Excerpt from Chapter 7 of Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman
In Search of the Beloved
Brightly colored veils were a blur, or was it my vision that was smudged by a rush of transcendent desire, elation elicited by this encounter sublime? Entranced by rhythmic motions conveying transcendent love stories and mystical secrets superlative, beautiful bare belly and swaying hips expressing movements and vibrations as ancient as the first pangs of desire, those most primal longings that bring forth and maintain existence itself. Shakti.
I remember rich purple, shimmering gold and soft pink—though I could be mistaken regarding the precise shades. I remember beautiful dark locks of hair flowing like a night waterfall under an ocher moon, wistful brown eyes and sparkling visage expressing emotion in certain time with body’s certain movements, facial expression matching mood and motion, and breasts and belly and buttocks swaying and trembling so perfectly timed to the smallest increments of the drum’s beat.
Every muscle and curve and strand of hair and cloth and step and even breath seemed to move in such idyllic synchrony as one would expect only of a dream or psychedelic hallucination or Hollywood special effect. And her laughter! Her lovely laughter fell upon my ears like the peal of the perfectly tuned bells of an Himalayan shrine, like the sound of a mountain waterfall echoing off canyon walls, like the song of a spring breeze blowing o’er bright green spring leaves and bearing the scent of jasmine or lilac or apple blossoms, as melodic and genuine and pure as laughter can be. She seemed unreal, beyond mortal, a Goddess, unapproachable, unavailable, and it seems, unforgettable.