I've been watching videos of the bellydancer Deb Rubin. They're lovely, they're inspiring. Fatuously, I feel an affinity with her because we're both called Deb, and 'Deb Rubin' sounds a bit like Deborah.
And there's that 'ohhhh!' feeling. Like 'That's it! That's me! That's exactly who I want to be!' Like I should have had this epiphany when I was four, and orientated my life around it, and by now I'd be a famous bellydancer opening my autobiography with this memory. Didn't happen, did it?
Identifying my inner woman with Deb Rubin raises questions about the whole notion of 'inner woman', doesn't it? I don't of course look at all like her. She does all the looking good and all the dancing, I just identify with her. The only credit I merit is for the mere choice of identification as a form of self-expression.
Oh, all this nebulousness inside of me. Necessarily insubstantial, necessarily useless because confined, yet safely preserved beyond the ravenous reaches of harsh rl.
But if Deb Rubin does represent some spirit inside me, or at least some aspiration of the spirit inside me, then she informs me that brilliance, beauty, strength, grace, art and accomplishment are achieved through movement.
Inside this blog, I feel my t-journey has become static.
Time for a new dance, a new dance floor? xx
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