They Say I look Great. Considering.
Sometimes I forget. I cast spells on full parking lots to remind myself. Driving to town, or to the hottest club in the Northern Israeli Scene, I conjure a parking space in the most unprobable and most desirable place. When I arrive at the destination and the spot is all available and waiting for me, I remember. I'm not a party girl. I'm a witch, and I have power.
But I am. A party girl. This is my life now. This is what I do. This is what I want to not miss out before I die. The music. The alcohol. The men. The thrill. Dancing until my feet ache and I'm forced to remove my shoes.
Not the drugs though. Club drugs scare me. They open doors that I'd rather keep locked. Sweet shiny keys. No, no. No liquid love for me. I don't listen to the voices from other worlds anymore. I turn up the volume so I can't hear the whispers. And I dance, dance, dance to banish all the demons. If Aphrodite comes knocking, do tell the psycho bitch that as far as I'm concerned, she owes me big.
Most of the time, though, I don't think about Aphrodite. Nor do I think about any god on Earth. I don't think about my future either, or about going to bed alone every night. I don't think about wasting my life, and I don't think about dying.
I dance.
I go out to breakfast in chic cafes. I go out to dinner in good restaurants. I go out dancing. I go out drinking margaritas at the beach. I go to barbeque parties, pool parties and spa parties. I am surrounded by people. Friends. Family. Strangers. I download music. So much music. Too much music for my hard drives to take. Not with all those Buffy episodes there. I work and my boss says I'm doing fine. I don't want to do fine. I just want to use my lunch break to go to the gym. 90 minutes of cardio. 30 minutes of weight lifting. Every day. Every day I die on the treadmill and come back to life again. I go back to the office in the afternoon, all toned and showered, and everybody stare.
They say I look great. Under the circumstances. For my age. Considering. Considering I'm aging, dying, withering away, losing another match in the chess game of the middle class. They ask me about research and languages to make conversation. It's hard for them to swallow that I don't do research and languages anymore. That I do music and alcohol and dancing the nights away. Too many years I've been over-weight, properly dressed, buried under heaps of books, playing by the rules. Whose rules? I used to know, once upon a time. Now my books are buried under heaps of clothes and shoes. There are new rules. Rules of forgetfulness.
Three weeks ago I launched the village's official website. Two weeks ago I helped producing a huge summer event for the local youth. Two days ago I was elected to the Alliance Committee of the local council with the cities of Atlanta and St. Louis. Big job, they say. Good job, they say. Jump, they say. But I don't jump. I dance. My life is spinning fast, fast, faster.
Movement is the name of the new game. The rules are strength, agility, resilience, speed. The rules are made of muscle and heartbeats.
Words don't matter. I don't want to talk. I don't want to be like those people who keep talk-talk-talking about magic and none of their spells works. Or like the people who keep talk-talk-talking about world politics and don't have money for rent. I want to do things with my hands, with my arms, with my feet and legs. I want to make a difference with my body, and so I dance. Other people can be all talk. I will be all dance.
Before I die. Before my womb shrivels. Before the wrinkles and the white hair. Before my bones become too crisp.
And if Aphrodite comes knocking, do tell the psycho bitch that she owes me big.
But I am. A party girl. This is my life now. This is what I do. This is what I want to not miss out before I die. The music. The alcohol. The men. The thrill. Dancing until my feet ache and I'm forced to remove my shoes.
Not the drugs though. Club drugs scare me. They open doors that I'd rather keep locked. Sweet shiny keys. No, no. No liquid love for me. I don't listen to the voices from other worlds anymore. I turn up the volume so I can't hear the whispers. And I dance, dance, dance to banish all the demons. If Aphrodite comes knocking, do tell the psycho bitch that as far as I'm concerned, she owes me big.
Most of the time, though, I don't think about Aphrodite. Nor do I think about any god on Earth. I don't think about my future either, or about going to bed alone every night. I don't think about wasting my life, and I don't think about dying.
I dance.
I go out to breakfast in chic cafes. I go out to dinner in good restaurants. I go out dancing. I go out drinking margaritas at the beach. I go to barbeque parties, pool parties and spa parties. I am surrounded by people. Friends. Family. Strangers. I download music. So much music. Too much music for my hard drives to take. Not with all those Buffy episodes there. I work and my boss says I'm doing fine. I don't want to do fine. I just want to use my lunch break to go to the gym. 90 minutes of cardio. 30 minutes of weight lifting. Every day. Every day I die on the treadmill and come back to life again. I go back to the office in the afternoon, all toned and showered, and everybody stare.
They say I look great. Under the circumstances. For my age. Considering. Considering I'm aging, dying, withering away, losing another match in the chess game of the middle class. They ask me about research and languages to make conversation. It's hard for them to swallow that I don't do research and languages anymore. That I do music and alcohol and dancing the nights away. Too many years I've been over-weight, properly dressed, buried under heaps of books, playing by the rules. Whose rules? I used to know, once upon a time. Now my books are buried under heaps of clothes and shoes. There are new rules. Rules of forgetfulness.
Three weeks ago I launched the village's official website. Two weeks ago I helped producing a huge summer event for the local youth. Two days ago I was elected to the Alliance Committee of the local council with the cities of Atlanta and St. Louis. Big job, they say. Good job, they say. Jump, they say. But I don't jump. I dance. My life is spinning fast, fast, faster.
Movement is the name of the new game. The rules are strength, agility, resilience, speed. The rules are made of muscle and heartbeats.
Words don't matter. I don't want to talk. I don't want to be like those people who keep talk-talk-talking about magic and none of their spells works. Or like the people who keep talk-talk-talking about world politics and don't have money for rent. I want to do things with my hands, with my arms, with my feet and legs. I want to make a difference with my body, and so I dance. Other people can be all talk. I will be all dance.
Before I die. Before my womb shrivels. Before the wrinkles and the white hair. Before my bones become too crisp.
And if Aphrodite comes knocking, do tell the psycho bitch that she owes me big.