A traveler joined a Jewish and Turkish man talking over tea at the Bursa silk market in an exquisite stone Caravansary.
“I lost today,” said the Jewish man.
“What do you mean," said his friend. “You made 3,000,000 Lira.”
“Yes, but I lost one day.”
Dance is motivated by emotional expression. Dance is about itself. Dance is a free playful existence. Life is a silent dance.
My spirit is destined for obscure happiness. Dancing my existence I regain incentive, communicating with gestures. My beauty. Symmetry. I am a formless form in a world of forms. Skin textures are perfect. Complete. My life is pure essence. Radiant. I dance with energy and freedom.
I am free. Clear. Pure. Luminous.
When you dance you are connected to the source. I am the source, the vast self. My lack of speech and hearing is a blessing. I am grateful. My body is my instrument. I am a golden sprite, a fairy maiden. I am a young, innocent, shy, ferocious wild tiger. My claws feel this intensity. I lie down with death.
My needs are met on every level of being. It is sensual, playful.
I gesture to him. Go upstairs. Shhh.
I lock the door. We are safe. I am safe. I take off my clothes. My dance flows love. My childlike love caresses air. It is the stillness of dance, my free form.
Touch me. Nibble my ear lobes. Kiss my neck. Use your tongue. Ask me without words if I want it gentle, medium or hard.
I lie down. Hold me. Breathe deep. Exhale eighteen inches out. Deep space. Empty your mind. Feel our bodies. Give me a full body massage. Start with my feet. They are erogenous zones of pleasure. Touch pressure points on my souls. My brain is an erogenous zone. Work up my calves massaging lower back, along the spine expanding out across upper back muscles and shoulders. My neck muscles are tight from doing laundry. Knead tension out. I’ll tell you how it feels with gestures of pleasure.
Listen and feel my body. Hear my breath exhaling sensation. Roll me over. Let your tongue do the talking. Stimulate me slow and easy as I feel your tongue caress ear lobes and neck, across breasts. Caress aroused purple nipples. Move south across my belly. Clear the department of the forest before tonguing my little button and labia rose. It’s highly sensitive. Slow. This is a powerful erogenous spot. Explore my blood filled flowers. Tongue lips deeper. Inhale my fragrance.
Feel my response as I move with you. Dance with me. Explore my mysterious cave with a slow moving tongue. Feel my response. Hear my breathing. If it’s fast and shallow I’m excited. I press your face deeper into my forest getting what I need.
My body is your teacher.
I am alone in my silent prison. It is a blessing and a curse. It confines me and it liberates me.
Silence is everything. I am one with everything. A singularity.
All visual colors, sensations, perceptions, forms, symbols, imagination and energies of transient tactile existence permeate my being.
Everything floats away. Mu. Nothing. Maya. Illusion. Suffering is an illusion. I don’t understand suffering. Does suffering mean experiencing taste, sound, temperature, and texture feeling regret, loss and a death of the spirit? I witness sad lost blank faces. People wear sadness like discarded rags. I see mouths moving.
I never hear laughter as I pass through life with my Dream Sweeper Machine.
What does laughter sound like?
What color is sound?
This is my Beauty. Fear and trust dance in stillness. I meditate. Calm. Centered.
I am a stone cold Apsara silent dancer dancing with my revolutionary evolutionary soul.
I feel like screaming.
The dancing hall inside the Preah Khan temple at Angkor Wat is where dancers don’t smile. They dance. They are slave dancers. They dance for the king. The god-king. He resurrected his desire and fury creating new customs and decrees for dancers. They dance for the mighty and powerful. They dance Khmer stories about war, family, harvests, seasons, sun and moon.
They are submissive dances of life/death. They dance to celebrate life. A celebration of tranquility is their eternal dance. They dance or die. They wear tinkling bands of gold around wrists and ankles. Diamond diademed crowns and shimmering silk clothing. They do not smile. Their faces are frozen in the trance of dance.
I dance to escape the tyranny of life. I use my dance to express life. I’ve danced all my short, sweet existence.
The Hall of Dancers has laterite columns and portals with broken jumbled green mossy stones. Stones whisperdance. Thick gnarled silk-cotton tree roots below the surface of appearances in deep burial crypts crawl toward dancers. They dance through exposed roots, past Shiva and Vishnu, the preserver and destroyer of life.
My gratitude is stillness. There is a big difference between sitting still and doing nothing.
The hardest thing to do in life is to do nothing with intention as it takes the most out of you as a person mentally and physically.
Some people say nothing exists. I do nothing everyday.
I smell roses. I swallow fresh orange juice. I engage my senses in direct, immediate, raw, emotional experience. He cannot save me from my destiny. He can only allow the process to flow.
One day he brought me apples, oranges and mangoes. He spoke with non-speech. He imagines our passion is a glimmer of potential emotional security in the long now. Inside my deep-eyed mischief, strangers comfort each other without discrimination.
I am a singularity.
Sensing passion we decipher riddles forecasting speechless tongues. We accept mindfulness with gratitude in quicksilver’s desperate wandering. Boredom carves a niche in my soul.
He is a Lone Wolf with a variant of DNA comprehending my inherent instinctive needs. I hang laundry near the street.
Memory’s lie is tempered by talking monkeys. Two boys harvest trash. One barefoot boy plays silent music with a long thin bamboo fiber. The other carries a plastic bag, twirling a walking stick used for prodding garbage.
Local people mill around. Milling around is an art form. They exist with a pure innocent childlike wisdom. Passive is their inherent Buddhist nature. They’ve suppressed their ego. Ease god out.
Others voice imaginary alien freedom ideas. I am an Other. I live in my heart-mind luminous universe.
A sofa on wheels with a roof towed by a motorcycle carries fat white Europeans to see 9th century Angkor temples. A young handicapped man named Eternity wearing his new skin-tight artificial plastic left leg and foot shuffles through dust. He walks home. It is everywhere and nowhere. You can’t go home again.
I don’t know where the real ends and the artificial begins.
My lover-friend was away for six weeks. He brought me pineapples, a yellow mango and passion fruit. I washed clothes in my silent world. My hair tinted golden hued. I am ebullient. He touched my spine. Soft. I turned, smiling.
My silent world and calm joy are disguised potentials. We share a silent clear intention. Our private time contains no fear. It is a gentle passion, soft and slow. My awareness is trust and authenticity. I am resigned to remembering everything.
I paint my nails a shade of red-pink. My old thin brown fingers are tired after a day scrubbing clothes. My infinite silent no voice is all. He watches my intense angelic face focus on nails. One-by- one. My heart understands his sense of eternal loss.
I sign: I hate the French spies next door. He and his fat wife run a restaurant. He spies for Thorny. They are creeps. Before he left Thorny gave me money to stop doing massage. I agreed. The spies keep an eye on me.
In my silence only my voice is missing.
Broken glittering glass edges reflecting an elegant universe magnified the tears of an Iraqi girl burying her parents in a white shroud of cloth, an old flag of final surrender.
Tree leaves blasted green to deep yellow and brown. They flew into a river. They gathered on boulders clogging the Rio Guadalete and dolomite waterfalls. One leaf could do a lot of damage. The river needed cleaning.
"See," said the Grand Inquisitor ringing his broken Spanish bell, "it’s all possible. Everything is permitted if there is no God."
"Let’s invent a God," said a pregnant nun supporting her nose habit. "We need reason and faith to believe in a higher power."
"Reason and faith are incompatible," said a logic board filled with circular flux reactors.
"Look," said Little Nino, "I found a compass and it works. The needle is pointing to magnetic north. This may help us. I am a compass without a needle."
Ahmed the Berber read the instructions. "Great Scott! It says one sharp line of description is better than any number of mundane observations."
"You don’t need a compass in the land of dreams," said a mother. "We need all the direction we can handle."
"Maybe one direction is enough," said a cartographer.
"If you need a helping hand," said a child, "look at the end of your wrist."
"O wise one, tell us another," cried a disembodied voice.
"Ok, how about this," a child said. "Our days of instant gratification are a thing of the past."
"Looks like everything is a thing of the past," observed a child sifting dust particles at Ground Earth on 9/11.
"You’re wiser than your years."
"That’s an old saw with a rusty blade cutting through desire, anger, greed, ignorance and suffering."
"Yes," said a child, "there are two kinds of suffering."
"What are they?" asked another orphan.
"There’s suffering you run away from and suffering you face,” said a child arranging leaves on blank pages inside her black book.
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