She Moves Me and the Universe

I am steel on a red still chair I breathe, anchored in this moment, at this point in space – my Reference Point- waiting for a promise to carry me away from myself.

The singer’s voice weaves and waves air into sounds. She is followed by the strings of a oud and a sitar. A new instrument shaped of flesh and bones enters the fray. She wears a crown of air and slides through with regal posture. Her flowing steps crack the floor sending tremors of expectations.

The strings call deep for a chime within. The singer follows pushing the call deeper. The dancer lends her body to give shape to harmonies. She is incarnation, sounds and silences ripple in her muscles and bones.

Her name is Ella, an other, a stranger, a goddess even, that’s what I heard.

Her body is freedom earned like all freedoms from hard struggles. Wrestled through the constraints of practice where one discovers the self that lies beneath the flesh beyond the self.

Her body expands rhythms, giving form to the air compressed by the other instruments. Her shoulder blades meet in a silent clang, and they cut the illusion of the world’s stillness in a disjointed narrative arc, running from wrists to elbows to shoulders to neck to ribs to hips to knees to ankles and back again. For she moves as it moves, and we are moved.

She flows in chaos, shaping sounds into body. She strikes muscles knotted notes. I am pulled and pushed, floating in the moment, the sea of my emotions stirred. The wind of their sounds raises waves of feelings. In the ever-moving present, I am movement contained.

My blood ebbs and flows. It runs through the maze of my veins for a way out and breaks against the cliffs of my ribs, floods my heart in red. Unbidden, the breaking waves well up high and spill in tears.

I am moved.

A chaos within woken from its slumber, it remembers. It is part of a part of greater parts. She spins and spins her honed weapon and shreds the veils. She carries movements from beyond inertia of uniform motion.

Life in movement, stillness in death. Life is movement, stillness is death.

Now I see. Beyond Reference Point, sitting in a referential hiding the absolute.
We are in immovable earthly spins, in galactic spins around a black hole. In these compounded rotations we fall at two hundred and twenty-eight kilometers per seconds in a still-life illusion.

Everything moves.

She sang in me, breathing air in my heart. She moved the waters of my inner sea. The music stops. She walks away. I replay the echo of her poem.