Dance Hall Days

i. Dear Terpsichore

This time it won�t stop for anything, and these words are not my own, they never were, and everything I�ve said and will say is borrowed, (some of it, where indicated, stolen). But you knew this already, you must, or you wouldn�t be so keen to the art.

In the crowded pulsating room the fog thickens as money and drink are passed around among the characters of unsettling dreams I�ve been having. This is as real as it gets, I guess, that is, sure is pure.

Her eyes are so large and she is approaching a focal point, a vanishing perspective, lost ... nonplused by the saccharine sounds.

And I feel great things are on the horizon. And I feel fortune is smiling upon us. And I feel so much depends on the weather. And I feel the winter song of eves past, fifteen years old and running under snow bright sky. And I feel my mind won�t stop racing and just settle.

Lovefools. Resigned to witness the sinful dancing, conceived by devilish angels.

ii. Beginnings

This ongoing connection, I think, was set into motion years ago, on a warm sunny Saturday morning in October. Driving around downtown running errands for the night I flipped through the radio dial and happened serendipitous upon an old favorite song so apropos in its attack, that it triggered in me an imagined scenario, pieced together from disparate elements of past and future and fantasy.

Parking at the storefront, I sat there until the song was over, my eyes closed behind my glasses, watching the short film in my head while the radio sang along.

I saw us in hollow beige light, dancing and moving together�this had never actually happened, not yet anyway�and looked down in my cinematic imagination at her dark hair and gentle features.

And in realtime, while maintaining this scenario, I thought it was all possible, it could have all been mine, and it seemed an innocent celebration of youth: our dance there in my head, a dance as yet unreified.

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