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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
Poster
Wall, Josephine
Buy at AllPosters.com
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