Music is an amazing thing- it’s as if I realize that anew each time I am introduced to something “new.” I think my self-induced bipolarism is greatly affected by music, meaning that sometimes a silly little song has the power to make me scream out loud in extreme pleasure- no sex involved either.
Anyway, I wish I came from a more “musically inclined” family but as it was, my dear grandmother got grandnapped by aliens when I was very young. (Ok, she didn’t really get taken away on a rocket ship, but she might as well have, she converted to Pentecostalism/Evangelism and proceeded to tell the entire family that if they did not change their ways to the “only” acceptable way they’d all burn in hell. So here I sit waiting my turn to burn in hell). These cults have a way of doing away with people’s own thoughts, once they become part of the communal thought process there is no rescuing them or restoring them to their former beings. For some that might be a good thing, for my grandmother it has not. She insists on leading a “pious” life devoid of any fun. Who said following Jesus had to be so, so damn depressing anyway?
There is no dancing permitted, as that allows the Devil access to our very souls which he will promptly carry off into the ruined and darkened pits of Hades. There is no music allowed, unless it involves Jesus, the Father or the Holy Ghost, and these three don’t believe in “getting down” nor playing any “funky music” nor permitting any song that might lead to body movements akin to anything sexual- oh no! God forbid! So the only music I was left with was stuff like “This little light of mine…” What fucking light? The crushing depression alone, brought about by the lack of real music was enough to darken the souls of all kingdom come and their offspring’s offspring.
I remember going to places with my Mom, she was never one to “change” to acceptable ways in Grandma’s eyes, and sitting there and though roughly enjoying the local restaurant’s cover band’s rendition of “Ay viene la Plaga” (roughly translated: Here comes the plague- about a girl so riotous and crazy fun that when you saw her rock ‘n rolling you knew she was the queen of the place). I wanted to be her, the plague. I wanted to break into uncontrollable fits of dancing so tantric in nature that the movement itself would transport me beyond the limited things I was allowed to see. But, I couldn’t- lest I risk eternal damnation for a short moment of ill conceived pleasure. See what I mean? Who comes up with this nonsense?
There were other times when we’d be watching dances at festivals and little random celebrations intown and some dancers would break into a “Palo de Mayo”* rendition. Now that was glory itself! I watched and wanted to run over and become them but I just stood there and watched for I knew I’d be irretrievably soiled if I partook of the dance. And then the guilt of having sinned by wishing for it kicked in. What a redundant and empty existence. Who in their right mind wants to live like that? Ever? To this day I have to literally talk myself into dancing -and that usually only happens after a few social lubricants have been duly imbibed. Not to say that I only dance when I drink, but I mostly only dance when I drink. Although, I’ve noticed that if I dance with someone who can lead well I end up doing quite well myself.
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