Baroque Style of Writing
A prose writing style that is "ornamented, containing lots of adjectives and adverbs, subordinate clauses, and details that pile up." ~ Margaret Atchwood (author of The Handmaid's Tale) in her MasterClass
Sweat drips off their slithering, slinky bodies in droves. Some dance clothed with barely the skin on their bodies, mesmerizing you with the beauty of the human form. Some dance with sensual, flowing fabric enticing you to watch beyond the movement of their hard outline and into the shapes they materialize through their graceful movements. Others came with their yoga or running gear adorning their frames, becoming the foundation of the picture to hold the rest of it together.
While some were graceful, sensual, moving in time to the beat, a feast of a delightful chorus to the senses - others must have heard it all differently.
Yet...yet the collective vision was a room pulsing together as One. One Body. Many parts, each distinguishable if you aimed your eyes just right. Or zoom out and view the Whole ocean.
A primal beat throbs instinctively deep within the confines of this Body. Permeating something beyond the soul, visible as the collective sways hither and thither. Seagrass dancing elegantly, suspended dreamlike in the slow motion waves all around it. The waves of energy visible if you look close enough from this distance.
Eyes closed, inhaling deeply ignites even more ancient memories. Fires. Orgasmic rituals of long forgotten bliss. Sweet smelling bodies ravished by the delight of drums beat, beat, beating with hips swaying, pumping, awakening.
A sense of ordered chaos envelopes the room. Souls dancing as free as raven’s soaring. Each on their own path, gliding past one another bewitchingly. Sometimes meeting mid-flight - turning, twisting, diving soaring two as one. Yet never, ever did they just collide mid-air, sending them plummeting to the ground below. Near misses led to beautiful catches, using the fall as part of the gracious dance they embody so you would never know they had not meant what you observe.
Then there are the doves that draw each other in, magnetizing themselves to the impulse of the other via the unseen beat that drives the room. Usually in pairs. Sometimes in triplets. Rarely, but occasionally in flocks. Each movement a simple offering of their truest heart, laid bare before their fellow playmate to take and do with as they wish. An alternating vision of two becoming one and one birthing into two. Watching as the vision of this kaleidoscope they are, that they are turning for you, ebbs and flows into the most alluring glimpses of what is possible in this body, when barriers are relinquished and wings are unclipped.
The doves then become frolicking lion cubs - friskily egging, teasing, clawing at their opponent - waiting to see how the other responds. Squating on their haunches, ready to prance, bounding forth, rolling over and over one another in a mixture of playful anger and sexual hunger. Though you cannot be too sure which one is which as the primalness of the play speaks to yet another memory of the near ancient past where this was not only the accepted romp between souls - it was the encouraged, the expected, the needed-to-be-expressed sport.
In the midst of all of this was a visible invisible man, standing behind a glowing screen off to the side over there, orchestrating the pulsation of this room with the waving of his arms in rhythm to the energy vibrating the Body. Or perhaps the Body was orchestrating him. At times, he steps out from behind his altar of the glowing screen, moving charmingly with dancing ravens and doves, sometimes joining in, enjoying a fromp. At other times, he removes himself back to his station, adorning ear muffs that had him moving to another beat all together. Then, then a SMALL Cheshire Cat grin breaking out all over, like he was hiding a secret he was about to reveal.
Three. Two….
The beat drops and the souls fly...
Compare to the Plainsong (no thrills, bells or whistles style) here.
