any time is a good time... and the middle is always a good place to begin

I've always been heistant to keep a journal because I feel compelled to describe everything in chronological order -- and the thinking continues that if I can't sum up the last 31 years of my life nothing will makes sense. The reality is that both memories and people are spontaneous. When you meet people, they get the snapshot view of who you are and how you got there -- the don't need a full chronological account... and so are memories.

Sometimes something just pops-up.

doing the charleston
I picked-up one of those generic CD's that has non-cpyrighted music played by nobody famous without any particular talent. It's a it's got mambo's, tango's and one particular song which sounded like the pefect rhythim to which one should be dancing the charleston - the kind of music you'd imagine playing during those early movie reels where everyone is moving too quickly to notice. Black and white with little grainy stripes once in a while. A topless car filled with young happy people. Men in suspenders and women with their felt hats and fur collars. Arms in the air, everyone waving at the camera at a speed that is not humanely possible.

Flashback to about 18 years ago where I was visiting my grandmother for the summer. I was thirteen, a "woman" with headphones permenantly affixed to my ears and a walkman permenantly affixed to my hip and an attitude exuded from every one of my pores ... can't talk now, can't you see I'm listining to my tunes?

We had to go into "town" to go shopping and this required preparation. She busied herself in front of her art deco tigerwood make-up dresser on her cream pleather stool. She was fully dressed, so this meant that she would put her sheer "make-up shawl" that prevented the loose powder she puffed on her face from landing on her clothes.

We hobbled and stumbled our way to the bus-stop, which was precarously perched at the top ledge of a steep ditch. Steep ditch behind, busy road in front, bus shelter beside she began to tell me about how she would dance. Her black eyes looked across the street and found a memory. She cracked a smile as the sun shone on her navy wool suit from which sprouted a white linen blouse collar with specially made embroidered tips.

"Do you want to learn the Charleston?!?" she said with the excitement of a child. And before I could answer she began strutting her stuff.

"Ta ta... tatatatahhh.." the music was flowing and grandma, who could barly walk was doing the Charelston. Palms to the floor, shoulders to her ears feet flying in every direction. There was no stopping her.

It was a magical moment.

The cheap CD moves on to the next song... a swing piece of some kind.

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