Writing (Winter Solstice 2014)

"Writing (Winter Solstice 2014) - reading (on YouTube)

I often get asked the question, what does it mean to be a writer? Ok, maybe I don’t get asked so much as the question is implied every time I introduce myself at a party. What do you do? I’m a writer. What exactly does that mean?

It means translating the pictures that randomly flash through my mind’s eye into words so I can share them with unsuspecting readers. It means transfiguring real-life situations into stylized scenes and scenarios that don’t exist. It means transcribing the imaginary conversations I have in my head at 2 a.m. with real people over things that can’t be changed though I often wish they could.

Writing is carving a picture one word at a time. It’s creating a mood, evoking an emotion, inspiring readers to feel or think. It’s abstracting an experience from everyday existence into something readers are willing to examine, something safer even if it’s more hostile than daily life. It’s crafting the one detail that resonates with them and sets them firmly in a place or time where their mind fills in the rest. It’s allowing them to see.

Each word is a line or pencil stroke in a sketch. Each word is a color brushed on canvas until, stroke by stroke, an image emerges. Each word is the gouge of a chisel until a sculpture or woodcut takes form.

More concretely, each word is a brick laid one atop another until sentences and paragraphs form the foundation for an imaginary landscape. With each new word, every town, every building, every room becomes more real until my clockwork characters can move through them and interact in some meaningful way. As with all art and architecture, the key is finding just the right balance between creating a piece that is sleek and esthetic, and one that is over-designed and cluttered.

Writers are more like painters and photographers than most people realize. Each studies the world to truly see it, looking for just the right light and color and angle to capture a specific scene. But unlike other artists, writers have no cool apps or toys. We don’t debate the merits of sable versus synthetic brushes. We don’t stretch our own canvas or mix our own paints. We don’t discuss which camera, lens and filter best captures what we see.

No writer brags about which word processor she uses, or which pencils, pens or paper captures his words best. We no longer scrape our own parchment or craft our own linen paper. We no longer trade secret family recipes for ink. Even in this digital age, we rely on almost no post-processing, only a spell-checker and maybe one for grammar. Though both of those are more malleable and mutagenic than most readers think.

Compared to other arts and artistries, a writer’s necessities are deceptively simple. Most days, I start with a mechanical pencil, a notebook and a computer. The other tools that adorn my real or virtual desktop are a dictionary with a word etymology, a thesaurus, a basic grammar handbook, a list of baby names with meanings, and the world of Wikipedia. Other writers might include a set of index cards, or a magnetic poetry kit. A few technophiles might rely on a piece of organizing software, a poetry generator, or a program that prints out random inspirational lines. From those bare bones and our imaginations, a deep, clear well of stories spring.

A modern writer’s basic tools vary only slightly from the ones our ancient counterparts first used impress their ideas into clay tablets with cuneiform. Because of the relative ease of entry, and now of distribution, the field is as crowded as a Marrakech bazaar. Each aspiring author is expected to hawk his own wares with the skill and creative inspiration of a Mad Man maven. In the electronic marketplace of social media, it’s become nearly impossible to be heard above the noise. And as with almost all of our current Kickstarter culture, the very best crowd out the competent and merely good.

So why exactly do I do it? I ask myself that question every year. I don’t make any money. I haven’t attracted a following or fame.

Perhaps I’m just trying to re-fashion the past into something that makes sense, or forge the future by practicing what to say or do. Perhaps I am just killing time around the house until my wife gets home. Or perhaps I’m merely distracting myself until the next crisis arises so that for a few moments I feel worthwhile, able to cope and survive, if not well then better than some around me. Or perhaps, I just want to be listened to for a change.

The question isn’t so much why I do it as how could I not? For me, writing is a hardwired addiction. I haven’t yet found my methadone no matter how hard I’ve tried. When my mind settles, my imagination instinctively takes over, poking, prodding and tweaking everything it sees. It picks apart novels, movies and television episodes to examine their innermost details. It gets inspired by articles and situations that scream they could serve as the foundation for another story. It latches onto lines and dialog that whisper in my sleep.

I guess I do it because I can. Because I have the means, the motivation and the creative energy. Because I enjoy that brief sense of accomplishment and serenity that comes once any given piece is posted. Because when I sit still long enough, the itch to write something new overwhelms me, whether a story, an essay or a poem.

The ancient Greeks believed creation was a sacred act, that moment when some random animistic spirit possessed the artist, imbuing him with divine inspiration, consuming her with passion. Like sex, or madness, that flash of inspiration is that moment when all of us lose control. It’s no coincidence that to inspire means to breathe. Scribo ergo sum. I write therefore I am.

So as you settle in on this solstice night, I wish you all the best in your artistic endeavors. Whatever creative addiction calls you, may your muse burn warm and bright.


© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Seminole's Identity (an open letter)

Dear Seminole City Council,

I recently read a proposal for creating an identity for our city using American flags and a red, white and blue theme. While I do not question your or any of your supporters’ patriotism, I think that plan creates not so much a unique identity as it enters our city into a fraternity of hundreds, if not thousands, of towns and small cities throughout the state and nation seeking the exact same identity.

If you drive US 19 from Pinellas to the panhandle, you will see perhaps half a dozen water towers painted with American flags, and a number of towns decorated in red, white and blue. I grew up next to Cocoa, Florida, a city that in the early 80’s had one of the largest American flags in the country painted on its water tower. This is not a new or original idea.

But you know what I've never seen anywhere else in my travels, at home or abroad? A water tower painted with local birds designed to look like a bird cage. Wood storks and roseate spoonbills winter literally in our backyards. That iconic artwork and our beautiful city (and county) parks seem like a much better starting point for creating an identity that will attract visitors and commerce.

Mind you, I say this as someone who was entrusted with a clearance while working for the defense of this country, someone whose father and uncle served during the Korean War and WWII, someone whose grandfather held an equivalent commission for his work on the Manhattan Project, someone married to a (civilian) Cold War Veteran. I don’t object to the flag, or patriotism in general. I just don’t find it a compelling kernel around which to craft a meaningful identity for our city.

Cocoa did not forge an identity or re-energize its economy by painting a flag on its water tower. It changed its fortunes by focusing on the city’s assets and revitalizing its historic downtown and waterfront, where they host a superb annual art show along with other events (and advertise on I-75). I also can’t help but notice the explosive growth in once-moribund downtown St. Petersburg over the past decade. A lively arts scene, varied events, exciting restaurants, beautiful parks and public amenities (many of which we already have) are the makings of a vibrant and growing American community.

Our city name alone seems a rich source of inspiration, along with the annual Pow Wow we sponsor. Or the variety of Music in the Park concerts we host. Or even the Welsh language taught at one of our local churches (Dunedin has met with great success supporting its Scottish heritage). In a different direction, we could tap into the unique pioneer history of the area on display at Heritage Park (just beyond our borders). We could sponsor a niche book collection in our local library (Montgomery County, Maryland, has had good success with that). More radically, endowing an annual scholarship open to Seminole residents attending either SPC or USF would create an indelible identity as well as serve the needs of our residents for less than half the cost of a proposed consultant. A local friend of mine recently created Florida Bookstore Day (held this weekend) with nothing more than determination and a handful of donations. Even focusing on something as simple as lining our streets with flowering crepe myrtles would create a colorful and memorable impression on anyone passing through.

For the past thirteen years, nearly every township and municipality in this country has sought to outdo one another in demonstrations of patriotism with displays of the American flag or red, white and blue. It is not fresh. It is not new. It will not set us apart. It is not an identity. But we can craft a unique, memorable identity from our many assets which will both attract visitors and enrich the lives of our residents. All it takes is a little imagination.

Sincerely,

Edward P. Morgan III

Seminole

Chasm (Samhain 2014)

Chasm - a reading (on YouTube)

I stand before a chasm, the gateway to the underworld I just escaped, a pit I clawed my way out of minutes or hours before.

A moment ago I was lying on solid ground, catching my ragged breath. Now, I peer into the portal like a looking glass, a mirror into madness where white grays to black, sanity to insane. If I stare too long, I’ll lose my balance. But how do I back away knowing one misstep will send me crashing through, the shards bleeding me like a sacrifice, my blood strengthening the demons who howl for my return?

Shades tear my clothes, nick my skin, alternately cajoling and threatening, their arguments finely honed knives slashing through my mind. Each demon is driven to the same purpose, my return to the world into which I was born, by force or by deceit. Like cats, they lick my wounds, feeding instead of cleansing with the agony of their tongues.

My ears are enraptured by the sirens' song calling me, promising this time I can play Odysseus, revealing glimpses of my glorious return, neglecting the decadal nature of the journey. My feet are rooted, paralyzed, unswaying, my body wiser than my heart or head, intent on its own survival.

So, I stare back down knowing if I slip beneath the brimstone shroud, its madness will consume me. Returning to that world would be like re-entering an inferno with no Eurydice to rescue, and no Virgil to guide me home.

Smoke Rings (Fall Equinox 2014)

Smoke Rings - a reading (on YouTube)

For the past few days, high white clouds have softened the morning, knocking down the harsh, sharp edges, casting silvery light through the trees. The first sign of fall. Soon, I will be released from the white prison of summer, free to commune with the goddess once again, only to find in my absence, she’s dyed her hair from green to gold. When the weather finally breaks, you’ll find me on the back porch, getting reacquainted, a burl wood pipe in hand.

I first wanted a pipe after reading The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien’s wizards and heroes carried their pipes and tobacco throughout their adventures. They smoked for entertainment, to relax and sometimes to work through their problems. In college, I almost always had my pipe with me. I mostly smoked out on a bridge in the botanical gardens. One of the first impressions I made on my wife was sitting at night with my feet outstretched on a concrete railing, wrapped in cloak, light pooling around me from above, my pipe tucked into a moccasin boot.

My father gave me that first pipe for my eighteenth birthday, a half-bent billiard with a sample of tobaccos. Since then, I’ve accumulated a small collection, an onyx pipe from Mexico that glows softly from within when it’s lit, a meerschaum pipe carved into an eagle’s talon clutching the bowl, a small burl wood pipe I inherited from my grandfather.

The only tobacco I smoke now is black Cavendish, a mild, mellow variety that goes by many names. In a tobacco shop near college, it was ironically called Fog Cutter. In a shop in the local mall, more appropriately George the Banker. In one of the last surviving shops in the county, somewhat more ominously Midnight Blue.

When I was in college, pipe tobacco was a luxury. Back then, if I could afford to smoke once a week, I was lucky. Now, due to circumstances of allergies and weather, I’m only able to break out a pipe at most a dozen times a year.

My father was a smoker. The smell of a freshly lighted cigarette still brings back a flood of memories. There is something pure about that scent, unblemished by stale smoke and lingering ash. Like an oddly refreshing breeze that carries the hint of a distant campfire after a long day on the trail. But after that first drag, the cigarette experience quickly descends into servicing an addiction. A pipe maintains its purity much longer. Its smoke is different, heavier yet sweeter. If cigarettes are like beer, and cigars like whiskey, then pipe tobacco is fine cognac. VSOP. Something to be sipped on a special occasion not guzzled every day.

Like a snifter of cognac, a pipe lends itself to contemplation and rebalancing. By its nature, it’s a patient pastime. It takes time to load the bowl properly, time to tamp it down, time to get it lit just so, time to sit back and enjoy it. On days around the equinox, that ritual provides an opportunity to defragment my mind. To reintegrate with the world by sitting and just being. To refocus by not focusing at all.

These days, I smoke almost exclusively on the porch. Soaking in the sights and sounds of nature, I go through the rite of loading and lighting it, as is my wont. Then I fire off a quick succession of tiny smoke rings by tapping a finger against one cheek. Or roll out larger ones that curl in upon themselves before they wobble and fly apart.

There is something meditative in the way smoke rings rise and stray. Something magical in the way they hold together as if conjured by a wizard, a mystic, or a priest. They linger and float, a spiraling, spinning gray. Constantly turning inward in the cool, clear half light of fall. And then, like my problems, they slowly fade away.

Relaxed and content, I set my pipe aside. In the stillness that follows, I watch a narrow column of smoke ascend in perfect order from its bowl. Until an unseen chaos strikes, dispersing it in whorls and waves. Scattering it like winter’s impending storms and strife. Or some unnamed god’s laughter at our plans.

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Near Drowning (Lughnasa 2014)

Near Drowning (Lughnasa 2014) - a reading (on YouTube)


The last days of summer always catch me by surprise. The lazy, languid days I think will never end. They always do. While I’m dozing, life reaches out and grasps my neck. Fully awake, I know nothing goes on forever. Summer is no exception.

It happened between Lughnasa and the equinox, one of the last days our family went to the lake. The memory has the feel of late summer. The air had a cooler edge. It was evening, a time we usually were packing up to go. The pines had taken on a dark quality as their needles were touched by twilight. Or maybe I’m just remembering the shadow that fell across me.

It’s funny, the details I remember and those I don’t. I remember the light and time, but the month and year are no more than an impression. I know I was under ten.

I was swimming in the shallows, practicing holding my breath. I was alone in the water. Usually, the swimming area was full of people, mostly kids like me. By late afternoon it thinned out. The lake closed at dusk. My mother and father had retreated to a picnic shelter behind a palmetto break with another family, out of sight. Everyone else had headed home.

I’ve known how to swim as long as I can remember. I love the water. I love the freedom that it brings. Submerge and the world above becomes muffled and remote. Suspended in crystalline blue, everything turns peaceful.

I don’t know how she came to be near. She asked what I was doing. I bragged that I was seeing how long I could hold my breath. I bet you can’t hold it for minute. I said I could. Prove it, she said.

My instincts whispered that I shouldn’t trust her. She’d been unpredictable for as long as I could remember. She must have sensed my unease. Show me where the water meets the shore. Nothing can happen here. I’ll stand back and won’t move. I promise.

I eyed her sidelong but paddled up to where she could see. I took a deep breath and plunged my face below the surface and started counting, thinking I was safe.

Before I hit ten, her hands were on my neck. I thrashed and twisted to get away. Her elbows locked, the full weight of her body behind them. She was two years older and probably outweighed me by a third.

My struggles turned to desperation. My lungs began to burn. I grew weaker while she grew stronger. I knew this wasn’t a childhood game. I knew I would never force my way from beneath her hands. A little voice told me, she’s always been too much older, too much bigger, too much stronger. You’ll never win. I didn’t listen.

I don’t know how long she held me under. Time becomes malleable when you think you’re fighting for your life. In the pool, I used to swim laps underwater. I could hold my breath for minutes without a problem. Struggling and panicked, I doubt I could have lasted that long. As I began to tire, that same voice whispered: play dead. Make her believe. It’s your only chance.

This time, I listened. I forced myself to relax and stop struggling. I made my arms and legs go limp. I slowly blew out the last of my precious, life-sustaining air. I was a method actor auditioning for the role of a lifetime.

For a very long count I didn’t move, didn’t think, didn’t so much as tense, just floated, my life within her hands. The seconds became ductile and drawn out. I felt a twitch then a slight easing but thought it was a trap. So I held my water. An eternity later, I felt her relax, as if she’d confirmed the job was finally done.

I took my opportunity and burst up from the water with the last of my reserves. I gasped a huge breath as soon as I broke the surface in case I was forced down again. I needn’t have bothered. I can still see the expression of shocked surprise on her face as I broke free. She no longer held me or controlled me. And she would never get me back.

I sometimes wonder why I tell this story. Maybe I just need to ask the question that still lingers below the surface. The one we all asked when faced with the unexpected. Why?

Only two of us know what really happened that day. Only one of us knows why. I didn’t think about that question as it was happening. I was intent on my survival. But I often think about it now. Not why we were there or what might have been different if we hadn’t been. Had it not been that day, it would have been another. Had she been older, she might not have been so easily fooled. I might not have survived. I’m still not sure exactly why I did. Cleverness? More likely luck.

Our youngest cat, Nyala, sometimes wakes up crying. It’s begun happening more frequently this summer. If I’m not near, she cries out like a distressed kitten, not moving until I call her or find her. When I do, she comes running then curls up on my lap purring before she drifts back to sleep. I don’t know why she does it. Unlike our other cat, I know her entire history, know she was orphaned when she was five days old, know she and her brother spent their first two months fostered by a loving family who cared for her so much they almost didn’t give her up. They kept the pair of them together in their guest house to shelter them from their young kids and other cats.

Maybe that’s what she remembers. Maybe she just gets scared at waking up all alone, thinking her family has abandoned her. Or maybe not. It’s hard to know.

Perhaps there are no answers to either of our questions. Perhaps the only reason for that incident was to allow me to reach out and console another, to recognize her pain even if she can’t communicate the why. Perhaps the only meaning in this life comes from sharing warmth and comfort at the bounty of the berry harvest even as we each awake from near drowning in our own white prison. And, perhaps, as the bright light of summer slowly fades to fall, that is just enough.

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Clans (Summer Solstice 2014)

Clans - a reading (on YouTube)

Every four years at the summer solstice, world clans gather in a friendly competition. They huddle beneath banners bearing symbols like heraldic devices: Three Lions, Black Stars, Super Eagles, the Red Fury, the Samurai Blue.

The games are like a quadrennial family reunion where some years one clan makes it, some years another but always the same perennial core. Some clans bring only a small contingent, some are downright massive. We recognize many of the same players, the same coaches, sometimes the same fans. There are fresh faces mixed in among the familiar. In the interim, a venerable handful have gone missing while a few noted mercenaries have switched allegiances entirely.

Each clan has its own tradition. Europeans sing, South Americans drum and whistle, Africans dance while warlocks throw magic on the field. Our native contingent prefers to chant. But they all don brightly-colored party clothes and smile for the camera whenever one pans by.

Most Americans don’t understand this clannishness. I do. Clans provide a sense of the familiar in a strange new world. Their presence comforts us so far away from home. More importantly, should someone throw a road flare (as they sometimes do), these are the people who will guard your back.

We have an instinctive need to identify the people we know and know that we can trust. We mark each other to set ourselves apart. Totems and tribal colors form a secret language shared only by the select.

We are creatures drawn to symbolism. We festoon ourselves with ornaments and trinkets, shiny baubles, items imbued with meaning only to ourselves and the ones who know us best. We adorn ourselves in these emblems to express our ancestry and individuality all at once.

My mother’s family collects such symbols spanning at least three generations. From a young age, we were each encouraged to choose our totem, the marker of who we are. For our matriarch it was elephants. For my aunt and my mother, teddy bears and whales. For me, it alternated between wolves and dragons. Owls, angels, mushrooms, musical notes, cats and hearts could all be found scattered throughout the family field.

This was an enforced pattern of behavior, the family marking us with its brand. If you did not pick a symbol, one would be chosen for you. Your choice needn’t be permanent. You were allowed to change, though not too often. As long as you didn’t choose nonparticipation. Then a default choice would be reinstated based on what the others thought suited you best.

We made our choices carefully. Our chosen symbol would decorate our bookshelves and bedroom walls. These were the gifts we would receive for the rest our lives. It’s the way that we relate, the shorthand by which the rest of the family could identify and interact. I can’t help but remember my grandmother when I see any representation of an elephant. I can’t help but think of my aunt and cousin when I see a teddy bear or Winnie-the-Pooh.

I’m not a natural collector. I’m quite particular in my taste in symbols. Nothing too cute or with too much popular appeal. I don’t even logos visible on my clothes. Though I must admit that when I was growing up and Izod shirts were all the rage, one department store countered the alligator with an off-brand dragon. I couldn’t wear those shirts enough, in a semi-ironic, pre-hipster, fantasy counter-culture kind of way.

At this stage of my life, the only symbols I collect are griffins. They capture the three distinct facets of my clan: family, tribe, and individual. It is the device that graces my father’s family crest, though only one uncle ever paid much attention to it. It is a lesser known symbol of our Welsh heritage. I was drawn as much by that as the creature’s fantasy nature. It also serves as the banner of my brand.

Griffins are notoriously hard to come by in this country. To my knowledge, no one prints a griffin calendar. I’ve never seen any stuffed toys. I’ve haven’t run across any foreign coins or jewelry. Even pewter figurines with any decent artistry are difficult to find. Most of the griffins in my office were custom-made: a banner, a pair of stained glass bookends, a leather notebook and paperback cover, a ceramic tile. All but the last were made by my wife. Some date back from our time in college. Since we’ve been married, she identifies the symbol as another aspect of her heritage just as she adopted my surname as her own.

Clans, by nature and necessity, are exogamous, taking in through marriage only with outsiders. But once those strangers don our tartan, they become accepted as one of us. That doesn’t mean they have abandoned their connections to their first families. Our clan just becomes another face on their polyhedron die. Another charm on their mental Pandora bracelet.

So, if you catch even a glimpse of a game crowd this summer from the corner of your eye, remember that web of diversified acceptance. If you’re lucky, you might witness a Brazilian samba band drum and whistle their way through an entire match. Or watch the tribal-clad women from the Ivory Coast dance and sway in unison, then turn to shake their backsides toward the field as a taunt. Or hear thousands of voices spontaneously erupt in a chorus of La Marseillaise or Rule, Britannia. Or see the players weep openly as the stadium plays their national anthem. For many, this is the only positive recognition their country will ever get.

Some say Americans learn geography only through our wars. If so, the rest of the world learns theirs from the clans attending the beautiful game. As we bask in the light of the summer solstice, which would you say provides a better model on the world stage?


© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Drum Circle (Beltane 2014)

Drum Circle (Beltane 2014) - a reading 

Today marks the return of Celtic summer, a day of bonfires, May poles, Lords and Ladies of the dance. And as we dance, the circle remains unbroken.

On this day seven years ago, I stood witness to a battle. I was the ghost that roamed the ramparts on the eve of Karen’s sacrifice. I watched abjectly as the trebuchet began adjusting fire. Below, in the courtyard stables, our warhorses stamped and nickered in their stalls, impatiently awaiting the day we would throw open the gates and ride out to relieve her siege. I feel no need to recount that grim tale set forth in the Chronicles, her personal Prose Edda.

Today, instead, I’ll relate the untold story of Karen’s victory celebration. The siege had been lifted, the counterattacks repelled, the dragon finally slain. Her pennant flew triumphantly on the hill overlooking of her fortress. At twilight, a circle of friends and companions gathered in annual pilgrimage. That night, she had proclaimed she would dance at the drum circle deep within the Dragon’s lair.

Allow me to set the scene. A sultry, summer night in Atlanta, wedged midway between Lughnasa and the Fall Equinox. It’s the weekend before Labor Day, the first night of Dragon*Con, the largest science fiction/fantasy convention in Southeast with crowds of sixty thousand plus.

Just before midnight we entered the labyrinth of conventions rooms in the basement of the Hyatt Regency on our way to a ballroom. We arrived early: the drummers were still setting up. The lights were on, the crowd light and mixed. The drums sat in a half-circle scribed with chairs. Masters hammered out instructional rhythms, simple to complex, for novices and journeymen to learn. Like their handlers, the drums themselves ranged from improvised to ornate. A random collection of bongos, bodhrans and bass drums; tabors and tom-toms; frame, hand and standing; anything that could bear a skin. All slapped, tapped, pounded or caressed by sticks, mallets, fingertips and palms as the rhythm required. One guy with a pickle bucket and a pair borrowed drumsticks held his own against the professionals.

A few brave souls expressed their appreciation on the dance floor. Yet the song remained unbalanced, all bass baritone with a touch of top tenor, but not a note of a sweet soprano counter-song. Karen, freshly outfitted in a circle skirt, peasant blouse and belled anklet, held position at the edge of the crowd. It was not yet her time. She would choose her dance wisely. This night was her homecoming, her prom, her graduation dance, all rolled into one.

During a lull between the sets, a hush descended. Then the high, rhythmic chime of multitudinous tiny carillons keeping time with a couple dozen footfalls presaged their arrival. The belly dancers parted the crowd like Moses’ twin sister, not with power but with presence. They sashayed in, all swirling skirts and brightly sequined bra-tops with bare, bangled midriffs, arms and ankles.

The drum master nodded as they moved to the center of the room, their aura holding back the overawed, encircling crowd. A slight smile played across his face as he held silent the boys of his improvised drumline. The girls formed two lines on the parquet floor, their eyes atwinkle with mischief.

A mallet descended onto the central drumhead. The drumming resumed with a new vigor in an explosion of well-time beats. A song emerged with no melody or harmony, all cadence and secondary rhythms. Toes tapped, feet stomped, hands pounded walls and chairs and thighs. The room throbbed, pulsed, pattered and thrummed with backbeat syncopation. A ringing metal bar rose above the base-note tempo like the sing-song of a childhood taunt.

In the center of the circle, the twin lines of dancers responded, mirroring their movements to the measure, all shoulders, curves and swinging hips in a single, fluid, undulating motion. They flowed from one routine to another in a stylized, synchronic seduction. Then, with supple arms tinkling with brass and silver bells, they encouraged the audience to join. Karen and her friend slid through the crowd toward the dance floor. Others soon followed. They danced and twirled, skirts billowing out from bare legs, Karen’s crocheted shawl floating above her shoulders. A barefoot, bare-chested male sword dancer in genie pants took up the challenge in a counterpoint, stretching and bending in ways that would make even the most flexible yogini envious.

The dancers were held hostage by Hawaiian militants: John Bonham, Neil Peart, Kodo and Kitaro. Their war drums drove the synchronous mass of swaying femininity. Through the rising crescendo, dance and drumbeat merged in a primal mix of masculine and feminine. In an atmosphere charged with skin-glistening pheromones, reverberating rhythms, and entwined motion, a new energy arose. An archetypal image of the horned god and triple goddess conspiring in an epicene re-enactment of a springtide Wild Hunt. We ignored the rising heat, our thirst and pure exhaustion as the tireless tempo pushed us onward. In that frozen moment, we all longed to belong. We were the dance and the dance would never end.

Yet sometime in the early morning, it did, at least for us. We departed the drum circle as a new, anarchic, glow-stick dance took hold, the younger crowd devolving into a chaos of tribalism without tradition. Returning to the cool, night air, we remained content. Karen had claimed her time upon the stage to celebrate her victory. Together, we had given her a near perfect Beltane dance.

Although the music has now faded, we still sometimes get swept up in the memory of that dance. And as we dance, the circle remains unbroken.

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III