I've decided to start trying to diversify my shit, and attempt to write various kinds of things. Today I wrote my first essay, just to kind of see if I could, and if I had anything to write about. It's a memoir, of sorts, about an Elementary School-aged me, and this song:
The essay is after the jump if you care to indulge, and if not, that's cool too. It's totally acceptable if you're here to talk about lipstick and Justin Bieber. Don't worry, I'm still doing that. I probably won't post more of these essays here, but I thought I would go ahead and post this shit because it's the first one and, whatever, I do what I want.
"It's all about the imagery," I told myself silently, or however a nine year old tells themselves things of that sort at that age. I was writhing around as cat-like as a person-who's-never-owned-a-cat-or-really-even-been-around-cats could achieve. I was in the open space of my dad's condo living room, full of almost-bamboo furniture with cushions, the kind that were very common in the late 80s in Florida. If you're picturing the-set-of-Golden-Girls-meets-newly-divorced-Dad-core, you aren't far off.
I had chosen this space based mostly upon that fact that there was a huge, boxy stereo system in this room, where one could pick their veritable poison of musical sources: AM/FM, a tape deck, and a record player were all options. I was currently utilizing the hell out of that tape player by blasting my Janet Jackson "Black Cat" tape at completely unreasonable volumes. I needed to really hear the beat, because I was smack dab in the middle of choreographing my masterpiece — my dance performance for my Elementary School's talent show.
I could already picture how the entire scene would play out: I would slink out onto a blackened stage, cloaked in my black ballet leotard and pin-on cat tail (the one with the wire coat hanger inside) that I had worn for Halloween last year. All of a sudden, a spotlight would illuminate my reclined body and the music would begin. I had never seen anyone at my school achieve anything so dramatic in the annual talent show, but I knew I would pave the way for future performers, who would find themselves inspired by my pioneering act. I could already smell the sickeningly sweet scent of rose bouquets being tossed at my feet in appreciation for my bravery. So I danced on, for myself, for the CHILDREN, as my small feet created a static-filled staccato on that beige, apartment-grade carpeting.
I don't know where my dad was at this point in my tedious practicing. He had probably retreated to another room, tired from endless hours of forced games of Monopoly and story-telling. My parents were divorced, and it was his weekend with me, so that meant eating Chinese food and, apparently, a shitload of Janet Jackson music.
After the action-packed weekend filled with writhing and pseudo-cat roaring, I couldn't wait to get to school. I was chock full of naive confidence and endorphins from DANCE!, and today was the day that I was going to announce the plan of my performance to the faculty in charge of the talent show. Because this was Elementary School, acts had to be deemed appropriate for children to be performing and viewing. It would be inappropriate, for example, to have a nine-year-old child playing an overtly sexual song that contained the word "damn," while mimicking humping-esque dance moves on the auditorium stage. Oh, shit.
I was completely shut down by the school. My avant-garde production was regarded as "too adult" for school. My squirmy motions would never influence the lives of anyone, especially not schoolchildren. I was forced to completely retool my act, creating all new choreography to Paula Abdul's "Promise of a New Day." I wore a flapper costume, and I inspired exactly zero future writhers of America.
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