Storm above the dance floor

Everyone sweats. Not like the glue that adheres one to their Armani suit in Hollywood clubs. In Bali, sweat is assumed, integrated, adored – as everyone is making love to the dance floor, the waves just feet away crash obliviously out of sync to the booming DJ. It hasn’t stopped raining since sunset & the lightning & thunder over the far ocean care as little for us as we do for them. They are our lovers, they rant & rave, bitch & scream, we love their voice, their noise. They amplify the tension & escalate the violence begged for between each heaving body. Animals love this way – ignorant to the conscious social dynamics that make therapy out of our primal lust. When the waves are crashing up against the dance floor and the storm overhead lullabies the erratic bodies’ movements down deeper into the DJ’s trance, it is not for anyone to say or blame what come of it. This is Bali, island of the gods, & if you dare play up, you might find yourself drenched in their sweat.


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