Happy IPSTP Day!

[mistymassey]

Hard to believe it's been a whole year, huh? In honor of this most auspicious day, I'd like to share this short intro that may (or may not) eventually show up in a book.

I'll be crossposting to the ipstp community, so I apologize now for any annoyance at seeing my post twice.



Drumbeats pounded, a living rhythm driving her body into silken motion. She stepped forward, toes touching down on the thick carpet, the energy from her foot rippling up to her torso and spending itself in a deep undulation. She shook her shoulders gently, and let a playful smile flash over her face. Smoke curled skyward from hookahs placed strategically around the room. The sweet aroma of clove tobacco blended in her awareness with the rich scented oil she’d rubbed into her skin while dressing.

But the music … It was her purpose, her drive and reality. The thrumming strings of the oud, the low dum-tek of the tabla and the occasional dancing flute teased her, communicating their will without words. Her arms flowed smoothly as snakes, first one out, then the other, mesmerising her audience. She swept her hands skyward, crossed them and let them float, feather-like, down to her hips.

The tabla’s steady beat exploded into double-time. She responded, snapping her hips forward and back at the drum’s commands, then slipping effortlessly into a shimmy. The coins on the scarf wrapped around her hips jingled in counterpoint to the tabla. Her red and gold belt tassels bounced with the motion of her hips. She spun, her feet seeming to leave the floor, becoming a brightly-colored blur. The tabla stopped. And she, one with the music, stopped clean.

She held her pose in the silence, her heart thudding in imitation of the now-stilled tabla. This was the moment she danced for – the moment between, when she felt truly in touch with the ancient nature of the dance. So many women in so many generations before her, all speaking different languages and living different lifestyles, yet sharing these movements and rhythms. In this moment, she always felt they were watching her, from across the expanse of time, and smiling.

“Ya hala ya, habibi!” Applause thundered from all sides, breaking the magic and pulling her back to the ordinary. The second Saturday night of the month, as usual. She was in the Casbah, a popular Arabian-Nights themed club, frequented by young professionals who worked in the nearby banks and offices. Back to who she was.

Comments

Throwing Coins

[philipmcavery.livejournal.com]

Yumm. Nice visions.