The Mystic Vagabond
Beauty is all around you. All you have to do is, turn around.
A Tribute To All Writers And To Those Who Inspire Them.
So, why did you become a writer?
I was five years old when I first invoked the Moon Goddess. I wasn’t a High Priestess, and Wicca was a foreign word to me. I was just a kid, taking a midnight stroll around the neighborhood with my mother.
We did that often when my father was home, screaming out in pain, and waiting for the Nyquil to take effect. Back then, the doctors sent cancer patients home to die with no more than an over-the-counter drug to deal with the physical discomfort. That night, like many nights before it, we walked.
The usual crowd was gathered around Dominick’s Social Club. There were men playing dominoes and cards, challenging anyone to a game, as a young group of women, watching them, were drinking gin and tonics. I could see the Go-Go dancers, on stage, every time the door opened and closed, while a yokel was trying his hand at clever lyrics and catchy tunes on an acoustic guitar.
I loved the fast paced action of the nights and the way my mother’s soft hands held mine in the sense against calamity. The rendezvous were always the same but, this night, things were different. Solemnity was whirling around in the gutters of casual litter and I loved the darker iridescences, the moments of just being.
It was then that the eye of a vagabond caught my smile. He spoke some poetic gibberish about a lover’s sighs for accessible bliss, and the spirit’s vulnerability when it stands before an inflexible.
My mother compared him to an idiot, minstrelling without bells, but there was something about his face. One sole face at night is an inconsistent thing, like a photograph of fate, one voice repeating, one tireless chorister, in the luster of a full moon.
“A stone never changes,” he concluded.
And with that prophecy everything around me seemed to magnify. There was an odour evoking orchids and, when I looked at the moon, it had a peculiar, purple, luminous, fluttering mist, like a momentary color, where essences were changing. A cool wind was blowing, swirling about with motion and force.
I was drawn to the freshness of the moon, the freshness I found within myself.
It wasn’t a transformation. It was a moment of heightened rational reasoning and knowledge, where the cool air passed into harmonious heat. My ears popped and I remember my head turning, my eyes searching the mystic vagabond out, only to find him gone.
We reason these things out later in life … the words spoken, the voices in our head … but beneath, far underneath the surface, our souls know that the nothingness has a point, and it is not beyond the process of thought, but it is a choice. Time comes and goes with silence, solemn sentences, and interior monologues.
I am now the poet, searching for other naked beings with a free spirit that will ride the cosmos with me. Our voices born from the body of the world!
Key To Eternity Wall, Josephine
Buy at AllPosters.com
Recent Comments