The beat. Struck. Deep.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.
The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.
She danced.
Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.
The beat struck deep in her bones.
Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.
She was the dance.
No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.
Only the dance.
Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.
She was the dance.
Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.
Feet faced feet, dancing together.
Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.
The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.
They danced together.
Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.
They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.
The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.
They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.
They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.
They danced together.
And the world danced too.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Fortune Teller Dreaming
I watch the rich red curtains fall gently behind my next visitor. A soft-spoken lady with a face like a mouse, sharp and shifty-eyed, she steps forward hesitantly.
I wait, drawing the sense of the mystical around me, important, this is, for both her and for me, we wouldn’t want to ruin the performance, would we?
She takes a sharp breath to begin stammering whichever variation on “what do I do now?” they all seem to ask, and I interrupt, my voice soft but clear.
“Take a seat.”
The sound rings out in the tent, but does not echo. I gaze at her as she jumps slightly and then does as I have suggested.
I pause, waiting for the right moment.
A moment that comes slightly later than it would in a normal conversation.
A moment that becomes heavy with importance.
A moment that brings itself forth from the thick, red-tinged incense smoke.
“You have come with a question.” The moment states. I am not asking, but she nods in reply.
“Then we shall begin.”
The question is spoken hesitantly into the gloom and the cards turn inevitably over. They speak of people and places, of limitations she has placed upon herself, dreams she has given up. The story is old, very few come to me with a story that is vastly different, for those that follow their dreams need not ask me what they are.
Her face clouds with uncertainty, how can I know with such clarity things she barely understands about herself? It is easy, but I do not tell her this. The cards, they speak to me, they have spoken to me so long I can barely remember a time when I struggled to understand them. They open my mind to the web of dreams and destinies that entwine us all, and show me, through a raft of images, where to look for this particular story, this particular fate.
She leaves, her dream revealed, a door recognised, a key received. I do not expect her to truly walk through it, although that is not unknown. Often it is enough for people to know that their dreams are still there.
After she is gone I gently blow the candles out with a kiss, return my friends to their cotton cloth – a gift from a friend and more valuable than any silk recommended by a well-meaning author – and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to leave.
I slip out the back of my tent and walk home smiling, the cool night air coming in on the tail of the day and gracing my lungs with fresh clarity.
As I walk I remember my dreams and sing to the slowly revealed stars, rehearsing for the gig coming that night.
I wait, drawing the sense of the mystical around me, important, this is, for both her and for me, we wouldn’t want to ruin the performance, would we?
She takes a sharp breath to begin stammering whichever variation on “what do I do now?” they all seem to ask, and I interrupt, my voice soft but clear.
“Take a seat.”
The sound rings out in the tent, but does not echo. I gaze at her as she jumps slightly and then does as I have suggested.
I pause, waiting for the right moment.
A moment that comes slightly later than it would in a normal conversation.
A moment that becomes heavy with importance.
A moment that brings itself forth from the thick, red-tinged incense smoke.
“You have come with a question.” The moment states. I am not asking, but she nods in reply.
“Then we shall begin.”
The question is spoken hesitantly into the gloom and the cards turn inevitably over. They speak of people and places, of limitations she has placed upon herself, dreams she has given up. The story is old, very few come to me with a story that is vastly different, for those that follow their dreams need not ask me what they are.
Her face clouds with uncertainty, how can I know with such clarity things she barely understands about herself? It is easy, but I do not tell her this. The cards, they speak to me, they have spoken to me so long I can barely remember a time when I struggled to understand them. They open my mind to the web of dreams and destinies that entwine us all, and show me, through a raft of images, where to look for this particular story, this particular fate.
She leaves, her dream revealed, a door recognised, a key received. I do not expect her to truly walk through it, although that is not unknown. Often it is enough for people to know that their dreams are still there.
After she is gone I gently blow the candles out with a kiss, return my friends to their cotton cloth – a gift from a friend and more valuable than any silk recommended by a well-meaning author – and I wrap my shawl around my shoulders to leave.
I slip out the back of my tent and walk home smiling, the cool night air coming in on the tail of the day and gracing my lungs with fresh clarity.
As I walk I remember my dreams and sing to the slowly revealed stars, rehearsing for the gig coming that night.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Devils and Gods
You find yourself wrapped in shadows, unable to move.
Transfixed, you are, by a beauty, slowly melting out of the distant darkness. The shadows clothe her, her hair sweeps the floor and is blood red, revealing and concealing her movements in turn.
You can see a glow in her belly, as though she is made of glass and has fire burning deep within. She stalks towards you, slow, inexhorable, hypnotic.
The fire rises through her chest and pours down, down her arms into her hands. The glow brightens and the flames lick out through her palms, forming a shape, becoming hard. Soon she grasps a double headed axe, and still she comes closer. Each sensuous step brings her closer.
She is close enough now that you feel the heat radiate from her skin and she stops, her nose an inch from yours.
"I cannot slay your demons," she whispers with a sad smile, "But I can slay my own."
She leans back, you still cannot move, and the axe begins to swing.
Transfixed, you are, by a beauty, slowly melting out of the distant darkness. The shadows clothe her, her hair sweeps the floor and is blood red, revealing and concealing her movements in turn.
You can see a glow in her belly, as though she is made of glass and has fire burning deep within. She stalks towards you, slow, inexhorable, hypnotic.
The fire rises through her chest and pours down, down her arms into her hands. The glow brightens and the flames lick out through her palms, forming a shape, becoming hard. Soon she grasps a double headed axe, and still she comes closer. Each sensuous step brings her closer.
She is close enough now that you feel the heat radiate from her skin and she stops, her nose an inch from yours.
"I cannot slay your demons," she whispers with a sad smile, "But I can slay my own."
She leans back, you still cannot move, and the axe begins to swing.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Bleeding Heart
Heavy heart, full of love, overflows,
Tears pouring, silently.
Water becoming clouds, floating,
Bringing green life to the earth.
Tears pouring, silently.
Water becoming clouds, floating,
Bringing green life to the earth.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Flying, Soaring, Falling
Serpent coiling round sensous curves
The egg breaks, releases, scales form.
Dancing deva, devil, god
Her wings spread, she flies above.
Toes touching starlight, leaping far.
Round wrist, cross shoulders,
Whispering in her ear.
Spiralling divine, she hears his song.
Coiling in her belly a serpent stirs.
Stretching from her heart, wings soar.
Serpent rises, wings connect,
A dragon with stars for eyes is born...
When love meets desire,
And understanding blossoms,
The most beautiful flower
Begins to grow.
The egg breaks, releases, scales form.
Dancing deva, devil, god
Her wings spread, she flies above.
Toes touching starlight, leaping far.
Round wrist, cross shoulders,
Whispering in her ear.
Spiralling divine, she hears his song.
Coiling in her belly a serpent stirs.
Stretching from her heart, wings soar.
Serpent rises, wings connect,
A dragon with stars for eyes is born...
When love meets desire,
And understanding blossoms,
The most beautiful flower
Begins to grow.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Journey Through Sunset
Waxed green hearts blanket the banks
Where ripples of light and shadow flow,
The green headed bird leaves an arrow in his wake
And my train begins again.
Through glass I gaze upon darkening sky
Travelling through cacophanous colours,
Warm light turns water to gold against the shell
Of the sphere which holds my world.
Swiftly now I move, watching the sun's final glow.
Darkened storm-bearers let angelic light stream through
To grace with life the deep, damp, darkening land
Until the blanket of night must fall.
Strange how the last breath of day,
Before the world is dipped into rich darkness,
Glows with the most colours, almost as though this setting sun
Creates inks to be mixed into the blackened night sky.
Where ripples of light and shadow flow,
The green headed bird leaves an arrow in his wake
And my train begins again.
Through glass I gaze upon darkening sky
Travelling through cacophanous colours,
Warm light turns water to gold against the shell
Of the sphere which holds my world.
Swiftly now I move, watching the sun's final glow.
Darkened storm-bearers let angelic light stream through
To grace with life the deep, damp, darkening land
Until the blanket of night must fall.
Strange how the last breath of day,
Before the world is dipped into rich darkness,
Glows with the most colours, almost as though this setting sun
Creates inks to be mixed into the blackened night sky.
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