Nov 7, 2016
Stop The Groove
Summer … stimulant of the soul … balmy breath of life … energising élan vital of the spirit.
The soporific susurrus of cicadas … the sweet scent of sweat … the pungent perfume evanescing from the beast trucks, the scarecrow looks around him, squinting in the dazzling heat-haze; a riotous return of animals and roustabouts … freaks and faeries … people and …
… things.
The otherworldly walking the Earth, clowns and chimerae caper and cavort … the sacred and the profane in an unseemly, unseelie, dance of succubi and seraphs, daemons and dryads, shaitans and celestial spirits … the impossible incarnate tripping the light fantastic before eyes that, could they but do so, would be brimming with tears — though whether from joy, terror, or simply a combination of violently displaced dust and the all but blinding blaze of the sun he couldn’t have said.
Intoxicated by the insurgent commotion, were he but capable, he would be holding his breath … as much in elation as in enervation; the circus has arrived — as he knew it would.
And, with it … for one night only … something else: a night of improbable possibilities — one night only on which those who dare do more than dream might reach out and pluck, from the ether of impossible probability, desires both lucent and lurid.
Tremendous tents pitched in a turbulence of productivity, curious and captivating creatures quickly coralled … the circus seemingly rises out of nothing and nowhere in a tumultuous flurry.
Dawn will come all too soon, breaking the spell, and there isn’t a moment to waste.
No time to be shellshocked.
Let’s move those feet.
