The party was starting to drag. The problem, quite simply, was that none of the boys could dance. The girls all could, sure, but that's always the case, and the girls who never could looked good faking it. Party hosts Bill and Lil danced obligatorily - but it was the female of the two who had taught the left-footed oaf all he knew. Sally, Malli, Molly and Dolly, lovely and single, wheeled the beats with each other, moving in dazzles of rhythmic rotation, pausing for occasional deep kisses that caught the boys' attention as they sat like flesh-eating wallflowers, backs hugging the wall, feet planted in a stew of yearnful frustration.

This described the general scene at Lil's and Bill's parties, but tonight would be different. At midnight Lil brought out her surprise, a secret weapon she had trained intensively in numerous nighttime sessions while Bill worked late at the office. Her secret appeared at the door, looking quite germane and urbane in the hand-tailored, long-sleeved apparel she'd knitted, and as all eyes perceived, it was a real, live octopus twirling it's way into the room. He danced with Sally, Malli, Molly and Dolly, all four at once. Afterwards, when the lights turned low, he disappeared with his partners, silently, discreetly, but one at a time. Everyone was happy - except the boys, whose arms hung limp and motionless by their sides.

Story #393

- I walk along a corridor. Girls are seated on a bench to my right. They are all pretty, clothed in varied tones and cuts of black material. I glance at the faces and forms as I walk by. I join with them mentally, bathing at once in the wild mixture of curiosity and skepticism their eyes betray. I desire them. Each of them. Sometimes the face is partially covered, a dark scarf concealing the mysteries beneath. Lovely banditas. The wall behind is lined with photographs and posters - an occasional face there reminds me of one I saw perhaps thirty seconds ago, but when I return the way I came, I cannot find who it might have been. So I move forwards along the wall of femininity that tempts me with each and every facet of color, form and expression. I attempt to speak to one, than another of the girls. Variations of "Where is this place?" or "Wasn't that you in the photograph I just saw?" Eyes turn upwards to view me. I feel them study me with interest, but the reply is another language whose syllables I cannot decipher, and there is no revelation in the girl's features as to what my questions mean to her. So I continue. Walking. Walking. Walking.

- Describe the corridor.

- It is a corridor without end. Or maybe this is an illusion created by a slight lengthwise convexity of the inner wall, matched by an equal concavity in the outer wall. But if that is so, the walls curve as the surface of the Earth curves, so minutely and negligibly, that it is impossible to perceive. It might be a corridor along a ring of Saturn. But all this remains a vague nuance. It is the girls who command my attention.

- Now I want you to concentrate. To think. This next question is vitally important. Let us say there are four phenomena of the mind. Four categories, antiseptically distinct. There are real perceptions. There are hallucinations. There are daydreams; and finally there are dreams of sleep, perhaps even nightmares. Each of these mind-events leaves indelible traces: memories, the documents we turn over in our hands later and examine front to back for details determined by the intensity of the phenomenon. Look closely at that document you hold now and trace its lineage to the source.

- It's no use. I've tried again and again but I can't. I am terrified that this memory lives, and that I cannot determine its origin. I close my eyes to conjure it forth again. I search for the slightest clue. I dream the memory at night and approach one of the girls to ask if she is an hallucination. But her reply is as meaningless as in the memory.

- Still I feel that we are much nearer now to the truth. But I'm afraid the time is up. We must end the session for today. You will think of these questions, won't you? And we'll continue again next time?

- Yes. I will. We will.

She rose from the plush leather couch that had embraced her form. The therapist watched her. She might be 15. She might be 20, or even 25. Oh to have lain on that couch with her, he thought, instead of this mere exchange of words! He gave a noncommittal glance as she moved towards the door, opened it, and vanished from his sight into the hall. But she did not cease to exist. She scanned the corridor from left to right in search of a vacant place to sit. But each spot on the bench was occupied by a girl she had never seen before. From behind the door the therapist's voice called a name she did not recognize. One of the girls on the bench rose and entered the chamber, leaving a vacant seat behind her.

Story #392

Thanks to everyone who posted a story, despite my having been away so long!

Story Interlude - Thinking

Jess at Just a Touch of Sweetness made my month by nominating me for a Thinking Blogger Award. (No, that's not her picture, but I thought it went well with the idea). If you haven't read Jess you really should. She writes with charm, wit, humor and sexiness that keeps you wanting more. When I read her, I wish it had been Georgia I'd moved to way back when and not Germany. I'd really like to meet her.

So I am going to give my own Thinking Blogger nominations - which requires a lot of thought and I'm not really as good at it as Jess thinks. First off, here are the rules:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
3. Optional: Proudly display the Thinking Blogger Award

My nominations:

1. Princess Haiku's blog is a "literary collage of poetry, prose, photography, classical music, dance and book reviews, written in the tradition of a poetic memoir," as she puts it. The individual collage she presents is the most cultured and has the most depth of any I've seen in the Internet. Intelligently done, a fine balance of video, photography, design and content. Princess Haiku was a shoe-in for this nomination.

2. Colored Clouds has a blog entitled "Creations of Another Nature". Each of her posts is an invitation to reflect, to stop and think about the world around us and feelings we have. The posts are interwoven with her impeccable photography: sight and thought combined. There's a sense of peace and serenity in all of her posts. I always enjoy stopping by there.

3. Ellen at Soulkin is as rare as a speck of amber on a beach of gray sand. There is something divine about the way she writes. The positive outlook and the subtle insights make each post worth its weight (and wait) in gold. I wish she were more prolific, but the quality of her posts makes up for the quantity. If you are ever having a bad day, read a page of her archives and I guarantee you will feel better.

4. Frances Bo Bancess has a wonderful site documenting her thoughts, impressions and vignettes of imagination. Hers was one of the first blogs I ever linked to, and I'm glad I did. It was a long time before I knew her age, and I was surprised when I found out. She is wise far beyond that superficial number.

5. Cooper: Not only is Cooper a Thinking Blogger, she is also our conscience. She sees directly through the bullshit going on in our society and in our world, and with a few clear cut thoughts, chops it into mincemeat. There's greatness at Cooper's, and I predict it's only just begun.

"I've known you all my life," the girl declared into the Sun, a meaningful smile glazing the words. Her sentiments rose like steaming vapor into the air and melted in the sunlight. The Sun was strangely intense in the last minutes before the dusk, but heard, nevertheless.

"And so many have forgotten," the Sun whispered with words that glowed warmth onto her legs, tanning them instantly. There wasn't often time to converse. The massive sphere went about a "daily" routine, spewing rays into infinity, while the globes of the Universal realm orbited and spun perpetually, hoping to catch the emanating breaths with every aspect of their geographical contours.

She continued her adoring smile straight into the glowing body with eyes immune to the intense glare: "I will not forget."

"You are worthy to be cherished," the Sun breathed in response with sizzling licks that felt grand on her bare limbs.

In the early days of human existence the Sun was all-encompassing. It was God and Goddess alike. Before the dawn of language its daily journey was the one expression that all understood. Universal and Archetypal. But now? Demysticized century after century, and finally with the arrival of technology, the Sun felt impotent and eclipsed. There was so much more to compete with - Internet - Playstations - Reality Shows. No one cared about a burning orb crossing the heavens from an Eastern point in the horizon to some obscure destination in the West. The daytime omnipresence no longer overwhelmed, was no longer a part of primal perception.

She read these thoughts in the waning rays cast upon her. "I will change all that," she stated boldly, above her ability to know how stunning her presence would be when she left that hidden alcove of the long-distance bus that carried her. The holy tan of her skin and the Sun-like glow of her disposition would charm those who had forsaken the memory of Ra, of Helios, of Amaterasu, and all the other names of Sol.

"Yes you will, my child," spoke the Sun while the land beneath slipped away into the jurisdiction and influence of the Nocturnal. "You are my offspring, and I give you the night!" And then the Sun was gone. A fading glow lingered on the Western horizon, the Sun still trying to meet her eyes. The bus, her birthplace into instant womanhood, vanished into the night, ever closer to its destination.

Story #391

This photo appears with kind permission from Myca Angel, a fotolog.com user in Chile, with two very [lovely] [pages] of photography accompanied by her passionate texts written in Spanish. Anyone who would like is invited to contribute a spontaneous story inspired by the above image.

Here is another story written to a photo by Myca Angel: Story #400.