It is the wheels that turn, again and again, in ritual, that hold the hand of evolution, of momentum, of movement from one place to another. The circle, reaching to the arc's farthest point, draws its line back to the sacred holding of memories. Does the motion go forward even when the memory pulls on the hem of the present? I step away from seeds having lingered in the soil for years and into those perennially sprouting. The cycle, reaching through time's seasons, draws the sprout back into the light of stories unfinished. The road, linear in nature, clover leaf's into a mandala of not only place, but people. Those, by chance (or has it been destiny all along?) dance, hand in hand, along the circle's edge. One memory loops through another and the wheel turns, in ritual, again and again.
My fingers press along the piano's keys, chords underscoring violin and flute, drum and guitar. E. sprinkles her soprano over the string pizzicato of her fiddle and the memory of ancient songs sung by Irish bards channels through the waltzes' resonant tones filling up the small back room. D., legs splayed on either side of his box drum, taps a heartbeat pulling forth Celtic tears. His fingers rap and drag across the thin wood face, and the box rattles in raspy breath. J., fingers dancing on silver flute keys, breathes a chirpy harmony across the surface of the swelling soundscape. W., guitar strings shivering, shimmers through the piano's harmonic underscore, and the songs sung breathe the circle to life.
Later we walk downtown into the evening to allow the spontaneity of connection to "pop" with serendipity. B. looks for those he knows, or perhaps those he doesn't. He peeks into restaurant windows, scans the market square. We duck into Benny Marconi's Pizzeria where "Juice", pizza handler and poet, round dark face beaming a smile, invites a private poetry exchange. While a lull in the evening pizza purchases, he fumbles through a bag of papers and pulls out a few pages, hand scribbled, and places them on a side counter near the pizza oven.
"You read first," he says and settles his arms up onto the counter to lean in over the sound of a fan blowing cooler air onto the wafting pizza oven heat. And I begin. B .moves closer to me to hear the word flow, rhyme and punctuated thought. Juice nods at the end, smiles. "I love it," he says and tells me a list of his favorite images: "Ghosts in the fog", "harbor buoy", and "slick-backed seals".
Pauses between poems, he paddles slices of pie into the hands of paying patrons.
Juice picks up the first piece of paper, reads on in couplet, a treatise on love making to his woman. A mother and teenage daughter gather in to listen and when done, we all wipe emerging tears from our eyes. Juice tells us that when he first read the poem at a poetry evening, all the women wore tears, all the men slinked into their chairs. Juice's smile broadcasts across his puffy cheeks, his eyes squint in pleasure.
Pizza customers line up and Juice shakes my hand, tells me to visit again, we'll read more poetry. I'll be sadly gone by the time his next poetry evening arrives a few days from now but love the idea of the spontaneous popping up of a poem unexpectedly. B. and I then move on to invite the next "pop", wherever and whenever it will surprise us. Just out and about hangin' with B.
Little Dog pushes up my arm with his snout, and stares up at me with big brown eyes. "Love me," he conveys with a wink. Maybe he remembers me from July 2015 during my two week visit to the Blue Ridge Napping Institute for a work exchange. I offer this memory a smile and four days of my time. T., Blue Ridge Napper, Little Dog and Stella, and Jasper the cat join me for a group photo to send to Montreal friend M. This was our intersection the last time around, and I wish for her to complete the memory by being here. But like my visit with her over the summer where she and I sent a photo to T., we only have the image of what has been and what might be some other time. Nostalgia runs deep, and she sends back a reply that is tear stained.
But new intersections happen and I enjoy meeting two young women now in exchange at the "Institute". R. offers me a hula hoop lesson, and the circle goes round. "It's my meditation," she tells me. Her long red hair drips down her body and sways with the motion of not only one hoop, but two. "Once I started hooping, I felt more in balance." C. scratches the poison ivy blisters on her arms, and I wonder if T. has told her about my fight with the Ivy Curse when I was last here. I feel itchy in sympatico, but since this is a work exchange, I need to head down into the woodshop before heading west out of northwestern North Carolina. But before I hit the road, perhaps a short nap.....