“When you arrive at the extinction of reality
there is nothing but the spontaneity of pure potential,
there is no other way to dance in the sky.”
~Khandroma Yeshe Tsogyel
The Compassionate One appears in form to initiate that Dance of Love which liberates all squealing, wriggling beings — already suspecting that there are no such entities, nor any humorous yet incomprehensibly complex while simultaneously empty-of-any-meaning-type objects existing or not, not even giving it a second thought!
There’s nothing to be freed or finagled if truth be told – just some interdependent bundles of notions and memories, all gaily posing as perpetually modifying interpretations on perception, and all poignantly strung together like provocatively incandescent costumes along a frayed imaginary clothesline called “I”.
As for the ghost of the host at the source of this toast: there’s a punch-line drunks are fond of employing to hike themselves up when the richer-souled Grand Crus from the library of unresolved desires threaten their transient sobriety with beguiling conceptual designations. At such a momentous juncture in the coincidence of time and tomfoolery, an explanation might seem in order, an explanation that nevertheless will remain forever forthcoming, without ever actually arriving.
Otherwise, live and let live, or relax and be lived — really, it’s why most folk prefer the day. In the daydream, the light seems clear, lawful and expeditious, yet squirming in the burgundy velvet sleeve of night, no one is quite so sure. In the dark, things filed as figured-out may become more subtly intriguing yet, more mysterious and perhaps . . . confounding:
the calculated formula suddenly eluding its validity, the orderly procession of distracting images creeping to a stand-still, a weakness in the knees of chance, an opportunity for physical uncertainty to express itself as cerebral-spinal fluid, luminous as a lava lamp, those lazy lit bubbles of itself slowly floating to the surface like a ceremony of angler fish gracefully exceeding their warranty, their subliminal caresses waking sleepers in diaphanous water worlds we have no names for, nor forwarding address for that thing we sense but can’t say, because to do so would only add something superfluous to this moment, even now slipping quietly off the page, out the door, and on to that Tango Party at the Brut Noir Ballroom of Melodious Extinction!
Tonight it’s a dance of lyrical tantra — life caressed to mad and moody melody in the footsteps of the Compassionate One, carved in stop-action feint of yin/yang lovers’ embrace, Sistine Chapel’s touched fingers slinking slyly down the ceiling sides, calling seduction’s bluff, perfuming the glides and small quick steps, slides, the guise, where love plays hide and seek with itself:
sleek combed hair, a sneer, the faux leer of passionate indifference spiraling to a clipped closed flair, a promenade, the sudden clutch and wheel into an open whirl-away, a spot lunge, the counting, flames mounting, opposites dissolving in one shuddering glance, entranced, irresistible advance, bon chance, hot crush become intoxicating swoon, not even any dancers, only dancing in a moon’s romance with night, the Compassionate One, and all of us just dancing, dancing, dancing for dear life!