The Ecstasy of dancing in your living room

My next door neighbour in my apartment building loves blasting opera music. I mean to the point that it floods through every particle of air, bounces off every wall, amplifies, and carries into every apartment on our floor. Perhaps even the entire building. I’ll walk out of the elevator and it’s like a private convert is happening in his apartment.  If he’s listening to opera, we all are. And this is just something we all have to accept. Sometimes this happens in the afternoon and every now and then early in the morning.  Sometimes I think the building is going to crumble to the ground because of it but it hasn’t happened yet.

Typically it doesn’t bother me that much. The point of this post isn’t to complain. I can appreciate that he is really into it, although once it woke me up at 6 a.m as my bedroom and his living room share a wall. I never said anything despite the fact that he once knocked on my door and told me that I close the door “a little too loudly” every time I come home. But I’m a pretty chill neighbour and he’s not blasting rap so I have to be grateful.

Anyway, yesterday I was at home thinking of what to do when I suddenly remembered one of my favourite all time songs: The Ecstacy of Gold played by Yo Yo Ma.

I decided to play it loud. Opera loud! It is one of the most epic songs and I was so overwhelmed by it’s greatness that I uncontrollably burst into dance. I was running all over my apartment, on top of my coffee table, bouncing from my bed to my couch to my kitchen with unbridled enthusiasm. It was the best time. At around the 2:45 mark in the song I was on my coffee table, arms in the air, head up, and I screamed at the top of my lungs-


So in conclusion, for once I was the most obnoxious neighbour on my floor. That’s pretty much the whole story.

Be sure to go listen to that song now, kk.



come now
and meet me for one of our
ferocious rendezvous
where we run wild through those
disheveled carnival grounds



suspend me and I’ll
hold you with consolidated ease
indomitable muscle
stockpiling some
cordial fallout

the intensity of
those rusty moments
fuels a dying flame
breaks through
monotonous thresholds

can you feel the unrelenting surge
coursing through? like a

an egregious lie

try to escape, try to
flee from me
and I’ll ravenously
barrel into you
until maybe
we’ll just have to



Eyes unveil intrigue while
movement provides more delicious
Discovered. A
body writhes in regret. An
abandoned spirit gasping,
creating uncanny realities
in the mind’s eye.

Bent to the point of breaking, yet
striving for a stronger heart,
warranting delectation.
The inhalation of remarkable perfumes,
a keen nose sensing change and
sniffing ingenuity from
forgotten breezes,
long since passed.

Wake up and set skin over bone-
insulating the magmatic blood within.
Hardened to withstand vehement poisons,
equipped to tackle hazardous mountains,
and then
promenade over them-

like molehills.

air to breathe


I met a man once.

When we got to talking he asked me what I did.

I told him I’m a dancer.

“Neat” he said, and then “What do you really do, though? What are you actually going to do with your life?”

If I can’t dance, then I might as well die right now, I said to him earnestly.

I don’t think he believed me, for he only laughed and turned away.

After he left, I began to notice my skin was turning cold, crackling, and threatening to fall apart….. it had been too long since I had moved. Even that short conversation with the unbelieving man was too grand a pause, too much time away from dancing.

So I ran as fast I could and leapt, flew through the air, wind catching hold of my hair… giving myself up to my life’s purpose. I felt the warmth return to my skin, my pores brimming with satisfaction, maintaining seamless balance. It was as though finally I had provided them with the air they needed to breathe.

I think I may have landed sometime after, I’m not sure.

In my heart I’m still flying through the air

Photo Credit: Alexander Yakolev

call me dancer

If I did not dance today,
does that mean I’m not a dancer?

Maybe tomorrow
I’ll wake up,
and dance

like they say not to

everyone’s guilty pleasure

so that they’ll call me an artist

to send the blood to my fingers and toes

heart beating
rigorously until my body cannot withstand
the draining
my energy donned in droves
from passion
and temper

so that no can can dispute
no one can deny
sacrifice my life to prove and

call myself dancer.

They’ll have to agree.

We the movement makers

For us
Every inhibition
leaves us deafened;
Prisoners of trepidation.

For us
Every movement
traces blood;
Fused to the soul.

Untangle this havoc.
Allow movement
to soothe heartache and
reveal resilience,

Where experience might coalesce
with the physical body.

For us,
the movement makers.