Awaken The Lord Of The Dance
Prologue
There
used to be a time, the man pacing back and forth in his hotel room in Dublin
thought to himself wryly, when dreams came so easily to him. Ideas and inspiration
pouring into his head like the raindrops that begun hitting his windowpane
just this moment, the sounds echoing softly in his hotel suite. He ran a weary
hand through his blond locks and sighed as he stood before a glass door leading
to the balcony, now getting drenched in the Celtic storm raging outside. His
other hand held a bottle of Guinness, trusty old Irish beer he loved above
all beers he'd tried, and he took one last swallow, feeling the bitter liquid
slide down his throat.
Loosening
his tie that bore a simple pattern of stripes running diagonally over it,
the man turned around to face the living room area that was now in disarray,
chairs strewn about. The conference table in the middle of the room still
bore signs of meetings that had lasted most of the day. He saw the papers
that littered on the tabletop and shook his head, not believing the events
of the past few hours. Not one person had been able to come up with a decent
idea for a show, himself included, and this had already been going on for
over a week and a half. Ever since I got fired, he thought to himself sarcastically,
as he put the bottle of Guinness on the counter and walked over to the conference
area one more time. Heaving a sigh, he settled himself on the executive chair
at the head of the table and leaned back, stretching his arms above his head.
No
one accepts rejection kindly, he thought, not even myself, remembering the
reason for this sudden regrouping of his "troops", the only people
left loyal to him and his ideas. The painful memories of failed contract negotiations
attempted by his attorney and the company's legal staff almost a week and
a half-ago, very public and often scathing at his expense, haunted him each
night. All good things, he thought sarcastically, come to an end, old man.
It
had only been ten days since he was unceremoniously "let go" due
to "creative differences" hours before the second season of the
celebrated show he had choreographed would have raised its curtains with him
as its star once more. What if he had allowed them to have their way? He asked
himself.
He
laughed aloud, his lone voice a reminder how one only has oneself to count
on. The man with the blond locks finally undid the tie that hung around his
neck and tossed it on the table as he unbuttoned his shirt, stopping as his
fingers neared his belt buckle. In the silence, he could hear the rain pouring
outside, creating music in his ears. Nothing unusual in Dublin this time of
year, he thought to himself. Then he sprung up from the chair, as agile and
smooth as a cat, his arms raised above his head, the rain outside the window
still seeming like a symphony of nature to him. His feet began moving swiftly
beneath him, the heel pounding against the carpet almost noiselessly although
in his mind, he could hear the taps reverberating loudly. He slapped his knees
with his hands and then clapped them, as his left knee stepped back and his
right knee bent down, the sound of his movements muffled. Yet the man could
hear the beating of his heart almost deafening in his ears.
He
held the position for almost five seconds, his chest rising and falling gently
as he slowly straightened himself up. His chest was heaving slightly, not
from over-exertion as he worked out each day and had danced most of his life,
but from a realization that he was probably on the brink of a new idea, although
he knew it was something he had always dreamed of as a child, growing up in
Chicago's east side. His eyes gazed absentmindedly past the window of the
hotel room, trying to grasp the idea that had suddenly sprung up as he had
danced, as if trying to chase a bright red balloon recently released from
his grip. Suddenly, it was gone as quickly as it had come to him, as if teasing
him. It was futile. The mental impression he had envisioned in a flurry of
moves vanished in thin air, as if not wanting to be owned just yet.
Shaking
his head almost in disgust, the man shrugged and hunched his shoulders, raising
his fists before him, and threw a punch at an imaginary opponent. Dreamstealer,
he called out to the invisible enemy, as he danced around in a circle, continuing
to throw punches in the air, knowing that sometimes, that enemy was himself.
Ever doubting at his own accomplishments, and often, his own dreams.
A
clap of thunder halted him from his imaginary fight and the man watched a
streak of lightning illuminate the night sky. Well, Mr. Eurovision inter-act,
he said to himself sarcastically, what other bright ideas have ye got up yer
sleeve? Walking towards his closet, the man stripped off his shirt and trousers
and stretched again, bringing his arms behind him, breathing deeply as he
did so. Finally he padded barefoot to the large bed that had recently been
made up and pulling down the covers, slipped his body onto the cool crisp
sheets.
By
his bedside, he could see the call light on the phone flash as another incoming
call had been put through. The assistant should be getting that, he mused,
not even considering picking up the receiver. How many calls from reporters
he had gotten, he could not remember, but he had resolved not to talk to them
as he continued to work on a new idea all his own, done his own way. Yet they
continued to print negative articles about him in the presses and it irked
him. Let them talk, he had told himself many times, I still have a job to
do. If only I knew what it was.
Outside
his window, the Irish storm seemed to get worse, as it always did this time
of year and the man reached over to his bedside table, switching the lamp
off. He waited till his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and watched as
a sliver of moonlight caressed his sheets. A soft rumble from the cloudy sky
outside permeated through his thoughts but he did not seem to mind. Looking
up, he could see the moon peeking through the clouds, its light sending rays
onto his bed and he smiled, tracing one of them with his finger lazily.
Stifling
a yawn, he stretched one more time, his lean body tanned and well proportioned
beneath the sheets. He turned on to his side and watched the sliver of moonlight
on his sheets, as the raindrops against the window created varied shadows
and stencils on the white fabric. Outside he could almost hear the wind whisper
his name and he laughed softly, surprised at his own thoughts. He knew he
was tired, having had no rest for the past nine days, and he could feel it
catching up with him, his body no longer that of a spry 20-year old. Oh, but
still spry indeed, he smiled. He knew it was getting late and he could feel
his eyelids drooping, almost hypnotized by the moonbeams dancing on his bed.
Oh, what dreams may come tonight, he thought to himself as he slowly drifted
off to sleep, I welcome them all.
As
the man slowly welcomed the arms of night to enfold him, the storm raged outside,
sending torrents of rain hammering against his window. Suddenly a faint flash
of light burst itself into thousands of minute stars, like a fireworks display
right outside his window. As the flash subsided, the window emitted a resounding
crack! The fissure began as a faint slim line and it continued to lengthen,
the similar pattern occurring on the separate pane of glass on the inside
of the room.
The
man on the bed turned his body away from the window as sleep finally claimed
him in its folds, enveloping him like a protective mother's arms enclosing
a babe. He dreamt first of dreams once dreamt by a young Chicago native, with
visions of exhilarated dances, a line of dancers forming solidly behind him.
He could hear hundreds of feet tapping in unison to the pounding beat of the
bodhran, his arms held up high in the air, breaking free of tradition, and
finally unleashing pure art all his own.
As
the man heaved a sigh in his sleep, the fissure suddenly widened and with
a loud sound, both windowpanes of his eighteenth floor bedroom broke and a
small crevice appeared. Water begun to pour into the room, sending a thin
film of mist into the recycled air of the hotel room and with its mist, a
shower of stars glittered alongside the bed.
It
continued to travel towards the sleeping form and as a bright burst of lightning
exploded in the sky once more, the shower of stars finally engulfed the man
on the bed. In a blink of an eye, the room flashed bright, then returned to
darkness, the drops of rain against the glass causing an eerie design on the
sheets that now rustled softly, resting against the mattress below it. Where
once there was a man, now there was nothing but dark empty space as the sheets,
pulled by gravity, descended upon the bed and settled softly in disarray,
the shower of starlight disappearing in the darkness.
Please sign the
guestbook!
View Guestbook