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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


Literature is art, is beauty, is life. That was Aohkii’s motto. She stuck to it too; come rain or, well, more rain. That year, the rain had seemed endless. After the first week of it, dripping and drizzling its constant rhythm, she began to notice the intricate patterns it made while pirouetting down from the sky. At times, it would drift this way or that in the wind, racing. A month since the sun last shone, she had got into the habit of making room in her book bag for a set of pants, a scarf, hat, and an extra pair of socks. Her bike ride to work was more than a mile away. Often, a large car driving by would spray her with a combination of rain and mud. It never lost its humiliating quality, but she would have been soaked no matter how far from traffic she rode. Her workdays at the bookstore habitually began with a trip to the bathroom to change into dry clothes. They ended with a shower to wash away the cold drops of moisture her hair and clothes had diligently gathered during the ride home.
“Art is beauty is life,” she thought as she glanced around her small tiled bathroom. She stepped out of the shower and rubbed the steam from the mirror. Her self-reflected gaze triggered a different emotion for every mood she contained. That afternoon, it shone brightly. There was none of the usual angst. She brushed away the taste of cigarettes that had accumulated on her teeth and tongue during her afternoon lunch-break.
Once upon a time, Aohkii had started smoking as a self-challenge. “I want to know what its like to be a smoker,” she’d declared while in her last year in high school. “I want to know so that one day I can put it into a novel. Its research,” she mused to her friends. Before long though, the nicotine had taken its hold on her soul. Smoking had grown from research into habit and then addiction. The one-year-plan to smoke had come and gone, as had the year after that. Now, in her third year of smoking, a cute guy she’d met at one of many campus parties had, after hearing her reasoning, replied, “Well…. now you REALLY know what its like to be smoker,” and had laughed and lit her cigarette for her. The experience left her feeling chagrined and yet, even after sleeping with the man, she lit up a cigarette and pushed the feeling to the back of her mind.
The sound of rain continued its fantastic lullaby. Inside the little bathroom, Aohkii secretly admired the constancy of it and the talent it had to bring people together. Olympia certainly would not be the same without the rain. The little college town was full of writers, artists, punks, bull-dike lesbians and general all around creative types. Because of the rain, students would crowd into various coffee and bagel shops, bookstores, and seedy restaurants to write and read or sketch while drowning proletariat troubles away in chai-tea lattes or espressos.
They weren’t pretentious arty types. They were hopefully pessimistic arty types. Kurt Cobain had died, or was murdered, depending on how you saw it. The end of an era had come. Grunge was on its way out and cell phones were on their way in, as were children whose toys were computerized and adults hungry for the war machine to begin again its locomotive roll across the planet. Generation X had begun to streamline the way to fast becoming millionaires. Generation Y was still in elementary school. “What about those of us stuck in between,” she wondered as she dried the remaining moisture from her body. “Generation X.5” Aohkii wrapped the towel around her head and wandered naked into the dining room.

***Due to the fact that children might view this work, I will not be posting the rest of this story. However, if you’d like to read it please visit my room at wordpress (see above address). I would love to have you over to sit back and read, or just to leave a comment.

Maya queen of drama

Born into a family of entertainers, singers, musicians, dancers and such, now wonder that the drama would start early. She may be only three, but the drama has taken generations of perfecting. One can only wonder, in twenty years, if the family survives the drama queen antics…

more photos



Deep within midnight’s hour, her story consumes her.

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Authenticated by le Enchanteur

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January 2007
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