Safe To Dance

Dear you,

The Taliban officially owns Afghanistan again; it is absolutely not safe to dance there.  What is this religious obsession with dance or pleasure in general?  Researching the history of dance as “sin”, I learned about Sayyid Qutb.  He came from Egypt in the 1950s to study America and left enraged, driven to “wage holy war” based on what he witnessed. This man is said to have created the theoretical basis for radical Islamism.  The following website describes a pivotal moment when he watched people dancing to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” at a sweet little Christmas party:

 https://qz.com/1491525/baby-its-cold-outside-and-the-rise-of-islamic-fundamentalism/

Oh for the love of god.  Literally.

I know I am being judgy again, but this is nonsense.  It’s malevolent nonsense.  When these religious guys (yes, they are usually guys) create their sin lists, innocent people get hurt.  Innocent people get fearful.  Innocent people who just want to be “good” feel lost and post questions like this to religious advice websites:

“Is it a sin to whistle, to clap, to wear yellow and red clothes?”

On another site, a soon to be married Christian man asked for permission to dance at his own wedding.  The advising expert (sexpert/pervert I would say) called him self-indulgent. He claimed dancing as found in Bible stories was different, not like “modern” forms “designed to express a love interest in the other person.  Movement, hand placement, and body positions all speak of intimacy in a public setting.  There are dances that don’t, but they are not currently favored.”  Oh, I got it now.  You can dance if you want to, but only if you do the “not currently favored” moves.  Just avoid moving in any way that is remotely appealing. Move without design and remember that this is a non-contact sport.  Do not touch.  Do not titillate. 

Which leaves me with a very short list of non-sinful dances, moves guaranteed to repel and not appeal:

The Funky Chicken

Jane Fonda Aerobic Grapevines (no hip movement, please)

The Robot

The YMCA (oh the irony, Village People and all that)

The Dad Dance (fist pump with foot stomp)

That Thing Where You Hold Your Foot Close to Your Ass and Hop Around

Nothing on that list is attractive.  Nureyev couldn’t make those moves sexy.  Maybe a stripper could, but I am pretty sure stripping is only allowed before baptism.  (Do they baptize naked?  I was raised chill-Methodist and we just got a little water sprinkled on our heads.  That’s probably why I was doomed to love dance and other assorted sins, faulty baptism.)

These sin-patrol monitors need to shut the hell up and quit projecting their shame on others.

I know, the Taliban and their kinder, gentler version here in the USA aren’t listening to sinners like us.  Since they aren’t, we need to add another line to the Declaration of Independence, update it for the record:

Dancing in all its forms is a human right; it shall be safe to dance.

(And to make music, to love who you will, to read, to write, to learn, to simply BE.)

Donate, please, to International Rescue Committee via RESCUE.org online.   They are working to evacuate, protect, and feed Afghani people. Thank you.

Love,

Joyce

Fred heading my way, suitable weather for grief.

Goodbye, Sudan.

Dear you,

Tropical storm Fred is heading to the Panhandle. The wind is starting to pick up now; littles gusts making the trees dance.  It is beautiful, really, this force of nature following the path Hurricane Michael took in 2018. The grey sky, the rain falling like tears; it suits this brutally sad day.

Sudan, the last male white rhino is dead.  An extinction.

Afghanistan falls to the Taliban.  Another extinction, or rather, a regression.

These two sorrows have hit me harder than anything I have experienced or witnessed.

I wonder why that is?  Could be a feeling of helplessness, impotence in the face of what I never, never expected, a world going backwards, killing beauty as it goes.

So, as we all mourn, I welcome Fred.  I hope he strengthens and cleanses this place.  I appreciate his timing, forcing us here in callous Florida to feel and gracefully grieve, painting an appropriate, somber background for honoring what is lost.

Tomorrow, we might wake to gentle weather and try again to get it right. Again, and again, and again.

RIP #Sudan

Good luck #ZarifaGhafari, the first female mayor in Afghanistan.

Joyce

Go Commando and Save the World . . .

Dear you,

Consumer affairs are still in flux.  The random shortages continue.  This week in retail:  Panty panic.

I don’t do underwear since most of the time I’m in leggings or long shorts (is that an oxymoron?).  It is just not necessary to wear one pant-like garment under another pant-like garment unless you’re layering for warmth. That’s redundant. But I do wear hipsters or boy shorts under dresses, skirts, or those XXL t-shirts posing as dresses. This I do to keep my commando mode private, in consideration of the greater good. So recently, I went shopping to renew my supply of the sometimes-necessary under things.  I went to Target, a bad idea.

The store itself looked a bit light in merchandise and the stock of undies in my size and favored types was beyond depleted.  I found one gigantic pair of hipster panties. Big enough for an XXL bottom who likes mint green with flowers. Moving on.  I found one pair of boy shorts.  But these were XXS.  I am little, but not that little.  And they had clearly been dropped on the floor a few times; the dove grey material was covered in shoe-prints.   The only fully stocked drawer contained the dreaded “briefs”, a.k.a. granny panties.

I wandered around looking for options and found a massive display of packaged panties, Hanes, Jockey, that sort of thing.  There were plenty of these.  But not in my size.  Plus most packs had been ripped open and re-taped shut.  Not a good sign.  Nobody should purchase underwear that has been "tested" at the Target in Panama City Beach.  My mission failed.

Where have all the panties gone?  Are they in exile with other things I struggle to find now, things like lint rollers, velvet scrunchies, Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream, and Suave $1 shampoo?

I was going to go on and on about these bougie concerns, but then I remember this from Reuters yesterday:

U.N. climate change report sounds “code red for humanity”.

I am shutting up about underwear.

We sweat, we burn, and (if you are a stork disoriented by wildfires) we die migrating across Greece.  An increase of 1.1C in temperature averages is now.  An increase of 1.5C is supposedly all we can take and we are almost there. I have a feeling our mutual desires for things like panties, scrunchies, ice cream and shampoo got us to this point, things, silly things made in and transported by an oily economy.

I really don’t care about the depleted panty supply at Target.  Like I said, I don’t like underwear anyway.  But this world? I hate to see it go. To prevent that, we are back to the obvious, necessary action:

“Anyone speaking about climate who isn’t urgently calling for an end to the fossil fuel industry deserves to be ignored.”  Peter Kalmus, NASA climate scientist, posted that on Twitter yesterday.

Will I see the end of the fossil fuel industry in my lifetime? What can I do? Step 1:  Stop bitching about depleted panty bins.  Step 2:  Keep pushing politically for a green approach to energy and production. Step 3: Commit to going commando.  Forever. Some "things" are just not worth it.

Go commando and save the world.  

Done.

Joyce