Search Posts
Roger is surprised by the question. "Um...haven't tried anything else..." He extends a hand and tries to produce fire or ice...nothing. "Wait...I feel something..." He relaxes and speaks words, but again, no effect. "I think I need...fireflies..." He appears very confused. "Ok, one more try." He says something different and several cups slowly lift from the table. It's all Roger can do to keep them from crashing to the group as he stares at them.
"just show me...can't be weirder than anything else here."
He keeps playing, getting deeper into the song, glancing up at the guy who nearly shook hands to see if he's understanding.
Roger stares at the frozen drink. "Honestly, I have no idea. Do you know anyone else here? I do, I mean, but not...um...people who can do that."
"None. No clue. I haven't met anyone else who knows a thing. It's happened to me, and that's all I know." Seeing as how the guy doesn't shake and seems to be looking for proof, Roger pulls his 'oud from his case and sits down again. He begins to strum, pulling that mystic feeling out of the music again. Even against the beats being spun by the DJ (Kinky or Mexican Institute of Sound, hard to tell from where he's sitting), the notes snake out and entwine around listeners, bolstering their confidence. He can see a nerdy looking kid summon up the courage to talk to a girl dressed in sparkly...alien like...green fuzzy stuff and smiles at his misplaced luck. He keeps playing, getting deeper into the song, glancing up at the guy who nearly shook hands to see if he's understanding.
Roger squints a little at the kid, who looks a bit out of place among the jugglers and painted dancers. "Yeah, that's me." He puts his instrument aside and stands up to his full height. "Roger," he says a bit diffidently, trying not to intimidate the guy too much. Where are the hot alien chicks? he muses to himself, then remembers to extend a hand in greeting. He pauses to check his phone, which he has been steadfastly ignoring for a while. Several different messages from Denise and her pals, something about sources and tracing and other voodoo. A bunch of replies on Tribe, of all things, although some of them are completely whacked out and one or two are asking about the motorcycle he sold a good three years ago.
Roger sits crosslegged on a zafu in his tiny apartment and takes a look at his Twitter feed, a little bleary from the night before. Crap, nothing. Wait, less than nothing. There were posts and they've been deleted. What's going on? He chews the inside of his lip for a moment and considers. Suppression? A conspiracy? A big joke? "Screw it. I have to make this happen myself." He opens up his much-neglected Tribe.Net account and wades through Burning Man decompression party posts and pictures of semi naked hula hoopers, then writes his post. "Regional: If you've been feeling different, then trip like I do down to the BLBR Block Party. 4 pm. Look for the dude with the 'oud. Get #UP. The Power is Known." He then posts a shortened link of this post to Twitter. So much for being cryptic, he thinks. If anyone who's feeling like a freak can hide out in plain sight, though, it's among the Black Label Bike Club and all the Burners who show up. I'm pretty sure I saw an actual alien at a Decompression last year. He shoulders his 'oud in its padded case, thinks about where to get a bite to eat, and then mentally maps out the most scenic route to the block party. His phone buzzes a few times as he heads out, texts from Denise.
Heh. You may not be very responsive for the next month. Kids are awesome, though. Looking forward to introducing my daughter to the Beginner Box in another 5-6 years.
Roger is deep in the maqam zone, enjoying the way the groove of the music interplays with the small crowd of Tompkins Square listeners, with the growing shadows of the late afternoon fingering out from the nearby buildings and small trees. With Naomi on doumbek and Youssef on daf, it is really starting to burn. He is vaguely aware of a stir among the parkgoers, and a scream or two, and then a man runs into the audience, wearing obvious gang insignia, sweating and panting, followed instantly by two other men, wearing different colors, with guns drawn, shouting expletives. People crouch or cringe, freezing at the sight of drawn weapons. Rather than stopping, though, Roger keeps playing, his green eyes blazing and fixed on the men. After a moment, Naomi and Youssef take up the new groove as well. Something strange occurrs in the song; some extra element, indefinable, lifts the crowd's spirits and disperses their fear. As one, they turn to look at the two men straight in the eye, giving them pause. A muscly friend of Youssef's moves suddenly and knocks a gun right out of one man's hand. Roger looks like he wants to join in, but only action he contributes to the standoff is blazing pyrotechnic notes from his 'oud. The gunmen leave, melting back into the park, and the other gang member stares wide eyed at Roger and the incredibly fearless crowd of music listeners. Roger at last unwinds from his playing and finishes the song to tremendous applause, and then thoughtful murmuring from the listeners. What happened, they wonder? "Krav maga," says Youssef's friends, looking at his hands wonderingly. "I haven't used that in a while!" "Did you...feel...that? says Naomi to Roger. "Did you...do something?" Roger starts to pack up his 'oud. "I feel like we touched something. Something really big." A smile splits his face. "I hope that happens again--it was a new level, my friend, a new level. I gotta go think about this." Youssef puts a hand on Roger's shoulder. "We were there, Roger, but I think it came from you. You found something and gave it to everyone. I don't know how. Maybe it was the Divine." Roger looks embarrassed. "I don't think it was me. It was us." He'd rather not dwell on it; there's a party tonight with some sweet poi dancers, and after party jam at Blue Note with a jazz friend--but the hand tightens. "It was you, Roger." Later, he's deeply interested in chatting more--perhaps privately--with Denise, still breathless from her fire dance performance, in the chillout area near the main dance area, which is lit with other performers at the moment, when she whips out her iPhone and pulls up Twitter. "Dude--look at this. I think lots of trends are a joke, but check this one out. Hashtag UnknownPower. People are having all these synchronicities, and it's unexplained, and it's global." She turns dazzling wide-pupiled eyes that he just knows are full of New Agey, astrology-loving thoughts, and while he's down with that at times, it seems so--well, what the heck. "I uh, I had a synchronicity today. Maybe I should tweet," he half jokes, half intimates.
and here he is. So, I learned that Greenwich Village ain't where it's at anymore. Different Village. :D |
