sound and fury

Something came home to me last night in the midst of a shamanic breathing workshop I went to. All around me there were bodies on the floor taking in air deeply, noisily, full of rattle and hum. I was a bit restless and cold. Trying to concentrate on stilling my mind, which really is beside the point, as you're not supposed to be trying to do anything but just be.... (I'd also just had the experience of watching the guy who I'd been partnered with go through this intense trance-like transformation complete with body-racking tears and laughter, which I watched unfold in fascination, alternately thinking, Whoaaa, I wanna do that, and Jeezuz, I hope he doesn't have a seizure or anything. I don't know the first thing about re-starting a human heart—or any kind of heart for that matter.)

Anyway, I wasn't feeling exactly empty as I gave into the floor's gravity, but I was missing something that always serves to transport me: music. I find I always slip deeper and faster into myself when notes are wrapping around me. There I was, prone, eyes closed, just letting the breath come in and out, until, ack, the sound of a waterfall on the soundrack reminded me of this Kings of Leon song, which started humming in my head and I thought, Hmmm, maybe I'll use that in class next week, and Wow remember when K danced to that song? It was so sensual and beautiful. And there's that other tune of theirs that L played that time and she did a floor move that was so amazing...and, wham, just like that my mind took over and I wasn't interested in getting my shaman on anymore, instead I wanted to get up, go to the studio and turn the stereo up to 11.

Music holds an undeniable power for me. And many's the time that it has ridden me to the point that I feel its sting on my flank. A sound followed by a fury in movement that led me down paths where I'd willingly give myself up to the moment, to the unknown, not often thinking about how I'd feel on the other end. (Not that anyone can ever know how they're going to feel when all is said and done.) I reflect on how sound has spun me right round, sometimes into ecstasy and sometimes despair. When I was a club-going teenager in LA, my friends and I would seek out a wall of sound to hit up against almost every weekend. (Black Flag, X, Stray Cats. Although this picture suggests a Dexy's Midnight Runners meets Boy George moment was upon me.)

This wasn't a spectator sport, this was full-body contact. The days of mosh pits and bruises, big sweaty pile-ons of bodies writhing to a beat, whether live or memorex. It totally served the purpose of shutting down my brain and sending my body into overdrive, which was exactly what I wanted. It was sweet anesthesia. I'd go out into the night looking for an escape from self, but thinking, of course, that I'd in fact find myself somehow. The kind of dancing I did then was usually just jumping straight up and down, catching as much air under my feet as I could (they didn't call it the pogo for nuthin'), while my head bounced like a bobble-head doll. Nice. And the point was not to think, just go. Celebrate the bruises, even if I couldn't quite remember how I got them.

Today I still celebrate my bruises (the ones inside and out). I wear them like a totem and love them for the accomplishments I think they represent. I try to not to hit the same tender spot over and over again. But now, rather than fling myself into the void of my movement, I'm trying to be mindful of myself, a little more gentle, to not let myself disappear altogether, even if the pulse of the music brings me to the precipice. I want to enjoy the ride, feel the sensation and dismount in my own good time.