The non stop dancer, p.1
The Non-stop Dancer, p.1
Copyright © 2016 by Scott Andrews
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In the beginning...
The light fantastic swayed before him, pulling him closer, like a semi-drunk date at a high school dance. He raised his arms to the ceiling and closed his eyes. The rhythm held him, and shook him to the core, a tsunami of life, a margarita of triumph, riding a wave of consciousness to the steady shores of understanding.
The colours danced before his very eyes, twisting and spinning, and turning and groaning, like a kaleidoscopic yogi dead set on impressing a much younger student. His legs, legs that resembled chicken drumsticks upon closer inspection, moved on their own, an entity separate from the motors that drove him. The arms that flailed before him, drew celestial shapes in front of him.
The dancer was no longer mortal, no long human, he had transposed, he had reached a new level, he was electric. He plucked items from the imagination of the carbon dioxide that surrounded him as his heart pumped a heady rhythm. There were big fish, there were little fish, there were cardboard boxes. It was the sermon on the mount, and he was Jesus, he was hope, the light and our salvation.
And the Lord said ‘let there be light’ and there was.
At what moment do we humans begin to exist? At the moment we are set forth, freed from the testes of our fathers on our suicide mission to the giant eggs of doom, precisely what runs through our minds? As our tails beat out in desperation through the canals of our mother’s interior are we conscious of the consequences of not coming first?
It has been said by significantly wiser men than me, that we are from the moment our consciousness is awoken. It has not been said by anyone even stupider than I, that what if our consciousness is inborn but our memories are defective? What if babies, who spend nine months with little else to do than pontificate upon
the nature of the universe have gotten it all figured out? What if after nine months in the prison of the womb, babies have figured our life, death, the universe and everything, and the sole reason why they cry and then do not speak in any comprehensible manner for a number of years is a direct consequence of knowing that life itself is at heart fucking awful. If the consciousness of self does not exist in the tiniest members of our society then there would be no learning in this god awful universe.
The building that gave birth to the Non-stop Dancer was housed in a rundown town centre in Little England. It was the kind of town that was built with all the ideals of a post-war socialistic paradise. The local facilities, most of which had long closed down, had originally been calculated per head of the population. It was meant to have been a green paradise. A place where the displaced from war could start afresh, like the pioneers heading out to an extremely drab, wet and not particularly wild west. In reality, most of these families had moved onwards to better places. It had become an overspill zone for the big cities, bringing with it big city problems to a small town with a short memory. Practically the only resource that had survived the extremities of modernisation were the roundabouts. They were like gremlins, they should never be fed after midnight, never gotten wet, and most importantly of all, on no account ever should a local business be allowed to sponsor them or they breed like fleas on a wild dog.
When the Non-stop Dancer stepped out into the light the first thing he did was squint. It was not a particularly bright day, as in England it never is. It was the drab morning grey of misery with a teaspoon of regret. And yet the pull, the magnetic attraction of compulsion, the indescribable agent of so much doom and disaster was omnipresent. The reason he knew that everything was about to change was due to the most conclusive of scientific evidence known to man, he could feel it in his loins.
The human awakening does not follow a predefined timetable. A clear example is adolescence. At some point in the human experience, a person becomes first aware of an attraction to another human being. At the initial onset, little thought is given to the consequences. In a child’s mind, sexuality, and the bestial act of consummation have little relation to their own set of life experiences.
When a baby is first conceived it lives for nine months as an invisible leech. It festers in the tummy of the mummy, whilst forcing her to consume twice as much pizza and a significantly lower amount of wine. Its existence is entirely confined to the imagination of every person apart from the mother. It is only once the baby is delivered that the baby is able to penetrate the minds of people.
Ideas, attitudes and beliefs can also reside in an incubator of sorts, free from probing examination. An idea is only born once it penetrates the consciousness of a wide enough circle of people. Prior to it spreading like a virus, it resides at the back of a dark, forgotten drawer, marked ‘kook’.
The moment the universe at large was awakened to the idea that there was indeed a Non-stop Dancer, was precisely the moment the Stoner first set eyes upon the Non-Stop Dancer. The Stoner was neither poet or scribe, he was a teenage boy, that liked little more than the feeling the tetrahydrocannabinol trichomes gave him when they struck his lungs.
The Stoner would later recall that he was walking home in the rain, which was not any different from any other day, when he passed in front of the oldest McDonalds in the town and first set eyes upon the Non-stop Dancer.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, oh my fucking god what are you doing?” said the Stoner between breaths as the giggles grabbed ahold of him and took ownership of his brain. “What do you look like?” squealed the Stoner with delight before his automated response system took over. Being a member of the insta-generation, no longer capable of independent thought, the Stoner was, in fact, a well-honed machine, able to respond to stimuli without pausing for a millisecond and not a blink of an eye more. Unconsciously, he removed his mobile phone from his pocket and started recording the scene playing out in front of him.
The earth was a magnet and his body was a gyroscope. The rain hammered down around him, each droplet a casualty to the rhythm of life itself. He gyrated, his hips wiggling as if they alone were solely responsible for the conduct of the weather. His arms pumped furiously, carving shapes from the mists of time, pulling memories of material history, he was changing a lightbulb, switching hands, sometimes changing two lightbulbs at the same time, he was the electrician of God, the handyman of destiny, he was the past, the present and the future, he was dance itself.
This was no longer dancing. The Non-stop Dancer had transposed onto a different plane of existence. He could see demons and cherubs, the spirits of time immortal, he could see movement, he was the fountain of life.
Sweat poured from the pores that prickled his precious person. They entwined themselves in the droplets of rain and descended slowly like parachutes to earth, where they soaked into the soil, fertilising the ground with the power of dance. For the briefest of moments, the Non-stop Dancer opened his eyes and saw that it had happened. He had danced his way to dawn. He bit down on his lip and danced harder than he ever had in his life.
A slow news day is a generic term which does little to dispel the myth that journalists are little more than the vampires of misery. News is not cyclic. If journalists were earnest they would announce a no news day, instead of investing vast quantities of time in the creation and distribution of non-stories.
In these heady times of click happy technotronic zombies, journalists have realigned themselves as data collecting social fishermen. Their bait comes in a variety of shapes and sizes and nominally consists of a headline designed, for all intents and purposes to rile up the minutest of brains.
When the Journalist saw a video entitled ‘Look at dis Nonstop Dansing Wanka’ the first thing that struck him was the view count. Before he even gave the screen a cursory glance his eyes were drawn to the numbers. The first read ‘1 day ago’. And the second said ‘13,289,663’ views.
On the screen in front of him was a street with some ugly, weather-beaten wooden benches and the reflections of a closed fast food restaurant. A middle-aged man with hair that was so concerned by its predicament that it was actually pointing in every single direction at once, was wearing a multi-coloured leotard that looked as if a unicorn had vomited all over it. The strangest thing was that as he swayed and bounced, as his arms shook like tree leaves in a breeze, his movements appeared for all intents and purposes be intentional, and that he was for want of a better word, dancing.
The Journalist squinted at the screen in front of him and struck a button to turn the volume up. Again, and again. The screen displayed the volume at maximum and the Journalist shook his head. The wanker was indeed mad. He was dancing without any music. All of a sudden the speakers coughed into life.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, oh my fucking god what are you doing?” spluttered the voice on the screen, and for a moment, a fleeting, brief, millisecond, the Journalist wondered if the question was not actually directed at him.
Kindness is a bestial cousin of folly. It would not matter if it rained kindness on the surface of the earth for a number of weeks. Human behaviour is driven by baser instincts, and the desire to assist others despite being spiritually advisable is rarely prudent or even beneficial.
Times when kindness is genuinely strategically useful: when the kindness itself
is directed at somebody we wish to have sex with. This is why men open doors for women, priests open doors for children, and women tell other women how wonderful they look. Other times when kindness is useful: never.
The notional existence of an ego can bend our depth perception. Thus it is possible to do something good for someone in the mistaken belief that it will make us feel good. The truth is that you cannot shower people with kindness and expect them to reciprocate. Alternatively, some cultures promote the idea of karma as reason itself to behave in an extraordinary way. The truth is that kindness should never even be a question. The trouble that surrounds it is the only evidence that human beings lack sophistication and have not evolved much further than the animals we once were.
The Good Samaritan was walking to work with two little ear buds in her ears, protecting her senses from being invaded by the universe. The tinniest of drum beats leaked out from her earphones. If she had the misfortune of sharing the bus with herself on that particular morning, she would perhaps have been extremely disappointed by her lack of consideration for others and absolutely would have said nothing to herself but perhaps would have frowned and maybe even sighed in an exaggerated manner. However, on account of being the same person whose complete lack of respect for others was so galling, she did not and continued along the path to the hive where she made honey for the faceless drones that she had and never would meet that lived in houses considerably bigger than her own.
The Good Samaritan pushed her hands deeper into her pockets as she rushed head down, through the main thoroughfare in the town centre. She was taken by surprise when she bumped into a strange man in a brightly coloured leotard.
“I’m sorry,” she uttered without removing her headphones. The man stood in front of her, hips gyrating like a hypnotist’s pocket watch, he span, his arms a windmill of destiny riding on the winds of hope itself. The Non-stop Dancer turned away from her, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The Good Samaritan removed one earbud and watched him whirl like a true dervish. A light rain began to land around her as if the angels of heaven were suppressing their giggles. She walked around the Non-stop Dancer like a visitor to a Greek sculpture exhibition as he hammered the nails of dance into the wood of existence, he was serene, a madonna of modern dance, he was breathtaking. “Excuse me,” she asked, “are you feeling okay?” The Non-stop Dancer met her eye and smiled the smile of the self-satisfied supernatural superhero that felt completely at one with himself and his place in the universe. In that moment she felt a pulling that started in her heart, and she rode the wave of life to the tips of her fingers and toes, until in the blink of an eye the rhythm had her, and was never going to let her go.
He was light itself. It emanated from his centre, a laser beam of consciousness sent to free the world from the planet humanity had built themselves. The Non-stop Dancer rode an invisible horse, his muscles aching, caked in sweat, but he could not allow himself to stop. This was all that mattered, freedom, independence and the sanctuary of dance for his fellow man.
The Non-stop Dancer tossed an invisible lasso with one hand and held the reins of the invisible horse with the other. His knees leapt with visceral intensity. He glanced at the Disciple as she swayed like a willow tree in the breeze and found himself growing stronger, more steadfast and determined, comforted by her, he fed off her energy and readied himself to devour the entire universe.
+5 and a half hours
The blight of the nosey neighbour has existed as long as time immortal. Throughout history, human beings with absolutely nothing else to occupy themselves have gotten their kicks by making life considerably more awkward for others. The original nosey parker went by the name of Judas. He preoccupied himself with spying on his neighbours and complaining to the authorities until finally, they took action and really nailed the bastard that lived halfway down his street.
Nosiness, or the condition of obsessively observing others, dates back to when human beings first started identifying themselves through possessions. As soon as the cavemen of old developed the first comparative adjective which, incidentally, was ‘Ugg-Lee-Aaarrgghh’, a competitive dam was broken, and the flood waters of jealousy swept through mankind.
As objects evolved to beliefs and in most normal countries, back to objects again, the evolution of technology offered an abundance of methods for disturbing your neighbour’s life. On this particular day the disturbance took the form of a telephone call to the emergency switchboard that went something like this:
“999 which service do you require?”
“What is your emergency?”
“There is a man.”
“There is a man and he won’t stop dancing.”
“You do realise that it is an offence to waste time by prank calling this number?”
The first call was never likely to succeed as it is rare that ordinary people can see the busybodies view of the world. Not one to be deterred our caller located a phonebook, unbelievably they do still exist, especially if you happen to hoard a library of utter garbage inside your own home, and called the local police station, albeit, equally unsuccessfully.
“Good morning, you are through to the police.”
“Good morning. I would like to report a man.”
“Doing what exactly?”
“Well, he is dancing.”
“That’s hardly a crime.”
It had taken a visit in person to the local police station to make the Community Support Officer realise that a man dancing is hardly acceptable behaviour in the twenty-first century. Especially without music.
After a considerable amount of tea, the Community Support officer, a Special Constable, not because he was not a real police officer, but because at least he thought he was special, made his way through the town centre and first set eyes upon the Non-stop Dancer and his disciple.
The first thought that the Community Support officer experienced was one of the most natural of all for a formerly real police officer to have. It was, which crime can I can charge them with? The problem the officer faced was that it was not a breach of the peace, as they were dancing without any music playing whatsoever. It could barely have been anymore serene if it was a silent disco at the National Convention of Librarians. Similarly, they could not be charged with a public disturbance on account of there being no sound to disturb people with. The longer he looked the more fascinating spectacle it became, it was like the aftermath of an accident. They were not threatening anyone, not bothering people at all. There were no two ways about it, there was very little he could actually do.
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