I've got my trial by jury coming up in an hour-- I volunteered to be one of the first to have his/her (double pronouns) short story workshopped, and I'm so nervous. It's not as good as it ought to be-- I spent only 12 or so hours on it, but it could be decent if I had a few more rewrites.

But details, I don't want to put out my little monkey before critical eyes. I remember when I was little, I sewed up a poor, broken-down dolly. Her limbs flopped, her stuffing was loose, and her hair was lank. I sewed impatiently, the thick yellow thread sewing into jagged stitches along her torso and shoulders. I don't write with voice or tone or setting in mind, but I try to put together pictures of coloured glass. And it's something dear to me, really. It's a very childish attitude, but I don't want to share with them. It's shamefaced, too, because I know the oilcloth rags and the rusty hinges of the story.

Sometime when I was writing it, the story became knotted up inside me. And I don't want to give that away. I want to clothe my bit in respectability before I hold her up. Add her frills, take away the pink satin bow. And hide the stitches, the part where I stayed up past 12 trying to fit together the arm and the leg.

I'm standing in my basement, playing the Bend It Like Beckham soundtrack on my brother's discman (mine is perenially out of battery power) and listening to Jind Mahi. And I start remembering what it was like to dance all the time, to stand in the halls with my feet in third position. I was never much good, but I loved dancing. On stage. In my basement, with the dirty window for a mirror. Laughing and swaying in a dance, the lights hot on my skin, sweat and steam coming off of everyone else. I knew I looked ridiculous, but letting my body pulse, letting myself breathe, letting everyone know that I wasn't afraid right now. Feeling myself swoop down to touch the stage in my loose silk shift. My feet whimpering in too-small dance shoes. It was all about feeling. Not even really touch. Just pure sensuality, moving by myself, not caring what I looked like, just feeling the rhythms wave in the air and through the floor.

So, anyway, I danced. In my basement, alone. And damn, it felt good.