Thursday, August 18, 2011


Occasionally, the world , or at least the little bit you're sitting in, is touched by the poetic, the graceful, the beautiful....for no reason but that we NEED it sometimes, I guess.

A Wednesday night, back in ' FWB Brenda and I are at Club 1504, sitting by the basement dance floor, which won't open for another hour or so. Phil, her cousin, is in the DJ booth, sorting through records. I'm nursing a 151 and Coke, and she's got a coke, no venom.

I walk over to the booth, and start naming songs to Phil, a'la "Do you have__________?"
Everytime I name a song, the answer is, "No", until I mention "We're All Alone", by Rita Coolidge-that he's got.

I sit back down, and pick up my conversation with Brenda. Phil, in the meantime, fires up the spotlights and the ball.

Then, he starts up "We're All Alone".
Without a word, Brenda gets up from the table, walks to the dance floor, and begins a slow, smoky almost-ballet, graceful, seeming to glide along the crests of the music.

Me....I'm speechless. I've never seen Brenda dance before, and this dance is speech, telling her joy, her pain, our friendship, her loneliness, so much emotion in feminine undulation.

The music ends, and without a word, she sits down. There's silence-what could be said?
I don't even remember the rest of the evening.

That was twenty-three years ago. Brenda lives far away, and the last time I tried to get in touch with her, she ignored fault.

Still, I can't hear that song without seeing her, sinuously ghosting through my memory.
Slainte, Brenda.

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