I arrive at the venue to dance, but I am not yet dancing.
A dam, beaver-like, sits where a waterfall should begin,
though calling it a waterfall feels inaccurate—
there is no cascade yet,
no press of water rushing downward.
I diagram it in my head,
how I will remove each branch.
Branch 1: Take off leggings beneath my skirt, revealing tights that will allow heat to more easily part ways with my body’s radiating heat as the night of dancing progresses.
Branch 2: Stuff my thrifted, cheap yet well-made coat, with leggings in one pocket and hat in the other, into a corner, and mentally note where I must find it, hoping I need not swim too deeply for it later.
Branch 3: Drink water in preparation, not wanting to break the momentum of dancing once I begin, because it is a painful process to move further away from the beat when the beat is oh-so consuming.
Branch 4: Politely remove myself from unnecessary conversations.
Branch 5: Check that I have phone, wallet, keys.
Branch 6: It is almost go-time. I narrow my range of thoughts to just the now. I give myself explicit mental permission to finally dance, to allow myself to become one with the music and become the music itself. My processes are primarily unconscious from this time on.
I am now the mighty waterfall, surging and melding with its surroundings.
Until my environment forces an ebb—
in other words, mandated closing time—
I would not recommend trying to stop this flow.