44 - i come to play, to love and secretly to dance

I do not believe that anything is lasting; all of it will be taken from us in the end. Chaos, entropy… the best that we can hope for are a few transcendent moments, in which we bridge the gap of our loneliness and come together with another human being.

—David L. Ulin, The Lost Art of Reading: Why Books Matter in a Distracted Time

~~~

She lit the candles in her study, turned the speakers toward the veranda, and queued up the song. She came down to the second floor, and from the landing, leaning next to my opened door, as if talking to someone else, in a voice just low enough that it sounds like a whisper, she says, “The slow dance, the barely touching, the movement, so serene, but there’s no one here, no one…”

Smiling to myself, I put Transue’s book down, got up and when I got to the door, she’s right there, it startled me, she giggled then said, “Don’t be scared… I’m looking for someone to dance with. Are you available?”

“But of course.”

A moment later, on the veranda, ocean just beyond, the sun touching the horizon, the music began, Paolo Conte's Alle Prese Con Una Verde Milonga, and we’re face-to-face, hands on hips, each to each, a kind of shuffling in place, barely moving, I smiled, was going to tell her I… when she put her index finger to my lips, and there we were, in rhythm, ever so slowly, an unsettling silence framed by Conte, neither of us looking away, eyes meeting/merging, transfixed, boundaries erased, empty of thought, sensation only, pure emotion… six minutes of the indescribable.

~~~

Later, had to look up the lyrics, hard to find and translate, but in there somewhere, in the translation, this: “…I come to play, to love and secretly to dance.”

Is it a luxury to focus on the exhilarating moment, the dance, when we're reminded every day that this world is circumscribed by sorrow, destruction and death, when the world always seems to be crumbling, when there are riots in the streets of London, in Europe, when the down and out, enraged and out of control, destroy their own neighborhoods, loot, steal and rage against the never ending and prevailing iniquities, the ugliness and cruelty, business as usual, and the religious fanatics seek to slaughter and maim the infidels, and always the upper crust sequestered and above it all, the wealthy and privileged seemingly immune to the pain and suffering of others, the "proles"?… Are you serious, let them eat cake?

~~~

Seeing Orwell’s Winston Smith, he and Julia stealing away, finding a moment outside the context imposed upon them, the expectation, duty and obligation of their culture, the totalitarian frame. And to those who believe that no frame exists, to those that suppose they’re free, well, time to pause and take inventory,… and I can see Winston following Julia into that clearing, that grassy knoll, strong and slender she is, and that scarlet sash, and Winston freaking a little, scared, yet emboldened by her fearlessness, then the delighting in, the scent and taste of the black market chocolate, and the simple passion, the undifferentiated desire, the contradictions, the thought of a different world, some future moment, and I can hear Julia, “They can't get inside you. They can't get to your heart.”

I’m with you Julia, right there with you. Yes, yes, we can choose to play, love and dance. Here’s to you and Winston and all those who attempt resistance, disobedience and refusal, to those rejecting the madness and the status quo, the ego-driven greed, the crazed religiosity and desire for dominion over others.

Here’s to sneaking off, here’s to living a different way, spontaneous and with abandon.

Here’s to the wholehearted, to those who seek to live without want or need, folks who believe there's nothing to keep and nothing and no one to own or possess, folks giving themselves over to impermanence and the ceaseless flow.

Here’s to love…