TRANSMISSION

He’s dancing weirdly again. Time travelling, I think. The way he connects with the sound you’d think it was a live radio broadcast, not the beat from a show that ended many years ago.

The curtains are drawn, the room dark grey, a scene for the blind or anyone frightened of the sun. None who dwell in the daylight can see in. This is a private journey, to which only I am privy.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t always use words, convinced he can transmit ideas to me through knowing nods and jerking grunts, like some epileptic Jedi master. I’m always sure to gurgle in a way that says, ‘I get it’.

No language, just sound, that’s all we need to know, right?

He’s reliving the fine times he lived in the night, that much is clear to see, the destruction, the getting wasted years. From this distance, he can only recall the touching memories, forgetful of any wounds they left in their wake.

What I’m meant to get from this is that he would’ve gone on that way, happy in the same place, staying out the time. But then he misses a beat, puts a foot wrong, and suddenly he catches his reflection. Old, fat, all too aware the things he’s learned are no longer enough.

Dammit. I’ve transmitted my thoughts too well! See his face has darkened, his feet ground to a halt. The scene: still as a faded postcard of a dreary old northern town. No one wants to play when they’re transported to somewhere like that.

I offer up my brightest smile, my arms outstretched. Everything about me whoops, ‘and we could dance!’

‘Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, to the radio.’

He obeys, of course, as dancers must.

 

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff:
Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook, Ian Curtis, Stephen Morris

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