Elastic Mind Adventures: vibrations and groovy ways

Our travels today have taken us to a yet new village of gypsies and fairies all tucked away into a tavern on the raod. A tavern it would be had we been travelers of yore, yet as it is not to be this place is a hostel. We are long on the road and the warm inviting atmosphere beckons us in. This home come travelers haven, is wrapped in warm fabric outlined with antique wood, gone amber from years of age. Upon the floors lay rugs of every esthetic with chairs and couches as comfortable as your mothers womb. All this was lit in the amber glow of dimmed lights, just so you could make out the figures moving about, but no so to discern any particular mark upon them. It was as if a gauze hung in the air soaking the light in a dream come to life. The whispers and soft movements calmed my senses and I descended into one of the awaiting chairs. It cradled my body and the warm heat of this place slowed my heart. I watched the non-descript forms move about, their voices slurred together, my attention was elsewhere. Yet as I allowed myself to direct my attention to them, I was moved by the words that were spoken, and my mind became buffeted as if by the waves of this tumultuous coast. I heard talk of vibrations, of oras and magical spells, all floating about in the obfuscating haze of a certain dis-cognition of reality. They spoke in long notes, allowing them to fade in song to fill the silence between them as if they were filing the cracks in a wall with words, so as not to let the truth escape. All are full of smiles and laughter boiling over in a cauldron of children's dreams, spilling on the floor under the black wood burring stove. As I sit and listen to this dissident chatter, I am taken back by my distance from them; I am among these people and I palaver and smile among these people, but am I one of them?. It would appear that I am in the house of misfits of society, where all who do not fit, or came with broken parts sojourn to mingle. You see that one has a broken horn and there over there, its eyes are in backward. I look inward to the mirror of my own mind, to see myself to examine myself, to find what part of me must be broken or set at an odd angle. Yet from those waters of reflection only a perfect representation is ever to be seen, there is a trick in that, you can never see the true you.

There is a hidden story behind every word.

One man, with eyes sunken and cheeks protruding prefaced by the pungent smell of many days on the road, stands in the kitchen. As I make my dinner silently making much haste, he proclaims in whispers with his own small yet kind voice the bitter fact that he has just rode 10 miles with a flat tire. Can that really be? He then chatters on of animals, his concern is animal life and the danger it might inflict upon him, above all else. Yet he travels from the north to the south then off across the the continent, has he nothing else to fear? A monkey perhaps? So on again, his queries are almost all on the animal life and the harm it might inflict upon him in his journeys. He goes with the boldness of ten men yet concerns himself of snakes and sacred puma attacks in the night. It is just then that I notice all others have left and it is just me and him, he has been here before I arrived and stands there with no reason, holding nothing up and holding nothing down. A cat waiting outside from whatever may be thrown its way, he waits for any scraps that may be left from the plates that runithover. I slide the plate his way and he accepts.