Tarantism

What did Tarantism inspire?

noun; meaning "a variety of dancing mania,
popularly thought to be caused by
the bite of a tarantula and
to be cured by dancing."

Joelle Saveliev

Noël Coleman

Joelle Saveliev

There are places,

dark corners,

shrouded by veils

of shadow and night.

They hide our fears

in physical forms,

lying in wait,

till the time is right.

Once upon a time

is not so far away

when the dress is torn

to tatters and thread.

The night of the ball

and no gown to go in,

but comforting words

from the darkness and dread.

Arms so strong,

from years of weaving,

that caress and address

each want and need.

Now a new gown,

shimmering in moonlight,

but a price to be paid,

before you are freed.

The bite of a spider,

whose silk now surrounds you,

no escape for you,

my dear little fly.

You’ll dance at the ball,

tarantism overtake you,

And with the final stroke

you’ll wither and die.

Noël Coleman

They said it wouldn't hurt.

I was told it would be a pulse in my bones. It would be the desire to twist and turn and push myself towards any movement it could handle. It would feel like music in my veins. Who would fear music?

In my experience, it felt like fire.

I was asleep

                And then suddenly I wasn’t.

They say it was a spider, a tarantula sneaking in to find warmth. They say the movements in my sleep or the rush of blood just beneath the service drew its attention. In sleep, what could I have done?

I don’t remember the bite, but I hold the scars.

That’s why I’m here, I say.

You believe your talents are from a spider bite? The reporter looks nervous, eyeing her cameraman like he might save her.

Don’t look so nervous, I assure her, there’s really nothing you can do. No one can help.

They start to back away.

I take a step forward.

You see, I enunciate, lifting my arms up and out and twisting them in curves back to my side, it’s beautiful. It’s a gift. It’s a gift of flames in your blood and movement in your soul.

It feels like music and music is fire and it burns.

I weave my way towards them more, a spring in my step and a twist of my skirt. If you’re lucky, I whisper leaning towards them. They ignore my beckoning motions and back up, finding the wall of our studio against their backs.

If you’re lucky, I begin again, they’ll come for you. Nip you just right and then you’ll be beautiful. You’ll twist and turn and hear the counts of the world around you. And you will dance into them, between them, throughout them, and find the rhythm from the fires in your blood.

Does it, the reporter begins but stutters herself into realizing the microphone is nowhere near her mouth. She lifts her right hand and holds the mic between us like a weapon, does it still, ahem, ‘burn’ as you say?

Tarantism always burns. It’s burning up the soul inside.

And I dance away.