Femme Dance Quotes

He was no god, just an artist; and when an artist is a man, he needs a woman to create like a god.

Whenever I get dumped, I nail the door shut so that no one can come inside, get a towel and clip it around my neck so it's like a Superman cape, take off my shoes so I can slide across the room, and...get a fake mic, like a celery stick or a pen, and I play any record that features the vocalist Ronnie James Dio. And you can just pretend you're Dio, because on every album he does, he has minimum one, usually three, *EVIL WOMAN LOOK OUT!*- songs. And if you wanna point like Dio, it's a three-finger point. (heavy metal voice) 'The exit is that way. Evil LURKS! Evil lurks in twilight! Dances in the DARK! Evil woman! Just WALK AWAY!

As women we're raised to take tepid two-steps, to doubt, to let the other make the move. And when you are caught with another girl in that dance... How many times have I stepped the same steps, trodden the same tired grooves of my mind, an ouroboros of extreme elation and suffocating uncertainty? How does one get out of this labyrinth? Burn all your romantic novels, cough on the fumes till you spit out the sediment? Bury your pink lingerie in a bed of rock, quell those femme yearnings, become stone?

A truly enlightened attitude to language should simply be to let six thousand or more flowers bloom. Subcultures should be allowed to thrive, not just because it is wrong to squash them, because they enrich the wider culture. Just as Black English has left its mark on standard English Culture, South Africans take pride in the marks of Afrikaans and African languages on their vocabulary and syntax. New Zealand's rugby team chants in Maori, dancing a traditional dance, before matches. French kids flirt with rebellion by using verlan, a slang that reverses words' sounds or syllables (so femmes becomes meuf). Argentines glory in lunfardo, an argot developed from the underworld a centyry ago that makes Argentine Spanish unique still today. The nonstandard greeting "Where y'at?" for "How are you?" is so common among certain whites in New Orleans that they bear their difference with pride, calling themselves Yats. And that's how it should be.

You know, I think she's terribly attractive, but when you dance with her she makes you feel she doesn't want you. It's as if she were tremendously alive and you were a piece of wood. And that's all wrong, because she obviously must hate pieces of wood - shes has such hot eyes.

For all of you out there, visible & invisible. Closeted or out & proud. Femme & Masc & every glorious stripe on the rainbow in between. You incandescent queens, deliciously undefinable androgynous souls, chivalrous butches, tomboy dykes, drop-dead yet still invisible femmes. You with your flare, your flamboyance, your rugged individuality, your glorious diversity, your insistence on being seen, your quiet but steady presence in the places that matter. You, the cliche and every unexpected exception. The world’s stereotypes brought to blazing life & you who smashes the boxes & changes the paradigms & refuses to be painted into place. You, who knows that queer looks, speaks, sounds & moves through this world in a million different ways. You, the grieving. You the dancing. You, the proud & the humble & the defiant & the free. Whatever label you choose & define for yourself. Whatever identity feels like home to you. However you have come to know & name yourself & your good, good, love. You are my family. I see you.

I should have seen this well-practiced ritual for what it was, understood the level of performance here in Marioland, appreciated the experience, the time served together that allowed these hulking giants to dance wordlessly around each other in the cramped, heavily manned space behind the line without ever colliding or wasting a movement. They turned from cutting board to stove-top with breathtaking economy of movement, they hefted 300-pound stockpots onto ranges, tossed legs of veal around like pullets, blanched hundreds of pounds of pasta, all the while indulgently enduring without comment my endless self-aggrandizing line of witless chatter. I should have understood this femme/convict patois, this business with the women's names, the arcane expressions, seen it for what it was: the end result of years working together in a confined space under extreme pressure. I should have understood. But I didn't.

They would enchant him with their music, their wordless beauty, and then they would dance him to death, carrying his body with them into another realm when the first sunlight broke through the canopy of leaves

The hallway of the house in Salogó was no mess of my mom’s paints but a tangle of sequins, gowns with butterfly sleeves, also called terno or mestiza, everything always had multiple names, and pumps with bullet heels. With the intensity of an artist, my mom became Tio Nemorino’s election manager, as if her transference of skill, from painting to politics, possessed value in equal measure. My favorite image of this time is a glossy picture of my mother about to lead the dance in a gown of black tulle, I liked the femme-fatale profile, her look of a vampira in the ballroom—I liked her shocking look amid the pastel dancers. In the picture, she’s in some barrio hall, in her well-sprayed bouffant, her terno in that uncommon black, and high heels, her foot in the air about to take her first step, the entrada, and she is looking at no one in particular, at an absent demonio, who knows if in her mind it was at him, the bastard, my father, though the picture tells me she had no worry but the dance, she glanced in a side-view pose like an actress, Ingrid Bergman, Ingrid Bergman, and then we’d ride home in the mud through Salogó’s farmlands until the next election event. How many times have I been at a party with my mother, overwhelmed by our family’s public face—this need for voters to love you. I used to wake up at night after those election dances and crawl over to her bed, put my ear to her chest, and hear her tired breathing, to reassure myself she was still who she was, and not the vampira of TEIPCO.