02.25.2004 12:12 am
zydeco

Happy Mardi Gras. Corey, Kate and I went to hear a zydeco band at the P-funk campus center. It turned out to be a measly crowd of thirtysomethings, small children, and older folks. (Vision: myself, many years from now, coming back to this diary and replacing "older folks" with "people in their prime." Vanity is a cruel master.) The band was good, but loud. Not enough people danced. Corey danced with Miss Kate, which was beautiful. They both know enough partner dancing that they can move well with each other, adjust styles and steps to swing in a wild rhythm, even when hands missed each other, Corey crouching to the ground in a gesture of half-laughing, half-giving up, but springing up again, hands pulling partner's arms across the torso and rotating, like walking through a turnstyle.

And me, dancing with my demons. White shirt, blue bra (faux-pas!), blue jeans and maroon boots. Feeling chunky, like clydesdales must feel in harnesses, broad hips moving awkwardly in the strange constraints of a blues rhythm. Wondering what the band thought of us, an oddly silent and seemingly judgemental troupe of quarter-enthusiastic Maine-iacs. A Louisiana band playing 1,800 miles from home on Mardi Gras. Do we dance they way they're used to? Do we cheer when we should cheer? Do we know the songs they play? Do they care?

I hate going to bed when I don't know what kind of mood to which I'll awaken. I used to think it was a formula, something about where I slept and when I went to bed. It's not. It's completely random. Tomorrow I might get up, look for a job, meet Tina early for our lunch date. Or else I'll slip out of bed and into the world like an eyelash slips into your eye, stare blankly at my computer for hours and end up late for lunch. There's no way to tell. Today I felt hyper in an artificial way: over-stimulated, surreal. I told Corey at the dance, "I'm happy. Do you think I'll stay this way?"

"Yes," he said.

"Really?" I asked, "you really think so, honestly?"

He paused. "No," he answered. "But it's easier to tell you a pretty lie...."

Perhaps that's all this day has been, a pretty lie. But it was very pretty. I saw pretty people. I told them things that felt like truth. I smoked cigarettes and ate pasta and laughed a lot. I drove some and walked some and sat some with an old friend. I even cried a little, for a love I lost a long time ago. I got a good backrub, and helped another person for no reason. I listened to music and heard a live band. I wore clothes that make me think of my father. I hugged Anna. I kept important secrets and ... and I had wavy hair.

It was a pretty, pretty day.

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