes demands on my form, pushing it, drawing energy from me when I would think I have nothing. When I dance, complete, I do not feel self-conscious, or tired, unhappy, or anything other than driven contentment in doing so.

The Cast:

Qwinn: Getting friendlier, we've exchanged hellos a couple times now. The Muse excels at these kinds of relationships, whereas I never know how to act. I would like to be friends, and I would like to sit and chat with them, but I have no idea how to go about doing that. I know how to seduce, to tease and to play; if that were the goal, I would have no end to the means in doing so. But it is not, and so there is a great hole in my thinking, where ordinary chit chat and friendly actions lie, and so I stumble about trying to look as though I am comfortable with the minute and a half of conversation. I'm sure it will get better with practice, everything usually does. It is something I am desperate to learn.

Dannika: Looking as pleasant as always. She danced with us a couple times, she always looks as though shes having fun. I wish I could have light-hearted fun like that. I am too serious by half.

Dawwit: In fine form and a new coat. Always stylish, that boy. He only hit the floor twice as far as I saw, he seemed to be more into the mingling tonight.

Genova: I've seen her twice now, 'dresses like a hippy' the Muse says. She has a sort of easy flow about her, obviously a kind-hearted, fun loving person. She's too psy-trance to be Dark Tribe, but shes connected, no doubt about it. I quite like her, the Muse I think feels threatened by her somehow. My Muse has the most beautiful gray-green eyes that have ever been placed in flesh, and they flash constantly with jealousy. I am at One with this, some people prefer to live in stillness, others prefer the storm. I would say without a doubt, that I am one of the 'others'.

Occasionally however, jealousy stirs up the razorblade edges of the Muse's personality, and she makes the meanest remarks I have ever heard. Not so much the saying of things, as the meaning implied behind it- I think she forgets that I hear intentions just as well as I hear words. I am no expert in dealing with jealousy, but here is some helpful advice for the men out there when confronted with a similar situation:

If your girlfriend makes disparaging remarks completely out of the blue about another girl you may or may not be watching, do not simply jump to the defence of the innocent as may be your habit. If at any point, you feel the need to not only defend but to add a counter-argument, upholding the nature of the person in question, and perhaps even making firm mention as towards their positive traits, or the misconceptions your girlfriend may have about said person as a whole, find the nearest syringe full of novocaine and inject it directly into your penis.

This strategy will approximate the end result of your defense without having to hear about for three days afterwards, and also disallow the possible use of your comments when, in the next week, some guy is hitting on your girlfriend, and you make use of the same strategy she did.

Just a friendly heads up there.

Shame: The aforementioned guy. Still hitting on the girlfriend. I want to eat him. Oh, he's so witty. Oh he's so charming. Oh, he's so in with the establishment in general. Oh, he's so pulling the exact same shit I would pull if I was twenty-two and trying to get into her pants. He seems so nice. Of course he does, that's his shtick. To be just friendly and outgoing enough, to be charming and genuinely interested enough that the boyfriend can't punch him in the face without looking like an ass. Riding that edge of civil decency, the common code of courtesy, to slide right in and plant the seeds of a relationship.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not threatened by the guy. He wouldn't last a week with the Muse, and she would tear him to shreds for trying. But he lies with his smile, like a high-functioning psychopath, and I want to tear his mask away from his face and expose his inner crapulence for what it is. Shine the Light down on him so hard he burns up in it.

Hatred is a connection between two people. Non-committal reactions are the absence of a connection. In order to really get your hate on for someone, something, some quality of that person has to reverberate within yourself. We are quickest to judge others for the things in which we are most guilty, and we hate others for the qualities we hate in ourselves. That's the connection.

Shame here reminds me of everything I hate about myself, of the monster that lurks inside of me, banging against the bars, begging to be let out. I want to feed him every kick in the teeth I ever gave myself for being like that, because on some level, I feel it is something that should be destroyed. I can't fault him for having the same beast, I think we all do really. Can't fault a man for being born. But you can smack the beastly little paws that swipe out through the bars, and so I believe I will bide my time; be good, and be patient. If it poses a problem, wipe it out. Maybe he will find a reason to hold himself back. I'll give him every chance to do so until he makes it impossible. It is likely I will have to deal this up one day; I want to be sure I am on the right side of the conflict.

Bartenders: Bruno and Boots. Boots likes to watch me drink for some reason, and Bruno likes to pour. I guess they found a piece of their calling, I tend to do both.

Drinks: Lil predrinking with a few Jaeger shots. The Muse was staying sober, I didn't realize that until after. Interesting.

DJs: Dervish and Nameless. Pretty amazing. They remind me why I like to go out in the first place.

Duration: Just under 2 hours. Couldn't slip into it, stayed for the music. Danced with the Muse for a while- no matter what, she is always something I can lose myself in for a while.

The Muse was looking fantastic as always. Latex pants and a black corset. Mine mine mine mine mine. I love the way she moves, I love the way she moves me. Pretty kickin', all the way around.