The art of staying one step behind

So many memories. They seem to be the only real tender of my life. One night in Asheville North Carolina, I was taught a lesson on how being a step behind isn’t always that bad. A dark dance. Vampires and warlocks converged upon an old hotel in the middle of town to throw a rave. Pale white faces and obsidian cloths marked the trend for this occasion. I being I wore nothing but white. I hate trends, they are the very antithesis of creative power. The feeling inside was one of destruction. These inept devils thought they could disrupt orderly force by joining their energy in dance. Although I understood their displeasure with the current political atmosphere, it was the time when America invaded Iraq, I felt destruction to combat destruction was nonsense. So I danced. In many ways I am a Sufi poet of old. I spin and in my cyclone, my will, my energy, is thrown off. I am an electro magnetic plant of peace preserving powers, although my detractors would say I only cause more strife by instilling descent upon their objective. I twirl and weave in serpentine motions using chaos to reestablish order. The vampires in that room both hated me for what I stood for and loved me for the shear magnitude of my force. Power is an addiction for them even if it does contradict their own actions. Dancing is movement meditation. Tai Chi, of which I am well versed, is just a complex dance meant to still the mind and pacify the forces without. I danced, twisting the vibes of malcontent spit from the DJ’s device into promises of hope through active questioning. It is easy to destroy, it’s harder to ask the simple question of why. Nature seemed to agree with the Goth girls and boys, heavy drops fell from the sky obscuring what would of been a beautiful spring night. I sat out side, smoking a cigarette and cooling off from my exertions when I asked the sky why we were only able to react after the fact. Many knew the war was coming but few did anything about it. It’s wonderful when life answers back. As I sat on the pavement, I have no compunctions about silly social does and don’ts, I watched a couple slowly walk towards me from my right. They were a beautiful picture of companionship. Hand in hand, walking shoulder to shoulder in order to make use of the small umbrella they walked beneath. Smiles of completion rested securely on their lips and I envied them for it. Being a traveler is great at times, wonderful even, but one of the things you give up is any idea of a solid relationship. I’ve had plenty of romance in my life, romance takes only moments, but a real relationship takes years and I was always unable to put in the time. The curse of itchy feet. As I watched this beautiful scene of connection a loud roar sounded from my left. Looking over I found a pick up truck that radiated intolerance. A good ’ol boy in red base ball cap and dirty wife beater drove towards me, towards the couple, with a look of complete menace. If that wasn’t enough his license plate read “Ihay8u. From my right walked love and from my left approached hate. The couple never faltered a step, they just kept walking in their sphere of bliss. The good ’ol boy kept driving, revving his engine in imitation of pestilence’s hoarse. As the two crossed paths the red neck of the apocalypse swerved, putting his tire into a large puddle on the side of the street. Water sprayed everywhere but the couple, who had never wavered nor slowed their pace, were miraculously one step behind the spray. Life had answered and for that I smiled.