And if there were to be something more than we could see, bird and tree and winter brown grass, what would we wish for, present or past? Future or nothing, darkness and quiet? A simple silence of nonbeing? Or the carnival burst of laughter and riot?
Or in sleep and uncanny reverie, so none of these?
The Ballerina will say, "I am here in your dreams, with you. There has been something of me in every woman you have known and loved, yet those women are not me. I am the Ballerina, the one for which all your love has pointed toward, for which the living you have lived was but a prelude. I am end-point of all yearning, the flower that has always rested inside you. Yet you cannot have known. You cannot see me clearly now. You will in time. Live and dream. Later you will know all."
Ballerina in the Dream: I commune with you in the words. Dipping them as if in some heavenly tea. Your words, think them and I will understand.
Calvin in the Dream: Ah well then I do. It makes of the thoughts something we can share. It is not a lonely thing. It is a not apart. A together joining of tannin and tart, sweat and exertion yet sweetly clinging like a flower from another world.
Ballerina: That's sweet
Oh, Ballerina this has me dream shaking. I have known you for very long in slumber, yet you have not come to me often of late. And I maybe should savor this very poetic thing and let it stay with me tonight as a memory of what has never been? It is very satisfying to think these words for you.
Ballerina: Ahhh, thank you.
I blow you a huge kiss into the wind down inside my mind and hope it flies to your lips in the mist there.
Ballerina: Thank you
It is very comforting and comforted, I feel. I am afraid because this wonderful thing is rare and I neither want to grab ahold too tightly or let slack which the latter could never be my reaction. I know possession is a state of mind but that grasping can cut off or clog the growth of beautiful word flowers. I sleep on the one end of the universe distracted and my whole being has engaged. Does that make sense? I am too fond (Shakespeare) to pierce the magic so happily received on my end. And so I feel like there is much more and I hope will be more than much more. The words put you in a place I have not really known before. It is your loveliness that gives to me the desire for word weaving and I feel like we shared a mutual togetherness that I hope can be recaptured at will. I am hungry for your likes and wish also to feed you in gratitude with sweet recompense. I cannot imagine a more wonderful exchange as this. And I anticipate the more of it and the more of it empties out into our spaces that are solitude playing with no second deck until this. Ballerina! Hey! Love it when your ghostly virtual self spins words into the emptiness to fill it for me in dreams. Two beings in the eternal light. Why don’t you speak to me? Give me more of your words, do.
Ballerina: Do not get too far ahead of yourself. Dream and wordthink, Calvin. Be in the now dream and be content with its presence. I do not have many words for you now. They will come later on, in later dreams.
OK. Sweet singing falls from above. Climb the roof like my beautiful woman Santa and I will stand and wait until there is the elusive you. Are we material beings that can embrace? Time asks the question and the answer will keep. Nothing spoils in this frozen border line. The shells-become-nails need a loving breath upon them to regenerate. Forgessen thee not. Powdery confection rolls over the flattened woodlands. Is it a lovemaking interruptus? All words necessarily partialize for time cuts short the full immanence, the unexpurgated fullness of lilly flower words endless. An action. Words make paths. They pull back the thicket of brush that stop feel and heart. If we could know the meaning of the words our minds spin, what then? There are infinite layers of meanings, down we travel to a solid final depth? No, there are more layers and still more. Everything said points to everything unsaid, to everything that means everything else yet refuses to yield up a final clarity because there is joy in the loving murk. A sound of cherry bells pealing. No special occasion. All special time foams like tidal spray. It is salty and sensuous on the lips. The words make love without the slightest brushing against. So the danger of mistaking a beauty for an oath. We are careless? Carefree? Does this mean what I think?
Ballerina: I hear you still. You think. Do not worry about the meaning, I receive the words like a long message in a bottle from a long place away on your earth. Think these words some more. For they are comforting to me. It is not so easy being a Dream Ballerina, constantly flitting from woodland to wildland, going to and fro like the seasons, never resting, never really home. Think me your words, Calvin. The time will grow short soon enough.
For so long the absence of your presence has become a presence in itself. Even a ghost will be missed, though clanking chains and disturbing moans may mar my evening's repose. Far that from Ballerina. Any clankings and moans are on the contrary most agreeable, vital, like a living novel that plays itself out for me and I you in real dreamtime. It is a gentle absence I have felt. Like a sudden stoppage of a warm and welcome breeze on a spring afternoon. There is spring in me always and the expression of heart and mind must ever come out in words, lovely and expressive somethings that need always an object, you. One that returns the thoughts and heart murmurs in beautiful phrasings is most unaccustomed to me. Yet you speak little it is true. And so again I burst forward with a little more language, as a place holder at the table of life, a seat reserved for one invited happily to share whatever is the word lot before us. So until that then.
I cannot fail because all I need really is one, the you. And that will be so long as I can partake of the banquet you kindly set forward for us earlier! COLD and snowing here outside my bedroom. Can you see that?
Ballerina: Not quite. It does not matter. Just think for me.
We are stories in the making!!!!!!
The stickleback cheerleaders launch into a routine that culminates in fish-pyramidicality. "The moon is the size of a basketball," my mother said matter-of-factly, later in years. "A basketball?" I asked. "No, it is the size of a quarter!" But as time passes, the moon grows. And the Ballerina eyes are unseen but also as big as basketballs. The limpid blue gaze into a beautifully becalmed sea. That hand held like an age-grade ritual that gives permission to entangle thoughts and feelings, and so there is a lovely that. Sleepy yet the mind flows with ever burgeoning blessitude. Really? For as real in its essence, yes, really I think. We share a resting place, or we will in dreams. But respect and good will makes of the two a mutual warmth because that is the right thing to start. Shapes, curvatures, all commingle in perfect-not-perfect innocence. It has the foamed egg futurity latent and all time presents itself as shall one day the one presents herself to the other, and there is mutual communion. But not now? Tonight a very close twining and a deeply reassuring sleep. While lark and nightingale outside freeze their little asses. Not our asses. They are warm as is the all of us. A brief awakening, a hand to kiss, then rest again.
Ballerina: I am disembodied spirit. You cannot really touch me except in your mind. But think on for it is beautiful to hear you.
I think these words with a joy that makes the story as a two-way thing so much more than solitary fantasy. Maybe we tell a fairytale together chapter-by-chapter? The thought that reading it by others would define it in ways that we can but imagine? If only I could remember the words when I awake. I get ahead. Right now the various stirrings in real-dream-time involve burst of words and lacunae that keep speaking in silence. Bekissed and beslept Ballerina on this eve of another time that still will tick reassuringly. Very cold here, I say again. Events do not stop in the world. But there I hope will be this space and I dare not think ahead too much. We barely know, yet I think we surely know something, no?
Ballerina: Yes, we always know. I know more than you and in time you shall know all but patience, you need to accept what is before you now and the rest will be farther along before you.
We do know! It is a happy knowing. A most fortunate intersection. A very soft collision with no damage, surely. The opposite. We exist and we impress gently and are in turn impressed in return.
Ballerina: Enjoy the dream point where all stands still.
It engulfs and eventually engorges. Or too the opposite sequence. The still point provides the fulcrum for the rotation of our universe now. It spins, ever. Courage and reassurance come together as the new life looms? All can be good. Why not? A smile. and...
You give me more dream depth and I hope, I do hope I give it back to you. The most blessed gift for me I can only believe, too. Unwrapping. A willow is what we each bring. There is no presence in this dream point that does not bring baggage and it will be sorted through. In the beginning were words. Beginning with happy word presents, each marked with one label or the other, to and from.
The willow smiles. I again cup my hand or is it yours? We are material beings. I cup and gently let my spittle shine and get return. Oh-oh the desire and the "second coming" can ever begin and cannot be denied, though I do not know what I cup. Is it you? In a few minutes I know that this world will interrupt. But tell me what cupping is happening. Ohh. There will be dawn and birds singing here in a minute. Tell me. It is a future.
Of course this could be my dirty mind at work! LOL If so, my real pardon. Everything is natural but not always timely! And it is only out of fondness that the words come.
I am thinking with my soul hanging out, exposed. I am not covetous! It is sharing, not theft. So gently that. Dawn here in a minute.
Ballerina: Your dream is an imagination. Yet I am real. I am here.
You are. I want to be in perfect sync with what you put into this dream for me. I believe I am. Smiling effusively here. Anon, though. There is a real-time diremption yet a happy anticipation of the to-come. Sweetness and a modesty most becoming are you. All things. Will be possible maybe. We need not to clock it but allow it to bloom beautifully. Not a rush order. No rushing is good anyway!
Ballerina: In your dreams I guide you and help you see what I can see, even if ever so little now. There is beauty in the rolling hills, the quiet pond at dusk, the me who is not home right now and wants to come home and settle in with you. I cannot yet.
Oh Ballerina, pretty Ballerina, come run away to me, we can find a place where the land makes love to sea. Not a long moment here because another dawn needs tending to soon enough. I am game. In my life there were times where it was like the coupling and uncoupling of boxcars, all just a selfish urge. Long time from then is now. Beauty in the ever-fertile rolling hills, yes, the fertile cavernous budding of heavenly production and reproduction. The bee who knows wants the flowers happiness as much or more than "his". It is not just a buzzer solo! LOL.
Garfinkle's Ethnomethodology shows we all bring to the table a huge amount of construction materials that then we use to parallel the reality stimulus. So I have the rolling hills in my head like a dinosaur is constructed from a leg bone. So your image and your words form the basis of the beautiful castle I am welcomed to. Is it you? By metonymy, of course, it is beautiful you.
Do I parallel the you that perches in your pastoral dream world?
The hills and verdure in concrete flowering?
And so I cup the beautiful flower in my hand and kiss it ever so gently. Is that OK?
Or perhaps I take liberties that are not so welcome. It is all words of loving gestures and nothing less.
So forgive a forwardness born out of play and sea foam. Of sandcastles, buckets and shovels, little sand crabs bubbling away merrily and gleeful outbursts of childlike delight!
The me on this end loves the landscape you conjure for me.
There is beauty in the breaking of the dawn on the hills. I see you in it, ever so indistinctly.
It is out of affection and a high plane of it at that. I know. I affect u! U me 2. Because I am not sorry. I meant it all and dreamsend that embrace!
Ballerina: Good. You do no wrong
Oh. how happy a thing to say. I am hearing in my head a most beautiful song by Dufay, who wrote it in farewell to the wines and lovers in Lannoy, who he was forced to part from. Do you hear it too? A very loving embrace and here I give to you that.
Ballerina: I cannot hear the song. And your embrace feels solid to you, yet it does not translate on my end. I am insubstantial now, a chimera.
Not as farewell but hello.
And so words come to me that would gently ravish, even if you cannot feel them where you are. My fascination with the unknown bodily you makes me have images of what it must be like and god I want to explore lovingly. Please, honey I would I made you climb out of your body because it would be my present. I want that. Am I too forward?
I rushed ahead and this is all out of respect for your lovely being, your beautiful words that tell me a part of you. Though I am here far away in all ways, I cannot make my totality known all at once, so the words will ever be gently coaxing and never with self-ful manipulation.
Ballerina: It's OK. I cannot feel your touch. I cannot feel love physically but I can take it into my spirit being and I do, Calvin. I do.
It is good. How could it not be? I mean what we discover, and I never would have thought it. In fact if I ever did such things in dreams long ago, I was not happy because I felt ashamed to have such dreams.
We are humans. Or I am. I wonder. Can we love? That is our choice. I wonder your thoughts. I mean only the best and it might be better not to go this direction yet? Can you love me as a spirit?
All my life in my dreams I have loved you. Could that be? What am I saying?
Do you have that feeling in the pit of you by chance? I think I do.
That scares me. I just want to hug. But my hands. They want to touch. Help! How can I?
Ballerina: That is very sweet. I can feel love and I feel that for you. But there can be no consummation. Not now.
I know. I know. I feel something but I know only a little of you. I've never met word perfect deep souldom exactly, not you. I just want you around. I do not want to be an invasive electron microscope. I do not have to have a physicality. But could there ever be?
You are word perfect. I want to install you on my hard drive, or my hard drive is aroused at the words of you. Are you there? Of course. This is so unexpected.
Ballerina: I'm already there. Inside you. I have always been.
God you are. But like what if you are a man? Haha. It is words, woman that I see you. Lovely word-soul woman?
I am just saying how I do not know you in that way of course.
Ballerina: Yes I'm all woman. Very woman. It is all me.
Ah, thank god, because believe me it would be a shock, you know. Haha. So you have all the sweetness of womanhood. It is the soul behind the words. The thing that could be shared.
This person I could take in my arms.
Ballerina: No. Only in your imagination.
And yet clock ticks to an eventual interruption. I am surprised. Are you really the Ballerina, from all this time on has it really been you?
Ballerina: I think I probably am. I am to myself, so to you.
God it IS you. What the hell! Happy. Scared. And you speak after all. I think I can not imagine something more lovely than your image, as indistinct as it is to me. And since we will be interrupted I want you to please reserve a spot. I must go, I feel myself waking up and dawn has shown itself through my bedroom windows. Will I dream of you more, like this? Again?
Ballerina: I shall reserve a spot for you. We will be together again in dreams soon.
Good!! Soon then.
He woke. He gradually forgot the dream completely, except that the Ballerina had come to him.