flamenco.

I saw a flamenco dancer perform at lunchtime today on the Embarcadero. I'm not sure what it was for, or what troupe she was a part of, but it was amazing.

I've seen flamenco before when I was younger, back in San Diego, but it must've been at least 8 years since then. Dance is one of those things, where you forget what it looks like if you don't see it. You can't imagine, reconstruct a dance in your head, no matter what. Even now, I'm forgetting what it looked like.

I just know it was incredible. I remember her skirts: deep lurid red, and the sleek sheathe above that. And castanets in her hand, just one of them, and the startling rattlesnake sound they made when she snapped them and moved. And her poise - that highborn look, you know what I mean - chin up, back straight, arms held motionless, waiting for the music. Waiting to move.

And when she did move - I can't describe the dance. It wouldn't do it justice. There was a crowd around her (there are always crowds around street performers), and she was so sleek and muscular. And I don't mean bulging with muscle; I mean muscular the way anacondas and pythons are, that sort of arched strength that you can feel and see in the whiplash motions and the sinuosity of the body and arms. It was like she had no bones, and was sinew and lean muscle all the way through. Not liquid, no - flexed. The curve of her torso; the pull of her arms like some raptor's wings; the grace and strength of her legs, the two forming one shape; the shape of her neck and her fingers.

Understand, this dancer's face was not beautiful in the classic sense of the word. Handsome, perhaps, a little noble. She was tall, with black hair pulled into a tight bun. She had high sharp cheekbones and a long Roman nose, thick black eyebrows and a sultry mouth that pulled down at the corners as though she was displeased, or even a little cruel. But she was beautiful, maybe because she was dancing to set something on fire; maybe because she was so damned confident of her dance, and her eyes which flashed at those watching her, and her castanets that snapped like scorpions' claws. Watching, I thought of bows pulled taut; weasels, whips and vipers; thorned blood-red roses, the blooming queen of flowers.