AFTER GINNY'S house sold I rented a batch at Piha beach to prepare.
I lived there with my German girlfriend, Brigitte, from February to May. There was no TV signal. While Brigitte went to work at a local cafe, I spent my days on a steady diet of self help and meditation. I wrote glowing mission statements and felt extremely pleased with myself.
At sunset I took long walks along the black sand beach, heading for Lion Rock, the damp sand squeezing between my toes and the surf thundering in my ears and the pastel clouds buttering the horizon.
At times like those I dreamed my coming-this-summer bestseller would spark a straight edge dance movement. That from it would evolve a glittering chain of dance health-clubs called Uplift. Configurable, teach week they would be a different lay-out, break-down and move around, and the dance floor level, the bubble balanced, and springy, maybe grass, perfect for knees,
and the clubs wired and world-wide, sister cities, sound, screens, and you could lose your shit next to Uplifters in Rio and Rome, Cape Town, and a DJ could shred across three continents, three time zones, and the clubs would open in the day, have retractable roofs, sunlight pouring in, sometimes rain, just for a change, and people would come and dance like doing a fitness class, no alcohol or drugs, but the system massive, the tunes phat, this was about cardio, heart rate, not about getting high,
and the bouncers - not bouncers . . . enablers, defenders? Champions! Large but friendly, no Homus Erectus, and the dress code relaxed, shoes not a problem, nor the ratio of hot women, nor your age, and you would reserve time, the floor uncrowded, and all the retired clubbers coming out, creeking, because they'd never stopped loving dance, though it had stopped loving them, and the masses coming also, would spy the lighthouse on the point, finally get a clue,
and oh these clubs would be glorious, and there would be Uplift festivals, of course, except more like marathons, each DJ and set, or like those old-time rock-n-roll competitions (sockhops?), crews booking and judges circulating, clipboards in hand, the faltering tapped out, and all of it backed by a maverick billionaire, Branson perhaps, and I would be the progenitor and I would stay in the scene a revered elder and be surrounded by a cortege of sexy and accomplished woman, a lifer, for ever and ever.
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