She Walks Alone
-for Marta
"Don't tell me about what Im doing-I don't want to know"-Fellini

Winds passing through the sagebrush. Sands that empty into banks of nothing.
Amid the whitewashed stone we overlook, a singular figure sounds a clarion call to splendor that only she can see and sense. She stands, as she did as a child, in the corner of her room in the village. It is there that she dreams. She sees the world, not as it is, fixed with noise and contempt, vacant sounds of man made aggression. She sees the world as it could be, if only one could simply extend their hands to the skies above declaring belief.

She answers the call of the muses,who moving graciously before her, tuning thier lyres and plucking thier harps." You are meant for majesty. In your life, you will defy expectation. You will entertain royalty.You will achieve sublimation.  Your hands outstretched will carve a world of kings and princes, harlequins and knights, saints and sinners, revelers and royalty. They will ascend the one after the other, coming in chorus to greet you in a world you alone will fashion." She awakes- it is not a vanity.

Amid the bleaken outpost,thoughts roiling in her mind she comes to a crossroads, for these are where stories begin.  
"When in danger, when in doubt, when in despair-seek out Death"

She spies a building painted ivory, and glances within. Nothing is to be seen. Neither scrapes nor sounds nor winds heard nor whistles whisping. There is but the dust of time and ware. A nothing place where no vines will climb nor flowers bloom. She hears a voice about her. A summoning. A call to greatness.

 

"I offer you life".

She makes the world that is her own. She is adored. She is condemned. She is misconstrued. Yet with hands outstretched, with ribbons tied, she moves ceaselessly through a hundred positions. She moves through a thousand worlds.She moves through painted veils. She wanders the sagebrush path, silken shoes tied fast, on parade,donning a thousand costumes. Magician. Princess. Knave. Gossip. Idol. Vixion. Harlot. Gypsy. Queen. Virgin. Saint.

The people that come to call are taken with her world, and in this she bids them gracious entry-striking passion in even the doughtiest soul. Yet this is one that is but her own. No Calvary can take it. No army can penetrate it. Nor sun can beat it.It will not be tamed. For this dance is hers to claim.

Some nights, amidst the stars, wrapped in wonder, she glimpses the sky the above-the most wondrous theater of all. She ponders how the moon glows is so like Egyptian silk. How  O Ryans belt dances through the heavens, how the celestial opera is beyond any sable brush. She dreams of capturing its splendor, as she has captured so much before. In this, the painted revelers nod in approval, applauding for their maker. To her,they cry, as she returns. To a realm a dance without pain nor strife. She is blessed. Gliding ever moving. She which gave us life.

Marta. We are here. Marta. Welcome home. Marta, the artist of the sands. Marta. The angels of valley of the sun. Return now , come on dreaming girl. Come and on there's much to see.

Shes ascended to the skies now. The dancing girl.

 

Who saw things not as they were-but what they could truly be.