Dancer at a Desk pt.2

Like most artists, I’m a dreamer.

I have a colorful imagination and a tendency to drift off to the fantasy world I’ve created in my mind where all things are possible and there is no such thing as a double-screened computer and keyboard taking up space.

I visit this space often. I go there when I’m washing dishes, and especially when I’m in the bath. Something about the water transports me to places I’m meant to be.

(I am a Pisces)

I go there sometimes when I’m driving long distances and the song that I’m playing on the radio is one that is meant for movement. Auto-pilot takes control and I immediately begin visualizing all the parts, levels, transitions necessary for a three-minute-long piece.

Sometimes this occurs on my way to go teach said three-minute-long piece.

What can I say? My best work is done in a pinch.

On a day to day basis, I think about all of the creations I’ve yet to materialize and try my best to make a plan for them to leave the confines of my brain matter and enter reality.

Except planning doesn’t happen much in my fantasy world, because it’s not fun.

Or my idea of fun, anyway.

My fantasy world mainly consists of concept ideas and bright light bulbs with music notes floating around. It has decked out stages I’ve imagined and dancers I’ve never met all in formation ready to perform my choreography.

I pull material from this imaginary world of mine as often as I’m allotted, and I delight in the moments that I’m granted the freedom to do so.

I’ll set the scene; we're on a fully-lit circular platform stage with a live band set up in the center. Long, narrow pathways branching from the center like the sun itself. This is where the dancers will make their presence known, ripping and rocking the runway while the band flares to life, sending waves of pulsing rhythm through their feet. The dancers weave through one another like gazelles, practically floating, and giving the audience nothing but the fiercest energy they contain.

And then it happens.

Drama.

The stage rocks, the lights become dull and my intricate choreography dissipates right before my very third eye.

The ringing telephone [made in the year 1984] reels me into focus with the present day. I am now obligated to find an attorney that dealt with a foreclosure four years ago before the frustrated client on the telephone reaps hell upon me.

I’m contacting every attorney and assistant that best fits the description to try to locate the answer to the problem presented before me. Easy enough work, until the client demands more information that I quite obviously cannot give them.

“I’m sorry, but I have no knowledge or authority over the cases the attorneys in our office deal with.” - I say.

.. Some yelling, more demanding, and added explanations about how they are so exasperated with this process.

“I am sorry this has been so difficult for you, I understand. However, I am just the receptionist and all I can legally do is transfer you to the voicemail of the attorney you are working with.”

..More yelling, more demanding, then [at last] disgruntled acceptance is the final emotion.

Now, I don’t take any of the conversations I encounter at work personally. I know that I have nothing to do with the frustrations of either party and I am simply the messenger.

But they did disrupt my rock-star creative directing daydream and I have completely forgotten all of the intricate choreography my brain thought up in the moment of inspiration.

I think, “Maybe it will come back to me?” and as I leave work and turn up the tunes in my car I am transported to a new venue, new lights, new dancers and all new choreography.

The cycle continues.