We all want the wrong things. We all desperately want something we can never get. We are all born in the wrong time. We all fall for the wrong lover. We all eat the wrong food. We all say the wrong things. To put it succinctly, our existence is mostly all wrong.
Right? Okay, maybe not all. Maybe just me. But then doesn't everybody think "just me ?"
I thought so too, when she moved to Bangalore. I can see her walking down the road or maybe not. She is not the walking kind. An auto then. Impressive is it not how even my fantasies are tainted with my prejudices, also wrong.
So I see her, in a city I have only kissed flittingly much like her. White stilettos. White skirt. A dark purple fitting top. A loose hanging bag on her right shoulder. Straight black hair. Kohl lined eyes. Taking in the world around her with her usual disdain. Just like I saw her one day, turning around the corner, halfway across the world, dancing to the tunes in her own head.
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dancing seemed right then. In a city that's so far stashed away in my memories that the coffee we drank seems to have mottled into tar. The coffee and Foucault's Pendulum. The wrong kind of pendulum, the wrong kind of book and a mistress of time. Busy as a bee and so distant. Even when we made love. In her room, in her bed, between her bookshelf and deviled eggs.
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
She did dance me to my wedding. That was about it. About all the wrong that could happen. And as I remembered her then, I remember her now, all wrong, just like the rest of it. Only now, she is in Bangalore. And I wonder, is it wrong? To wonder?
The lyrics are from Dance Me To The End of Love by Leonard Cohen.
