To the beat
One, two. There's rhythm everywhere you look.
When the riveting bass slams through the cement, you can inhale it in through your skin. Few things are better than tasting a sturdy, solid E-flat; except maybe feeling a D in your fingertips, dispatching harmonics that ripple out and ricochet inside your skull. I like standing near the walls in the club, with my fingers and forehead pressed against cool cement, and that's why.
Later I'll stand at the bar, and watch and listen for the throbbing pulse behind the counter. One, two, shuffle, clink. Money, change, seize, drink. And they're all unconscious, skewered by this bewitching beat. I'll find myself surrounded by puppets: yanked, jerked on these invisible strands of rhythm. Even the drinks slosh to the same ubiquitous vibrations. I'll wander amongst these incredibly lifelike dolls, staring down at the tangled mess of feet twitching uncontrollably: one, two, up, down.
I find it funny to "accidentally" kick one of these waggling feet, and watch them twitch back into rhythm. One, two, *kick*, onetwoonetw onetwo, one, two. People stare at me when I laugh for no apparent reason.
Also, I find it extraordinarily funny to stare at the crowd and shut out the rhythm, shut out the music and imagine this heaving mass of bodies moving ludicrously in an utter, vacuum silence.
People stare at me when I laugh for no apparent reason.
But, there's rhythm everywhere. One, two, over and out.