performance art and haircuts

about noon i woke up shaking off the last moments of my last dream. i was back in my home town at a local arts auditorium/gymnasium. don't know why, just >poof< and i was there. the performance contained some well-sculpted student athletes or artist types. difficult to tell how old anybody was - including the me that was implied in the dream.

there was a particular performer i noticed down there on the court. see, all the seats were above, as with all small towering stadiums. the stage was a court, with mattresses or inflatable barriers for the performers to rebound and ricochet offa when they flew into it or were tossed or body slammed into it by other performers. it hit me all of a sudden that these performers, mostly men, were wearing basketball warmups and jerseys. there were even some basketballs floating from hand to hand, under legs and around backs as dancers pivoted, slid, high jumped and flew over each other. think globetrotters meet martha graham.

it was choreographed, but not. it was messy but beautiful. it was violent but elegant. one guy, the one i had been watching got bumped out of center court where he was holding court. he slammed into the bumper padding and grabbed his shoulder, grimaced. his cornrows barely moved but he was shaking off the shock to his system. or was he acting? one of his mates, glistening white, looked back worried for a second. or was he acting? the scene was turning into something from Rollerball (remember that movie with james caan? a guy ends up a vegetable in the end). before all hell broke loose the whistle blew. half-time. nobody seemed too bad off. the dancers slinked off stage and headed to the locker rooms for their pep talk.

i waited in the lobby so i could stretch my legs. a woman, tall and slinky with sexy nappy hair stuck very close to her head struck up a conversation. i agreed that yes, exhilirating athleticism, yes a suprise to see art mimic b-ball, yes they sure can fly. jordan, nureyev, baryshnikov's got nothin on them.

the performer i'd been eyeing came out from behind the locker room door marked M-E-N and stood close to her, his head bowed into hers. she introduced us. his black skin glistened. the bleach white towel slung around his neck stayed dry. will you be here for a while? he asked me. depends, i said, feeling myself blush. i'm getting my hair cut, you may not recognize me later, i said. oh, in that case, he responded, i may not be around later. he smiled, flirtatious.

he disappeared again behind the locker room door. the woman -- she seemed to me now his sister -- called quietly to him in her husky honeysuckled way. the door stayed closed. she raised an apologetic eyebrow. he was born in a barn, she said. then she smiled, flirting. her teeth were big. flourescent light shining out of the ceiling grates glinted off them. then i woke up.

i said, hey vin. you wake? can i tell you my dream? sure, he said. and i did. and he said, see honey. it's a sign. you don't really want short hair again.

see, i was thinking after my hair cut i'd like to see some ballet - or a pistons versus san antonio game.

funny, until today i had always maintained that i disliked basketball. huh. goes to show what i know.