I lived around Melbourne, Australia for a month in January of 2025. Arrival quickly led to days and days of waiting for night. With the great privilege of deciding how I spent my time came an overwhelming weight of how to spend it well. A constant reassessment of needs with no conclusions. I cried relentlessly. Most notably in a bookstore paging through an illustrated book about John Lennon, who has no relevancy to me. Perhaps tied is the 15 minute Zoom consult I had with a potential therapist in which I quite literally could not pull it together enough to even tell her a bit about myself.

All of this ceased to pose an issue when night time came around. I could curl into a ball without guilt. When morning arrived and my wake-up wave of anxiety rushed through to my toes, I would force myself out into the world. You’re on vacation, look around. What a fashion show of a city. Comparable to a runway at any given point in time. How is one to channel coolness without baggy jean shorts, ballet flats, a 90’s hat, or at the very least a silver chain to sit at my waist? Lacking in essential building blocks, I remained stuck in my hole.

Somehow, somewhere in this chunk of time, The Past is a Grotesque Animal weaseled its way into my brain. Perhaps you could call it a ballad at about 11 minutes long. It was comforting. Possessed an edge akin to that of my body grappling with insecurity in a new environment. I had always wanted to be someone who listened to of Montreal, who liked that sort of thing. I think that in a way, connecting with this track was a reminder. Oh right, I am cool. I do listen to this sort of thing.

After a couple weeks of sulking in paradise, I met Syed. He asked if I had ever tried ginger beer. No, actually. Neither had he, but picked up a bottle from the store. I watched him chug the entire thing in maybe 3 gulps. I found it particularly intriguing that he did not do even a small taste test of the foreign beverage. Just down the hatch. We continued to speak and as we did so he played with the lip of the bottle in his mouth in a way that signaled to me he did not notice himself doing it. In this shared moment I was reminded of my capability and inclination towards speaking with strangers.

Soon after, I took myself to an ecstatic dance. It was here that I noticed a woman about my age dancing with a playful elegance. She leapt to and fro, pointed fingers and toes. We smiled at one another maybe twice. When the dance is done, I approach. There is no time for hesitation. Her name is Kate. We become friends who will meet up again months later on the tail end of my time abroad. I will fly through Sydney on my way home and upon arrival, by some strike of fate, we will walk out of neighboring buildings at precisely the same time.

On one of my last nights roaming the then familiar streets of Fitzroy, I found myself dancing down the sidewalk. Running around corners. Smiling at people as I passed them. It’s at the other end of the spectrum. In my expansive self I dance in front of others because I want to move and if they see me move, so be it. I love to see people dancing and subsequently love the idea of someone loving to see me dancing.

This whole dancing down the street thing isn’t an everyday occurrence. It takes a special mixture of comfortability & confidence. I’ve also found that the more I am moving around, the easier it is to drop back in. It’s this idea not just of dancing, but having a dance practice. All of a sudden I can stretch and flow around with ease at an airport gate because I have only 30 minutes before another 7 hours of sitting. I’ll meet eyes with the onlookers around with a smile, inviting them to join. Come on, loosen up. This is what practice has allowed me.

I moved onto Wellington, New Zealand for 5 months and the song remained prevalent within my listening sphere. It was the perfect length from Mansfield to Vivian St by bus. The 23 picked me up right outside in the darkness of pre-7am. Many listens also on the hill that overlooks Newtown. In the video above, I dance in the upstairs of Thistle Hall for the last time. I had just hosted my first ever movement event. That space I came to every other Tuesday to be led in movement with a group of others. Mostly older women. Ingrid would ask us, what are you bringing with you today? Invite it in. And so I did. This means that I do not always flow. In fact, sometimes I flail. And also roll like a crumpled hot dog. And cartwheel just because.

I think of the time a man saw me cartwheeling at the Mount Victoria park and asked why I was doing so many. Just practicing. I told him I’d really like to be able to handstand and so he showed me how. I went home to the hostel I had been in for nearly a month and demonstrated for everyone in the dining room. So on display. Historically, so out of character. A new version of self bubbles to the surface. I had the confidence of a woman who was making a life for herself somewhere new. And then, here in this video, I was leaving it all behind.

On the other side, back in Minnesota, I see this song to hold the breadth of emotional experience of my 6 months in Oceania. I think it’s about some guy’s divorce. Not at all pertinent to my own life and yet somehow it still resonates. Music is cool like that. The rest of the song, not featured, I spent lying on the ground. I threw myself around in a way that made me nauseous. I listened to some Twain and cried a bit. And then I made my way home. Goodnight Wellington Gracee. Nice work.