Not A ‘Dancer’

…but ‘dancers’ are silver, mercurial creatures, said to be carrying their ‘noble’ birth around — a quite debatable origin really — much like the way a sweet and spicy blossom gloats. Maybe with only one set of parents, their very first set of parents. Possibly born somewhere in the Far East and having ghosted natives for eons. Known to publicly recoil to the sight of danger, landing on the right side of the noose to do the stunt with grace. This is what ‘dancers’ do, they ride on easiness.

She arrays all the data pondering: “Why does he think I am a ‘dancer’?”

Bedtime. Beside her K. is sound asleep, leeched by persistent bugs that fight the good fight for longevity. She, agitated, tosses and turns, trying to gather something ‘icy’, turn to the calmness of surrender. Condemned to a static representation of a black square, framed beneath her heavy eyelids. The square outshines the plea for kindness, brings on this other thing. Which is ok, she has been good friends with this feeling. She’s summoned it time and again.

Nighttime, a couple years back. Car ride, a call to anyone available. A friend suggests raiding his uninhabited home village. They hit the road at 10 pm, put acid trap on, drink from the same can. He tells the tales with his glasses slipping down his nose. She wedges them back on and minutes later they ‘right click’ to ‘sort by’. They’re in the midst of ‘ground exploration’.

‘Charcoal’ slips in, an entourage for the erratic want for answers, which is consuming, a want that’s always right but not available via its own practice. But she can’t say anything, can she?

This trespassing curls up in her tonight, fumbles through bricks and rusty fences like an apparition. She cannot shrug this square off as she cannot help opening the door, back at the wheel, way home.

“Get out”.

“What? Here? Middle of nowhere?”

“Just go away, get out of the fucking car!”

Kicking the boy out. Met with resistance.

“What’s wrong with you?!”

Fighting him back. Shoving again and stepping on the gas. Slamming the door shut. Cascading through the night. Tearing it open while something else is being cooked up, a new birth embroidered on the stars.

The voice of winter echoes vacancy. The rustling of dead leaves is the sound of wheels, the wheels of trolleys.

She has a list of names attracted to this feeling but they’re names chalked on the blackboard that this square is. Its trail discloses a writing: ‘r e p u l s i o n’. And as repulsion tugs the black square back in, the opaque frame rolls into the oven drawing the lines of its stifling perimeter on its own, wedging a pair of glasses with its tape measure limbs, swaddling itself into a cocoon.

Were she a dancer, congruence would outweigh it. All of it. Black squares would be just squatting and she’d be jumping over them. ‘Cause that’s how ‘dancers’ are, agile, prone to rejoice in unobstructed action, endowed with their adulated pastel beauty.

But she, well, she is not a ‘dancer’…




Mac DeMarco by day, Rustin Cohle by night with a Scanner Darkly physiognomy.

Love podcasts or audiobooks? Learn on the go with our new app.

Recommended from Medium

Orange Juice, I Ordered




The Final Frontier

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Vasia Bakogianni

Vasia Bakogianni

Mac DeMarco by day, Rustin Cohle by night with a Scanner Darkly physiognomy.

More from Medium

Medium Post #2

The Workplace Hazard

Her Duty

Not a Bar, Not a Club, Not a Saloon…but A Proper Pub