An artist by nature, and a writer at heart I’ve always considered myself somewhat of a gypsy: a free spirit and sometimes restless soul that walks here upon the face of this little blue planet, always looking for the story -- always listening for that music; that beautiful music of people and tradition: culture and community. Getting swept up in the chaos of this life is too easy, but when you take away that constant noise and distraction suddenly the world falls away, leaving nothing: just our pack, gathered around a fire throwing shimmering ember stars into the ink stained night sky while the heartbeat of the drum carries the sounds of music and voices telling stories far into the old forests: the wild woods. I’ve danced with gypsies under stars, and with witches under moons: I’ve danced with the pureblood of Appalachia running thru my veins and carrying my spirit forward into a world where nothing is overlooked, and everything -- no matter how small a measure -- can truly be appreciated. And what runs common thru us all? A vibration and note: the song of a voice that comes from nowhere, but exists in every corner of this finite universe: shaking away the dredges of sadness and pain, and calling to burst open the heart of every human animal that is willing to listen so once again we can, in peace, sit around the fire and look up to that big open field scattered with stars and cloud. Hold my hand my brothers and sisters: the fire will burn bright, and the stories will never end.

"Oh, fuck. Here we go again."

It’s early still; only half past three in the morning, and while the world around me is fast asleep -- dreaming of the places seemingly just beyond their reach -- this place that I’m in always seems to be awake and alive with vibrant movement and constant motion.

I’ve been here before, and I’ve been here a while: long enough to have finished reading two novels, a trashy magazine I found sitting underneath the bench in front of me (the articles weren’t bad, though; the nude women were a little too distracting for me to fully appreciate the writing), and catch up with Jackie -- the stout man who always seems to be the one handing me my golden tickets from behind the glass.

With a Cheshire cat grin and a gleam in his eyes that never seems to go away -- even when outside on this cold night in Greensboro, North Carolina -- Jackie’s always interested in where I’m off to: fascinated by the long haired boy that has passed thru this train station so often over the years it feels more like a well-lit home than a train depot.

Still, tonight is no different; and as we stand bundled outside his rolled cigarette burns as brightly as his eyes and my cloves disappear with each new story that gets tossed around. Then suddenly, while in mid-sentence of talking about missing nights and new found sun rises he stops, looks up and then reaches into his chest pocket and fishes out a small silver watch hanging on an antique chain: a gift from his great grandfather who had been among the first conductors of the trains here in this country.

He let out a little snort, then spun around and simply grinning said, “You’d best be grabbin’ yer shit: yer train’s almost in.” With that basic statement still echoing in my mind the Carolina Crescent blows its whistle, and I stand on the open platform -- the cold night air brushing my hair back and blowing my coat: downtown Greensboro, beautiful and brightly shimmering, standing tall in front of me; stands completely still with the exception of a rustling flag here or there.

The train screeches to a halt before me (the number 34 again), I hear “All aboard,” and with one final glace at my home disappearing fast behind me, behind the open platform where I see a shadow of myself looking straight at me and nodding; I heave a deep sigh, smile, and fall asleep on the midnight train to anywhere.

(January 2008)

LVNMUZIQ @ Outspoken

posted February 2nd at 5:09pm

Really, if you get a chance to see this artist live it's worth it's weight ten-fold!! Thanks, Liz!!