connienichiu

[connienichiu]

past list.thought.graphies found found in an old notebook

1/22/2025

architecture and the built environment is a kind of slow violence — eyal weizman

1/23/2015

inside of our lives

1/25/2015

“we often arrive at the idea that the system is ‘broken’ not because we have such a strong attachment to the state, but because we have a scarcity of language around the intensity of its violence.” 

“inhabiting a set of shifting contradictions.”

eric a. stanely

2/3/2015

more than 200 million tons of bombs were dropped on laos by american planes attacking communist troops

average of one bombing sortie every eight minutes for nine years

plain of jars vegetation had been stripped by american defoliants 

napalm fires burned day and night

2/6/2015

terrorism is an existential threat not so much for what terrorists do, but for how liberal societies respond. — shadi hamid

electricity of the spine

the vertigo that sometimes accompanies the simple act of waking up

sudden fear of resurrection

charred remains of a world 

2/18/2015

no one sees the compromised ground underneath

i am, indeed, an exception to the rule, but not the rule you think.

secrets that unforgivable but people are forgiven

2/23/20215

what will survive of us is love — philip larkin

compromise of justice

bodies moving through the same life differently — claudia rankine

the state of emergency is also always a state of emergence — claudia rankine

i don’t know how to end what doesn’t have an ending.

3/3/2015

lack of diversity is a symptom. the underlying illness is institutional racism. — daniel jose older

3/5/2015

the soft percussion of lips against skip. — jon mcgreggor

3/10/2015

we couldn’t bear to look, and all we did was look. — anthony lane

thousands died on september 11, and they died for real; but thousands died together, and therefore something lived. — anthony lane

i felt almost as if i had come to a planet where the gravity was a little different 

the asymmetries of the world 

6/19/2015

“are you alright?” — sometimes

[connienichiu]

imperfect grief 3.28.2021

“in every moment i am loving you, i am losing you too.” — someone attributed this to alice walker 

from today’s decolonizing grief work: the 5 gates of grief

everything we love, we will lose

the places that have not known love

the sorrows of the world

what we expected and did not receive

ancestral grief

i am learning and accepting that anger is another form of survival, a way for us to love deeply. someone gifted me the phrase of disenfranchised grief. 

i’m also visibly paying attention to how the minutiae of our small lives have been shaped as a response to white supremacy, a hard fact to swallow, a defeating fact to remember in our everyday defiance. what i'm realizing though, is that the very specific grief i feel for my grandpa is so mine, wholly mine. whiteness and white supremacy do not enter this intimate space. a space to be free, alongside the deep pain of loss and sadness. i wonder if this is why i've continued to grieve my grandpa so immensely, almost a year later. why i continue to stay, to return over and over to these feelings that belong to me in relation to my beloved.

a few other things as they came:

this same grief makes me feel immensely human, alive, tender — to know that i can love someone so entirely that the pain and sadness of losing them is so relentless. i describe this as a drowning, and even as i write now, i’m drowning. the invitation is to hold this grief as the magnitude of my grandpa’s love for me, his longing, him missing me. as much as it is from me to him.

i know that grief is a gift, an enduring of what existed, a sharp yet dusky reminder of the love between those who remain and those who have departed. i’ve heard it many ways before: what is grief but love persisting?

i didn’t know i can love like this. 

and it terrifies me to anticipate the grief of one day losing my mom and grandma. i love them fiercely and ungraciously, and i’m not sure i’ll ever be ready to feel how entirely i love them; how entirely my grandpa’s departure uncovered me.

in trying to practice somatics, i’ve been asked to feel where the grief sits in my body. i feel it in my heart — the “it” being grief or perhaps something else, and definitely something else. my heart and chest feel tight and heavy, a burning. my heart burns often, and not in the chemical sense but in its physicality and ghostliness. 

in this moment of grief sitting in my chest, i start crying as i watch myself laying down my ears and hands against my grandpa’s still warm chest, skin to skin, to feel for his heartbeat and breath in his finale. the world and my family so still and quiet, waiting. what will i declare as i follow the RN’s instructions over the phone in one ear, listening for his heartbeat with the other, checking to see if he is still breathing. 

i hear and feel the tiniest of a knocking back, a baby beat, a small tapping. i’m still here. i’m still here. 

i remember not trusting my ears and hands because my own heart and body is beating so fast, so loud. the RN tells me to trust, that he is still alive. tap tap tap.

and then he is gone. 

nowadays, i realize that i am holding my breath constantly, all the time. this burning in my heart and tightness in my chest. i’ve started to imagine that it’s my grandpa’s hands and ears there — that weight — listening and feeling for my heart. that he’s tapping back even now, knocking on my chest to let me know that he is still here. i am still here. i am still here. Open the heart.

tap tap tap.

my heart burns and knocks and beats and taps. i know i’m alive, that he’s here. it’s gracious to remember that being alive is a hurting too.  

what is on the other side of grief? of liberation? 

it’s you. 

[connienichiu]

imperfect grief 3.23.2021

i’m sad-angry that white supremacy violence continues to steal my joy and future possibilities in such concrete terms. my partner and i are trying for our first child. according to my ovulation apps and strip tests, this past weekend was my peak fertility. but because of my comedown from the atlanta shooting, i couldn’t will my body or spirit into the act of futures-making, intimacy, or loving possibilities. my whole being felt diminished and void of anything loving, just sad in a negative energy way. willing myself into anything felt useless and insignificant. i felt tired in a way that wanted sleep; in a way where sleep was heavy, not dreamy. i think it’s the sadness. and i think my partner is sad (maybe upset like me) that we missed this weekend’s window. we’re living in a home of sadness. 

[connienichiu]

imperfect grief 3.21.2021

i thought i was doing okay and coming out of the heaviness of tuesday’s shooting in atlanta. i made it through the week without crying, which was odd. i even told my therapist on saturday morning that i haven’t cried yet, which meant that when i do, it was gonna be a big one. 

it was a medium-big one. but i think it’s still stuck inside of me. 

i went through the range of emotions: rage, anger, exhaustion, numbness, anxiety, and sadness. accompanying each of these emotions was also this surreal sense of normality, that life just is and would keep being just is. things wouldn’t stop for my grief or the grief of the six women’s families and friends. 

that felt comforting and enraging all at the same time. 

i felt a tinge of sadness here and there, mostly a bone-deep rage and exhaustion. like screaming into the void, screaming and knowing that no one would hear me, not even myself. 

friday afternoon was the first moment i felt the tears creep into my throat and voice and it was when i was on zoom chatting with a beloved, processing together. she’s one of the few that i trust with my vulnerabilities without question. and as i was telling her that the part that broke me the most, that really just fucked my heart up most, was that the women were sex workers doing the “lowliest,” most “degraded” and looked down upon jobs to make a living, that they were also mothers and daughters, that the world disregarded them because of how broken they are. that breaks me so much. i’m not sure if my friend noticed. i’m also not sure why this part of the story hangs in my heart the way it does. i’m not sure if it’s a reminder of my mom (she’s not a sex worker, though she has been a factory worker before and one of the spoils of colonial war for this country). 

i also realized that the rage i was feeling was for my own asian american community. i’m not raging at white people cause white people are gonna do white people things. but i’m raging at my own people and i’m not entirely sure why. there’s some messy trauma here that i need to come back to. perhaps i blame us for allowing us to get to this point of brokenness. i know it’s not fair or deserved but still. 

i wrote something on friday that felt like a release, things i needed to say to the world at large, asian or not. that helped. 

saturday morning (yesterday) my partner and i got into an argument in the morning. i do want to say that he has been absolutely loving and gentle through the week, if not a little detached and normal. i’m actually not sure how the atlanta shooting is impacting him — i should check in with him. i also want to say that i was so proud of how i navigated and showed up in my argument, which was from a place of appreciation, curiosity, and groundedness when typically, i’d explode and cry and blame. something must’ve triggered my partner because he got angry and i (again so proud) told him that something is happening inside of him that he is getting too angry to hear what i’m saying so i’d like to pause our argument and come back to this after he’s worked through some of his stuff. i stood my ground and luckily had therapy right after. 

my therapist told me that perhaps one of the triggers for my partner had to do with the atlanta shooting. yes, perhaps. therapy is too compassionate sometimes but i don’t disagree with my therapist. 

my first cry all week was right after i logged off with my therapist. everything just came crashing down, a flood flooding. i wasn’t sure exactly what i was crying over: the morning’s argument, the murders of the six asian women, my grandpa, other shitty things that have happened that week (read this for more). probably all of it, and that’s grief, right? everything mixed up together without distinction for where one thing started and the other ended. 

i had a good cry watching this video of my grandpa walking at a park on repeat five or six times. the song really made my tears dance. perhaps i was crying more so because i missed my grandpa, which is all the time. 

eventually, my partner and i talked things out over lunch and again, so proud of myself for showing up the way i did and staying grounded. we worked it out but honestly, i still felt uneasy and unsettled. i thought i was still upset at him, even though i told him i wasn’t mad, just confused. 

i’m still working on my resentment, which seems to be a theme of my 30′s. 

then today, i feel it all. the complete sadness. the sadness of an entire year wrapped up in this week and delivered in the shooting of six asian women. the adrenaline from the week had given me purpose and rage and direction but now that the adrenaline is waning, i’m left with a deep sadness. the worst part is never during the catastrophe, but in it’s aftermath, in the quiet moments of trying to pick ourselves and our parts back together. 

i went to visit my mom today and that was intensely stressful. i wanted to cry the whole drive over because she was being impatient with me and ungentle with my questions. i felt resentful of my partner because i blamed him for my sour mood. the visit ended up being nourishing, with a haircut and a quick visit to my grandma. 

and then i just kept — keep — getting sadder and sadder. i was watching the latest episode of grey’s anatomy, which of course is telling the story of covid, and that gutted me. i cried and cried. and even when i wasn’t crying, the sadness kept dancing inside of me. 

it’s all of it. all the grief from the past year. all the grief from this week. all the grief in a single moment, tangled up together. 

and there’s a part of me that wonders if i’m making too big of a deal, that i’m finding an excuse to be sad, to drown myself in my sorrows, that it’s not even my grief to claim. other people seem unmoved or immovable. 

but that’s why i want to start documenting these feelings of grief and pain. i know i can’t be the only one. as mundane as the triggers are, the calling is loud and big. and sometimes i answer, mostly i don’t. 

[connienichiu]

i had a britney spears moment and chopped off all the hair i had been keeping throughout quarantine, like a covid keepsake full of memories, trauma, loneliness, and sadness of the year that just passed us by. a girlfriend texted and said, “connie you look incredible!” i enthusiastically thanked her (compliments always feel good) and said, “i don’t feel incredible but at least i’m fooling everyone *squishy face emoji*”

and with that, i decided to start documenting my imperfect grief because i didn’t want to not remember how bone-deep i am feeling these feelings as each moment passes me by. they mean something significant even if i can’t quite capture them in articulation and conversations. they must mean something. i’m sure of it. 

[connienichiu]

adrienne brown maree list.thought.graphy

some emotions stay in the soundtrack of their root memory

something dusty and eager to be felt

an absence of theory; flight as necessary

laughter, undeniable and unpretended

a walk in the world, all that gravity with breath and heartbeat in your ears

[connienichiu]

the most resonant take on grief i’ve come across so far (from adrienne maree brown)

P.S. If there happens to be a multitude of griefs upon you, individual and collective, or fast and slow, or small and large, add equal parts of these considerations:

that the broken heart can cover more territory.

that perhaps love can only be as large as grief demands.

that grief is the growing up of the heart that bursts boundaries like an old skin or a finished life.

that grief is gratitude.

that water seeks scale, that even your tears seek the recognition of community.

that the heart is a front line and the fight is to feel in a world of distraction.

that death might be the only freedom.

that your grief is a worthwhile use of your time.

that your body will feel only as much as it is able to.

that the ones you grieve may be grieving you.

that the sacred comes from the limitations.

that you are excellent at loving.

[connienichiu]

(click the link above to read full eulogy of my favorite human being)

While smiling was rare, 公公 found purpose in watching his grandchildren playing and laughing, as if we were the rising sun that returned to him day after day, when in fact, he was our sun.

公公 was first diagnosed with lymphoma cancer in 2010, devastating our family when his oncologist said he only had six months to a year. For people who don’t know him, it’s hard to see how his strength and will to live can in fact, hold up entire universes. From six months to a year, he lived another ten years, seeing the marriage of one grandson and three granddaughters, and the birth of four great-grandchildren. He often said that he wanted to live till 90, to hold his great-grandchildren in his arms, to stay longer in this world with us. Just as his early life was marked by poverty and tragedy, his later life was marked by illness and cancer. And one might see his life as one of sorrow, but if one has experienced the depth of how 公公 fiercely and quietly loved his family, one would understand his life to be singularly hopeful, particularly in a world where the human spirit breaks so easily.

公公 often declared that he would live to 90, and while he passed away at 87, his lifespan doesn’t feel any shorter or less fulfilled. And in fact, life is experienced as both long and short, sad and joyous, nostalgic and hopeful, all at the same time. The cycle of life is a constant of this world and death is considered normal; how we choose to remember and honor our loved ones after they are gone is where the meaning lies.

As we’re all sitting here today, I don’t think we’re okay yet. We’re still learning how to imagine and live in a world without you in it. Your absence aches in us, leaving tender reminders that bring both joy and sadness whenever we think of you. You didn’t smile often, but when you did, you lit up the entire room. 公公, we wish you could see yourself through our eyes, and through the eyes of everyone who knew you. In your own quiet ways, you filled up the space in our hearts, persistently, tenderly, like a never-ending sunrise making space for light as we welcome each new day.

One lifetime with you is not nearly enough. If you’ll have us again, let us be yours to love and raise, over and over. We’ll never stop missing you, and until we see each other again, know that we think of you often, and love you always.

[connienichiu]

half of twentytwenty list.thought.graphy

struggling students vs. struggling instructions

macro —> meso —> micro

start with the visceral to ignite the cerebral, end at the political — Bryant Terry

Americans have an expiration date on race the way they do for grief. At some point, they expect you to get over it. — Cathy Park Hong

We helplessly laugh.

Minor feelings: the racialized range of emotions that are negative, dysphoric, and therefore untelegenic, built from the sediments of every day racial experience and the irritant of having one’s perception of reality constantly questioned or dismissed. — Cathy Park Hong 

Luke ugly feelings (Sianne Ngai), minor feelings are “non-cathartic states of emotion” with a “remarkable capacity for duration” 

There is no release. It is cumulative. 

A sheltered unknowingness.

Art is to dream, however temporarily, of this not-yet.

In other words, can I apologize without demanding your forgiveness? Where do I begin? 

[connienichiu]

Tomorrow, 公公 comes home. My grandparents raised me and lived with us for a while after my mom became a single-working-parent. In fact, our grandparents raised all of us — their six kids and sixteen grandkids. He was the one that would walk to our elementary school every day to drop us off and pick us up, without fail. He was always there. This week has been indescribable, and to not make a spectacle of our grief, pain, uncertainty, and the unbearable weight of hope and despair changing day by day, hour by hour, I want to give everyone unsolicited advice: call your loved ones; FaceTime them; drive by and wave outside a window; just see them and let them see you. The COVID quarantines devastate in a way that is unimaginable, even if it’s not COVID-19 itself. My gramps doesn’t have COVID. But being cut off from seeing each other in person, touching each other, hearing each other — our family was paralyzed in making a decision that felt right, that we could live with. The disconnection and distance was so vast it felt unbridgeable. I’m afraid of what the future holds and how time moves at a pace unchangeable by human prayers and pleas. Hold onto your folks however you can. And about this photo: I only cried once during my wedding, and it was during this moment when I was showing my grandparents, specifically my gramps, old photos of when he use to take care of me. This moment is everything and everything.

[connienichiu]

APAHM curation by my fellow minor feelers

A friend and I recently started our version of a Minors Feelers Club, an Asian American book club dedicated to Cathy Park Hong’s Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning. I asked this dynamic group of Asian Americans, who mostly entered the zoom club space as strangers, for recommendations on what is giving you life at this moment? Thanks for the prompt, Code Switch!

[PODCAST] “I’m really enjoying Brené Brown’s Unlocking Us. The episode that has resonated with me at the moment is Dr. Vivek Murthy on loneliness and connection and how we seek meaningful and deep connections. It’s a broad conversation that goes into political issues but I’ve just been reflecting on what meaningful relationships look like for me with family, friends, and various spaces of my life right now.” — Terry Kim

[PODCAST] “Also enjoying the podcast Asian Enough by the LA Times. Love all the varied perspectives of the Asian American experience.” — Terry Kim

[MOVIE] “This Taiwanese movie called Dear-Ex on Netflix. I watched it recently and ugly cried my whole way through the film. It is quirky, painful, beautiful, tragic, and resilient, all wrapped up into a story about family, gay identity, and all the things that can and cannot be said.” — Connie Ni Chiu

[MOVEMENT] “Home-y Made Meals x Eayikes x  Polo’s Pantry have been giving me life. Amazing grassroots organization that is organizing neighbors to cook and feed unhoused communities in Los Angeles during COVID-19. Spending Thursday nights cooking and constructing meals, with the addition of these beautiful notes of positivity from kids, has been rejuvenating. I recently read somewhere to optimize generosity, which has permanently been added as one of my MO’s.” 

[POP CULT] Simu Liu starting a band with himself on Twitter. Both Michelle and Elise mentioned Simu singing at the last Minor Feelers Club as something they couldn’t stop watching (though this may not be the actual song/video they were referencing). Asian Americans reppin’ talent across the board. 

Happy APAHM, y’all!

[connienichiu]

salman rushdie list.quote.graphy

september eight twentyeighteen, and still relevant

wordlessly reminding him of the continued existence of happiness, even in the midst of grief

give way to the miraculous predictability of this new love

the speed of contemporary life outstripped the heart’s ability to respond

she has looked ever since for cover versions, imitations of life

does the earth move? don’t tell me. i already know the answer. but it’s the most important question you’re ever going to be asked, except for the one i’m going to ask you now: Neela, do you still love me? 

[connienichiu]

8.13.2018 list.thought.graphy

life must be lived until it can be lived no more. 

[connienichiu]

july’s sad things list.though.graphy

july twenty-eighteen

the thought of my grandparents one day not being

being left behind, which is really just the world moving on without me

you moving on without me 

or in other words, other peoples’ happiness

Stanley — this giraffe at Malibu Wines that has never seen another giraffe in his life. I think Stanley is seven years old and giraffes are fully grown by six. 

That’s like never meeting myself, and in human terms

Is that like never seeing another human being for twenty-nine years? 

I miss the us that use to be

[connienichiu]

lightning in a bottle list.thought.graphy

may twenty-eighteen

“you should be a lighthouse so people can’t crash around you.”  I can’t remember who I heard this from (and thank you). I do remember sitting in the crowd and thinking, what if I want people to crash around me so I can at least save the wreckage and memories if no one else will? 

What it’s like to attend Lightning in a Bottle as a person of color Every time I hear someone preach about mindfulness or setting your intentions or living your mantras or breathe in breathe out or the whole astrology of whiteness (which I just coined), I wonder if we’ll ever breathe our way out of systemic racism and institutional inequities and the whole astrology of apartheid when breathing has been a lifelong liability. 

“It’s my mind that sets you in motion” Says a dad watching her two-year-old daughter running around as if she just discovered the feeling of having legs, chased by the safety of her mom’s slow arms. 

[connienichiu]

for twenty-eight.

i turned twenty-eight this year, and i found myself still turning, unsure of where one year begins and the other ends. it’s funny that i keep writing twenty-weight instead of the number eight, which is to say that i’m unsure of how time burrows inside a body. 

it’s a lived again age. 

two days ago, i was driving away from home when i thought of mom and what she looked like when she was twenty-eight. i found the song on the stereo curling itself onto my lap, a weight like that of a birth. twenty-eight years ago this day when mom was also twenty-eight, i stretched myself out of her lap and we never stopped singing since. 

i wonder what twenty-eight-year-old mom imagined her life to be twenty-eight years later. and if i, a persisting reminder of the man she loved into an eclipse, haunted her bitterly, sweetly. i am of habits she couldn’t stop herself from loving. and that fourth day in april, she pushed. 

these moments, a lived again life. 

i almost never think about him. almost except for this precise day each year, never intentional, never from memories, never in yearning. my body, a shelter unto itself, shed his genes and rearranged itself in the space of his absence and unbecoming, a disappearing. with every almost, i imagine his moonlight teeth spooning a grin-shaped chin that fourth day in april as he gazed at us for the first time. i can’t help but wonder if a disappearance wants to be found some day. 

or why we can’t shake our beginnings. 

i know how this ends. it is the same as how it began, lived again for things to become easier each time no matter how inevitable. it’s been twenty-eight years and it does not get easier. 

i’m not sure what happens in the middle even as i live it. but i know that the beginnings and endings are simple touches and that our incongruities and unwanted gravities reveal themselves before we begin and after we end. Before me, the weary love that two people misplaced as immense possibilities against stacked odds, and after me, a drowning. 

in between almosts, i always think of him in relation to. he does not exist without us. he, an anchor, a yesterday, a forgetting, an unhappening, a pull. and i wonder if mom will ever unbraid his dusty touches out of her and what shadows are left behind in its wake. collected dust sits heavier and heavier over time. 

she and i, we lived and haven’t stopped singing since. it’s been twenty-eight years and it does not get easier. 

i tell people, my birthdays are a lonely thing  and that some parts are hard to live over again

but i haven’t stopped  since. 

[connienichiu]

still yours and mine.

one. 

five years ago on september twenty-second i wrote: 

could get lost in a grocery store imagining all the things  i would cook with you

i still get lost  imagining all the things with you.

two.  a month ago on memorial day everyone made a big fuss when gramps closed the van door on his own thumb, his eyes dazed in wonder as the gash bloomed red in between the crevice of his fingers like tree bark in autumn. we made a big fuss and forgot. 

three. an hour ago mom walked in the back door with a laugh and told me that it’s hard growing old and i wasn’t sure if she was talking about herself or gramps in that hospital bed. with a laugh, she described how gramps forgot to wipe after using the bathroom, the stains deep in his gowns and tubes growing from his wrists and how she wiped him clean, and with a laugh, asked the nurse for new linens. i wondered if she felt like she was moving backwards in time. 

and how she built that shelter underneath her smile. 

four.  yesterday my body burrowed into angst and heartache like braids, so fiercely it wanted to dance and disarm the night like the first time we met. 

i picked up my phone for someone to dance with and put it back down. i forget that my address book is compiled of ghosts. 

so i danced in the front seat with the radio loud. mom said to roll up the window, she hated the sound. i almost said but that’s my favorite--the thundering breath turn to the speed of our beating hearts, the sound of freshly polluted air moving through the precision of our space, the lull of getting from point A to point B, here to you. 

but i thought of her smile and all the sad things sheltered underneath

and rolled up the window. 

five.  five years ago on november first i wrote: 

i miss you most  when there are things i want to tell you but can’t so i miss you most right now

i wrote this to you (& you) and wondered when i’d learn to stop writing this. to this day you never write back and i never send them. 

and this weekend, god how much i missed you. 

six. a year ago on march thirteen i saw my grandparents hold hands for the first time and my heart stopped and reconfigured itself in a way that made the world safe again: them, sitting in front of me. 

last night i watched my grandparents hold eyes in a way that stopped my heart and reconfigured the world impossible if one day they weren’t sitting in front of me anymore. in the collarbone of watching time slow down, grandma stood bedside over gramps talking about small morning things that led up to this moment, their eyes holding one another as if seeing each other for the first time and forever. grandma chiding gramps for this and that as her moonrise hand memorized his sunspot forehead, tracing trails of brown skin along his cheek. 

i watched them in front of me, holding each other through eyes that said: 

you can’t leave me yet. 

i’m not going anywhere. 

seven.  five years ago on september nineteen i wrote: 

i think i’ve always been a little in love with being lonely but i am always always yours.

my body spoons nostalgia as yours coils sweetly around me, and in every touch i wonder if i’m imprinted to also shelter lonely things inside a smile. and that, more than anything, feels inherited, sacred. 

eight.  i am still yours but

i am also mine

nine. there are sad things that belong to me and sadder things that do not belong to me. i haven’t quite learn to let their immensities go and i wonder if the intimacies of spooning other people’s sad things hibernate inside my genes. if mom knew, her blooming smile would crack. 

all of this feels like the only prayer i can offer. i don’t pray and the only thing i really believe in is gramps

our lifelines together

his quiet eyes: i’m not going anywhere. 

ten.  today i wrote this, unable to disentangle you from the sad things of reconfiguring the world. 

six years ago on february ninth i wrote a love letter to gramps and prayed i never stop writing them. and that he never stops responding with his eyes. 

in two days gramps will be home with grandma, sitting in front of me.

but for now i turn off my phone and walk into a grocery store. there are still ghosts of you in every aisle but i’m dancing.

i’m dancing.