In light of Ms. Lark's comments about square dancing, I thought I'd mention my one and only experience with that particular brand of rhythmical movement. I was, I think, 8 years old, and utterly besotted with a freckly, black-haired girl called Felicity. What a wonderful name it is, a throw back to the days when girls were called things like Providence, Epiphany or Constance, names which carried a certain weight of years and meaning with them. I had a friendly relationship with Felicity, although we never really talked too deeply or extensively. I contented myself then, as I still do now, for the seeds sown in childhood are hard to escape from (not that escape is necessary), with admiring her from afar, and no one ever suspected that I was deeply infatuated with her. It has always been a curse of my life that I am too successful at concealing my thoughts and feelings from others. If only I were, not exactly transparent, but suggestive when it comes to my emotions at any given time. Instead I deceive without meaning or wanting to, and mis-lead when I would rather be understood. But I digress. One day, we were assembled in a hall with cold, badly varnished floor. It was PE, and I was wearing the ubiquitous navy blue shorts that barely accounted for decency, white t-shirt and increasingly sullied plimsoles. For a change, the teacher said, we would be dancing. Square dancing. To that end we to be paired off, boy and girl. I felt a thrill of excitement at this novelty and, of course, hoped fervently that I would be blessed with having Felicity as my dancing partner. I had never been interested in dancing, being a chubby and unwieldy boy at the time, self-conscious and filled with loathing at my rolls of excess baby fat, but the possibility that I may be selected to dance with Felicity invested square dancing with significance. And so it is that when something which one was previously indifferent to becomes a means to a desired end, it suddenly becomes the subject of desire and interest. But it was not to be. Instead, I was given the hand of another girl, one who I can't remember. Indeed, my memories of that lesson end after the disappointment of not being able to dance with my distant beloved, becoming an indistinct blur of hazy boredom and discomfort. Eventually, after stumbling around clumsily to the strains of country music that emanated from the cheap stereo mounted at the front the lesson ended and we assembled by the entrance to be dismissed. The teacher, before sending us on our way, told us we would be doing the same next time, and selected new pairs. Then, ladies and gentleman of the jury (I hope that, if any relative or afficionado of Nabokov is reading this, they will forgive my slight plagiarism), fortune favoured me in a way that happens but rarely. It was if events were actually conspiring to work for me. "Ruvi and....Felicity," that was what the teacher said so casually, unaware of the gravity of the selection to me. I could barely wait for the next lesson, where before I had viewed PE lessons with an unpleasant mixture of humiliation at the scant clothing and disgust with the pointless physical drilling we underwent. This time was different however, and I looked forward to PE with hopes and in anticipation of bliss. Proximity with my dear Felicity without the need to reveal my feelings. Eventually, after the days dragged by, the time came for our next PE lesson, and we assembled once more in the cold hall. Then, fortune played one of its sadistic, perverse, absurd jokes. I looked over at Felicity, and my interest in her, my attraction to her, disappeared with the carelessness of a sudden death. In truth, she wasn't looking her best, having just woken up (PE was, cruelly, the first lesson of the day), and she had puffy bags around her eyes that made them look like pitted olives swollen with retained water. But nevetheless, the disappearance of attraction was more fundamental. It had gone, and it was never to return. The lesson passed uncomfortably, and I could barely bring myself to look into Felicity's face. From that point on I had little to say to her and when we finally left that school and dispersed like a handful of sycamore buds tossed into the wind I saw her no more. And that, in sum, is my experience of square dancing. Love that packed its bags and left when the vessel which is flowed towards was so close and so tangible. Fate could have made this little story end differently. There was another girl, you see, whose power over me endured far longer, far beyond the point at which contact with her ended. Holly Haggley-Pierson was her name, and you'll probably consider it ugly, but I adored it like I adored everything else about her. We used to argue, like most young children do when gripped by a strange attraction. Once more, I hid my deep, abiding infatuation from her so successfully that nobody ever detected my secret. And she has disappeared her way, and I mine, and that is that. If I saw her again, no doubt it would be entirely different; she would detest me, or she would bore me, or we would orbit different worlds. In a way, meeting her again would efface the happy memory of her which I still retain, and that would be an act more painful than any rejection. And so my little childhood anecdotes end. I have been awake for hours now, and I must sleep. I had intended to write more (I promise I won't pursue this intention), but I became rather more immersed in recollections than I had foreseen. I will put off the inclusion of musical content, pithy observations, glib wit, trumpet-blowing and other sundries for another day, preferably a rainy one. I will put them aside and not worry, safe in the probably illusory knowledge that, next time, oh yes, things will be different. A post will be written so dazzling, so comprehensive, as to make Oscar Wilde roll in his grave, the ghost of Virginia Woolf (or perhaps Vera Zasulich, since Russian revolutionaries are infinitely more attractive to my tastes) give herself to me, Charles Baudelaire come back for one last attempt at the divine, babies cry for the safety of their mother's breasts, and monkeys blush. Ruvi. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the undead Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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