My niece is a competitive dancer; she’s pretty darn good. I, on the other hand, do a passable white man at best.

I can sort of do the Carlton (and yes, I have a couple of favourite Tom Jones songs – probably the same ones as every other white boy).

I am a basic bitch.

But she is not. She is skilled to the point where maybe it could be a career. I’m not sure dancers make careers out of it for the cash, but rather, the love of the dance, the camaraderie, possibly even the travel.

And then, of course, a school. Teaching what can be taught to the willing and unwilling alike.

But it is the love of the thing that makes it worthwhile; it is a failure of our society not to reward the arts as it would any other profession. A dancer plays a role in society, with more love than some paper-pusher. It is refreshing to the soul, ours and the artist’s.

That’s worth something, is it not?

Target: 500 words
Written: 308 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Dancing Barefoot, Wil Wheaton
Comics: Rat Queens 4-7
Music: Venue Songs, They Might Be Giant (an entire album of hastily composed songs about the stages upon which they played on a particular tour?  Well, then.  Kind of brilliant, in a way.)