Few people give me notice at the corner of the bar, where the chandelier’s hauteur scarcely reaches, and even the piano’s notes are more of space that melody. Yet, I know that were I not here, having over-reached my time – it would be noticed and another sought to fill this corner space. My name? Before coming here I was of labels rather than identity – but one self-assured lady caressed me with a smile, saying, “Hello Sperggie,” and that name has served me since.

I believe my essential function, acceptable to the staff, is to prevent someone sitting here and falling asleep – it is tavern business after all – and while some may choose to talk with me I am not required to answer – which suits the speaker well. So I have lots of time to observe the patrons and workers too, my senses like antennae aquiver with the dynamics of chit and chat. As I am always distant from the oft whispered exchange, I rely on non-verbal clues as to what is meant, rather than expressed. This is to say I listen with my being rather than human ear – and know better than any other in this place, the substance of their fear.

Many come here to escape without embracing any ‘from what’ contemplation – somehow hoping another will understand, even if they don’t. And this is indeed the magick of two heads close in sympathy – if only for a little while; for hearts and spirit hands must also touch when the tables are small, and a candle the centered light. This sought closeness is often hidden behind forced laughter and feigned interest in some subject of popular excitement; yet even then there is enough love or respect that “whenever two or more are joined …”

Because my soul has a thousand eyes I can perceive the quiet crescendo of energy that flows from each exchange. It fills the room like a faint perfume, sensed by all yet unidentifiable. Sadly, this miasma of love’s intent can also be swept away and dispersed by a single discordant thought in which one person may decide that life is ‘about them’, rather than about humanity. The, by instinct alone another person will do something to fill the absence of this flow of bon hommie with bold action. The sultry woman drags her companion onto the floor to dance. A man bursts out with a birthday song and offers to buy a round. The piano player changes to a jazzy pace – or the clinking of glasses behind the bar becomes more than simple chance.

Well, that’s just a slight observation from one who listens more than speaks – but what do I know? I am only a potted Asparagus Fern hanging from a chain.

faucon of Sakin’el