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Sept. 8, 2008 Build me a woman, Make her ten feet tall, Don’t make her ugly, Don’t make her small, Build me someone I can, Crawl on… - Jim Morrison It was a long time ago, as they say, and it was miles and miles from the safe suburbs, far in the downtown streets, when autumn was in its own particular ending and the first snowfall approaching. It was a Friday night, and it could have been a club in any major metropolis in the entire world. There were stages, and different levels, each level had bars, and there were large windows that looked out on the crowds in the streets. The light from the moon meandered lightly down to earth, but was no match for the electric lights, and from inside the building pulsed and roared various kinds of music. Sometimes the bass was so strong that it seemed like the windows were pounding and would crack, then give way, and always the music cut through the negativity of the world and its inhabitants as they swirled, as they drank, as they smoked or walked or talked or even dreamed with eyes open of inner visions and revelations only in accordance to oneself, but no, somehow so deep, somehow so still and true, that these dreams must have a universal significance. Music. Beyond an archway, and on a wooden stage where men and women danced and sang, there was one tall woman dancing a medium speed dance and moving in circles. She went on like that forever if only because she had entered a timeless dimension. Around and around, focusing, unknowingly, at the bar, each and every time, and this is what ballerinas do, and figure skaters, in order not to dizzy. Leather pants, which are gaudy, but which she wears fine, the one true diamond among perhaps thousands of imitators. Round and round. One gets the idea of purple cars with lots of shining chrome, or a plush carpet somewhere, new, and sparkling, cascading winds coming down like a waterfall from heaven to cool and assuage and even inspire. She wears cork shoes, which make her even taller, and her lips are pursed, she has a strong jaw, like some kind of Amerindian. She is that. Some kind of Cherokee dancing savant, beautiful and pure and knowing, untouchable, utterly sane, and willful. She doesn’t go out to spirit, but summons almost effortlessly spirit in. She channels worlds. It was a long time ago, by the music, by the sometimes-dreadful autumn ways that could bring searing painful wisdom from the ether or sometimes cool wind breeze like cold water in summer. Spinning there. She spins. Far out in the alleys stray cats scurry and the night marches on. ------------ Email: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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