WHEN THE WORLD WAS BURNING, WE KEPT DANCING / Silent Street Disco Experiment
WHEN THE WORLD WAS BURNING, WE KEPT DANCING
[Dedicated to all the Silent Street Disco Gang | 31.08.19 to 01.09.19 / Porto]
Only yesterday did we took silence in the soft afternoon city air; I remember how hesitantly we started to change its mouthless void into shapes of erratic movement, slowly centrifuging, carefully leaving invisibility, leaving the unknown, recoding names back to the primordial language of life – the silence of things to come. We were strangers back then, beings just wanting to be, friends waiting for friendship to happen – we would change the world in our peculiar ways.
There was shine and there was sparkle, soon a warrior torch lit by our erotic bodies in unison, in the braille-readable nakedness of our fun and frolics down the street, growing and glowing together, all a flame, skyscrapping to zenith itself, an orgasmic eruption of nowness and forever. We were one with time, eternal, wavering between passion and death, little indians, perhaps five or ten, or twelve or three, a random dancing glitch on the ashen system of a boring daily scheadule.
Dancing by ourselves but not alone, for we danced to the same enticing tune, and when we marched birds flew at our shoulders’ level. One single body of many, skin-wrapped in colors plenty, with music as the same flowing blood stream, pumping in a big ‘Olá’ ice-cream publicity board. [waiting to insert the 'Olá' photo]
“Music is the verb of the future”
[Victor Hugo]
…and than we danced into the night, till music was silence inside out. And out of glory we all gaily toasted – “little indians sat up very late”(1) –, at some Mad «Fuck» Hatter’s riverside-set table fete. Nadja’s ‘Extremoduro’ and Tânia’s ‘Francisco, el Hombre’ – caralho, Jon, que massa: to meet someone who’s gotta roam, and like your Marielle, is not defined by men, someone who’s but her own home; ‘Variações’, ‘Madonna’ and obviously ‘Queen’… – vaya, que temazo, Álvaro: to meet hearts that say what they mean. Wanderers in Winederland, marveled at each other’s faces, sort of hazy, sort of fickle, ocean eyes, «oh, shit!»-sighs, sheer animal joy, bottled-beer-uppers and crazy bird-suckers (you know who you are, David boy).
All a little lost and all a little found, you could blame the circumstances for Lola’s game of circus stunts, and a psycho groupie-session for every opium-tinged question deflecting eyes from our very cay’s ground. We shot the moon and flew together on a marvelously tripping redeye – Kevin, Kevin, let’s attempt the near-impossibilities of life, look at my fireworks exploding loudly in the sky. Than, one of our “little indians travelling in Devon, (see you soon, Stefan) said he would stay there”, puffing up our hearts with more emotional leaven. By then, they were too big an organ for such a small river vat: no law of man, no law of god could ever ever ever make them flat. We needed wider veins, and knew nothing was out of reach: so the next day we disembogued at the sea, in a sun-capped golden beach.Grande were them waters, a thousand shades of liquid blue, scary like they could actually read me through, immensly moving like only Beauty could, but I’d been warned about Disney movies and Hollywood. So I swerved all the dubious milchschaum away to take nothing but a humble sip, only to find myself madly happydrunk diving in it deep.
There we were: men and women like the others, window cleaners, skaters, barbers, betting on a game of luck, a game of chance, a crowd of sisters and brothers, looking for partners to dance. As Álvaro left to play with his blue and white sporty hive, little indians were we: now, reduced to five.
Waves would come and they would go, for it’s in their nature to do right so; as I started to miss them all, golden summer turned to fall, and so I stored some sun inside my pocket: a cautious provision of warmth from which, during winter frost, I could only hope to profit. It was the sun and its chérie amusements that kept us childishly playing on the ledge, closer and closer to love, as we tiptoed around the edge. Like a missile learning its target sign, like waves that naturaly intertwine, delicately suruba like, a secret marriage soon aligned: we breathed by a common lung, used the same two legs to run, and tasted by an equal tongue – we were us, and we were one. But than, as “little indians [went] out to sea; a red herring swallowed” Richard, leaving me with only three.
Damm you, Lizzany and Viscontti, for guiding the herds of my sensibility to the fiend lair of heartbreak and sorrow; though, I know, my heart will always find a way to love much better tomorrow. And that, just like so, will be simply fine.
We left the beach to pick up David in Ribeira, for a most antecipated dinner time. There, a bleached thin-sliced moon above, covertly posed itself as peeking through a breach. “Little indians were out in the sun”, all knowing Life to be constantly at reach. We talked, and laughed, and hours passed, and no one’s good at leaving time; but we’ll surely meet again, either in the sun or heavy rain, for another thousand sea shades of cerulean and sienna, enticing as only Beauty could, despite those Disney movies and Hollywood, for we’ll always have Vienna. I would do it all again, or maybe only now and then, but how we twirled and pirouetted, how we slayed, and how we sweated, may we never ever ever be able to forget it.
“And then there was one”, as the train left the station, with a pinch of pain inside, but hurting solemnly by design. Just like in the beginning, before we could even care, when we were strangers yet to intertwine, in the soft afternoon city air. It was the wine, I’m quite aware: sometimes, through seasons and through times, those nickels and dimes, all reasons and rhymes, ever sensible ever rough, our blood alone is not enough, not to quench Life’s thirst – so I put my psycho health first and drink it till I burst.
It’s a good life, my beautiful dancing friends: live it well, live it amazingly till the end.
Carlos
(1) Taken from the English nursery rhyme:
"Ten little Indians went out to dine,
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little Indians sat up very late,
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Indians travelling in Devon,
One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little Indians chopping up some sticks,
One chopped himself in half and then there were six.
Six little Indians playing with a hive,
A bumblebee stung one of them and then there were five.
Five little Indians going in for law,
One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little Indians going out to sea,
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little Indians walking in the zoo,
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little Indians sitting in the sun,
One got all frizzled up and then there was one.
One little Indian left all alone,
He went and hanged himself, and then there were none"
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