Digital Demolition

Sometimes when I’m doing the Dance of Shiva in the mirror, I feel like a fucked-up cheerleader. It’s hard to resist the temptation to snap into every position (three years of marching band in high school will do that to you). Most of the time when I start feeling really cheeky and flow-y, I throw myself off balance within moments.

I was a contrary child. Best way to get me to do something? Tell me not to do it. Before I left for college, mom told me to be careful and please please please not to try this one drug. Of course, that’s the first thing I looked for. If she said not to do it, it must be good, right? (It was definitely interesting, but I’ve gotta wonder if she was just recommending against it because that was the “right” thing to tell your kid or if she had actual experience. I suspect the former.)

That’s probably the reason I’m enjoying the Dance thingy. The right way to do it doesn’t really exist and even people who’ve been practicing for years can still throw themselves off balance. Being off balance has been my modus operandi forever. After I had the stroke, the doctor asked me if my balance was uneven. “More than before?” I asked. (Yeah, even under the worst situations, my odd sense of humor remains. I suppose it’ll die when I do.)

But when you start exploring all these get-yourself-back-after-a-tragedy methods, they talk about being grounded and being centered. After a little research on how our bodies work, I found that it’s a literal thing – our inner ear dictates our ability to judge where we are in relation to the planet and gravity and everything. Understanding your place in all of this madness and owning your own space is related to the reality of actual balancing in this world. And I’m off. Maybe you are, too.

Quite a few things I read have lately talked about being normal and how there is no normal. Every person has issues (stuff, stuck, triggers, whatever you want to call them) and no one feels normal. Ever. We’re struggling to fit into a nebulous place that doesn’t exist, except in our heads. (And probably our hearts, too, if you want to get all hippie about it.)

The more I consider this current thread of “there is no normal” and my observations about my off-balance-ness, the more I think that I’m heading the right way. Dave has this theory that when serendipitous things start happening, it’s the universe’s way of letting you know you’re on the right heading. I like to believe him.

You walk up the street quickly – but not too much so, your body a study in casual indifference. You’re dressed not too anything …. neither too nice nor too grubby. You look ahead … not too high and not too low. Your demeanor is a tribute to many years living in a city.

You look down when necessary to avoid a nasty chunk of sidewalk or the errant pile of poo, your injured ankle begging for attention, but you don’t look too long, lest you seem weak. Don’t limp. Don’t appear vulnerable.

At least it’s early – only a couple of hours after sundown. The real players aren’t up and about yet, only the rookies and the truly desperate. You can cruise by them before they realize someone has passed.

You listen to your internal narrator dictate the countless events that have led to your acute awareness now. You curse it as silently as it speaks, asking for some quiet in which to complete your journey. The slight scent of human urine enters your nostrils as you see a building “leaking” – you exhale quickly through your mouth – another survival method testament to your long existence in this environment.

You pass the street that acts as the border between the bad neighborhood and the good. You quicken your pace just a little. Here, it’s OK to look rushed – it’s less likely that you’re being cased. You can enter a store and not worry about the other clients. You overhear, “once this satanic government is gone, we can get married” from people in line and realize you’re actually not the most crazy one present. And that gives you comfort, even as you again silently tell your narrator to shut-the-fuck-up.

Home – the familiar stairs and signs and smells. The cost-you-a-thousand-dollars today cat greets you at you apartment door. He represents more than a week’s pay, but his presence is worth it. You really can’t put a price on that homey feeling. Of that furry greeting.

Home and safe, the internal narrator finally shuts up. You make a pizza. Watch some BBC. Calm down. It’s good to have a home. You take a few minutes to be grateful and then you can rest.