dancing is like this:
I start out relaxed. Loose. My shoulders rolled forward, head hanging down. Eyes closed.
The first notes, and I step into the music like it's a silk dress. A wriggle and the beat settles around my hips and ankles. I'm in, now. I begin to listen, to tune into the music.
I raise my arms as notes cascade off of them. My feet are the bass, my hands the guitar, my head the violins, my movement through space the voices.
I raise my hands above my head and then let them fall in concert, describing an arc in space, separating the possible from the real. My forward knee bends, my other foot drawing a half-moon on the floor,and then I am gone as the music demands I go, up on one foot and spinning, coming down and catching myself lightly with my fingers on the ground, my thigh muscles bunching, taking most of the weight. And I am up again, as the music pulls me and urges me, I go.
A story is taking place, my eyes and my hair telling without words the story of the song. I bend as if an invisible partner had caught me about the waist, arching my arms up and over, falling away as my off foot comes down to brace myself. Now I am dancing with my unseen companion; first unsure, then flirtatiously, casting glances over my shoulder, lowering my eyes, my hands coming up to caress my lover's throat.
A slow passage, and I am moving slowly now, flowing from one place in time to the next. Unthinkingly occupying exactly the space I take up, no more, no less, I slip from one moment into another, water and wind combined in this muscle and tendon and bone that holds me up, my five elements combined into one.
The music is no longer music, no longer just coming in through my ears; it is surrounding me, weaving in and out of me. I am a sounding board, a violin, and the music is playing me. I am unaware of anything else.
And then, a minor chord reminds me that there is an ending to this story. I spin, once, twice, three last times, landing lightly. The music soars one last time and my body arcs up, arms flung out, an expression of birdness.
And then I am crouched, head down, facing the floor.
In silence.
Kallisti just brought me a fuzzy mouse. Isn't he thoughtful? Without Kallisti, I might never have any fuzzy mice.
On the topic of wanting to be remembered...[it was such a good idea, I had to write something over here about it.]
the missing page from Betty Crocker
passion
action
and a dash of scandalshake gently.
bake in a thousand degree
kiln for seventeen years.
hit with hammers for seven.
put back in the kiln
until passion equals action.bring out.
admire.
shake again and look
at a distant star through the hole
in the middle. squint.add in a bit of family
a lot of defiance
temper with love and bitterness
and quench in forgiveness.dip in solitude. paint with dreams.
wear around neck.
pass down to your daughters
as a memoir of truth.—11/29/99
cast your eyes on the ocean
cast your soul on the sea
when the dark night seems endless
please remember mehow goes the war?
rallying, getting time back together.
