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[personal profile] snakechahmah
(OOC: Yo. Muchachos. This disclaimer is kinda unnecessary here but ...my muse is a civil society minded, global citizen that believes in various humanitarian interests and involvement in causes. It's just a big part of who she is. If politically sensitive stuff isn't your thang right now, cool. I get it. Then don't read. Nothing here that's offensive or really super political, but just being mindful. Should you prefer your RL to remain firmly out of your RP then please stop here. And remember, your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device.)  Crossposted to [community profile] morbidaristocracy 

The songs of resistance and revolution move her in a different way. If she doesn’t give into it, their power will swell in her body, making her restless, (more) impulsive, and utterly untethered. She’ll become a trickster, mischievous without purpose, and do things and people she had no business doing to get the intense energy outta her before it makes her do something even more reckless. She can’t help it. She’ll have to shake her hands out every few seconds and even groan with the pain of having to stay still. It’ll feel like her skin is trying to rip apart and she might drag her nails over it as if she was trying to cut a path for the energy to escape, even though that never works. She stretches out her neck as the thumping bass demons and the global instruments start to take possession of her body, pulling on her heartstrings and her soul’s purpose like a puppet, and she gives into them entirely. Almost. She hangs on by a thread. Because it is an awesome responsibility, her responsibility, to motivate the protesting crowds, to keep them going, focused, but not to push them over the edge, inspiring vandalism and violence. That wasn’t her purpose here, not ever, but that wasn’t always easy either because the muse of this music moves her body aggressively at times and it was impossible to control the energy once it was out in the crowd.

There was strength and power in her sharp and brutish movements. Some passing admirers said that it was like she cast a spell with her body. Witchcraft. She had the gift. But she would contend that the beat was her master and she is only its conduit, maybe its interpreter, at best. At worst, she is only a musical junky, forced to bend and bow to the addiction. The thumping music hits her bloodstream like heroine and once she’s melted into it, once she throws her head back in some sort of ecstatic revelry with this divine or demonic current, she channels it back into the crowd through the energetic pops, locks, twists, jumps, pirouettes, spins, breaks, shimmies, flips, and the undulation of her hips and serpent-like arms. Her deep back bend was unnatural, but she would consort and contort with the beat, not break, but maybe bruise. The dance fight was a simulation of the internal struggle to do the right thing in the face of fear and fascism. There wasn’t one part of her body that wasn’t used, that she didn’t offer up. She’s giving them all of her. Anything less would be offensive to her. A failure. In this incarnation she might be channeling some primordial deity, or this might be her libation to one, and she’s pouring it out from every cell in her body which is whispering ”take me. Use me. I. Am. All. Yours.” And they, the crowd, take her energy in and keep fighting, keep chanting, keep moving, keep positive, keep inspired.

The songs spoke of refugees, of war, of immigration, of corruption, of racism, of integration, of freedom and liberty, even if the song didn’t always have words. The ancient Oud, the lautari fiddle, frame drums, bag pipes and other global instruments lent their voices to the pounding bass and spoke another silent but significant American language. Many of them. All of them. She was on the front lines with the bohemian sounds of Balkan Beat Box whose lyrics spat in the face of political corruption, and war, and they made her weave her body through the notes, spinning a web of resistance. M.I.A, the bass shaman, used Ezera’s spine like a rattle to invoke energy and fury against injustice. Matisyahu, the Orthodox Jewish rapper, soothed her as she undulated and radiated his optimism out to the crowd.  And the Kurdish warrior diva, Hello Luv, who sang against terrorism and had filmed her patriotic music video a short bullet shot away from ISIS, reminded Ezera to never doubt that artists had power and responsibility, and that power was to be used as widely as possible. Without permission. Without apology. 

The music, ironically, made her feel less human and transformed her into a force. There was no Ezera. She didn’t exist when she was lost in the music and found in the dance. Which suited her just fine. The music made her care about everything and nothing at the same time, most assuredly not about her own self-destruction and resurrection through the cleansing fire of movement. The emotional intensity thumped deep inside and erupted into a controlled explosion, but barely. It nearly burned her up and spat her out, but she couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even when her feet ached or bled, her bones screamed, the sinew unknitted itself, and old injuries licked her muscles with fire. Not when the bass music ignited and fueled the deep passions of her humanity. And, while she still could, she had to inspire others with that passion and that energy so that they could keep going, keep resisting, long after she was done, especially since she won’t be able to move a muscle tomorrow. But then, well, then, she thought nonplussed, she still had a voice to offer.
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