Today, during my visit to the Ave, I received a gift from Dusty—one of the street preachers, a girl raver turned Born-Again—in the form of a faux leatherbound book, filled with lined pages, blank and thirsty for writing. While I often carry a small book in my pocket, the large one may tend to be an issue for me, but I believe that I can use it for the sake of the gift.
Dusty speaks with the adoring fervor of all Born-Again types, but it seems somewhat offset sometimes by the glitter on her eyelids and her striking blonde hair. She is a strange, and unexpected, addition to the troupe as I found them on the corner of the Ave. When I first saw her there, I wondered what exactly she was doing with that crew. This was quickly explained when she approached me and asked about my Tradition, which is a common tactic—I rarely explain much, because the querient often does not really want to know; they just want to start a conversation. Be that as it may, she is well versed in her mirror-speak and not mean or judgmental.
Today, it seemed like an entire brass band walked past—and even a few carrying guitars stamped past, even one who wore and amp and an electric guitar. Next to Borders a man played Christmas tunes; he was lovely in his breath.
Osiris has returned from us from his brush with death. It is good to see him passing his grinning countenance back to the drum circle and the Ave. He suffered greatly at the hands of some vicious hooligans earlier this year, spent a week in the hospital, but he is always welcome in my life. He has, in the past, been one who hung out many places that I did, and he is one of the members of the Ave whom I return there to see time-to-time. I gave him copies of the Halloween and Christmas Vexations booklets. He looks pretty good for a guy who got stabbed and shot. He yet lives, and this is something I am grateful for.
Out among the throngs I also met Julian Forest, a sitar player—without his sitar I fear. His brown hair of varying lengths frayed out from beneath his brown hat, with the leather straps of the hat hanging down near his blue eyes. I didn’t recognize him as one of the usuals for the Ave. he seemed interesting enough, there are few people in this world that I know who play the sitar, except for Ravi Shankar (and I don’t really know him personally.)
Another interesting event that happened was that I received a dreidel; a lovely little purple, plastic one. I haven’t put it to use yet, being that I only just learned the song. I do know the names of the symbols on it—but I’m afraid very little else. The woman who gave it to me, I did not get her name, wore a beautiful purple headscarf and a swish hippy-dress that I felt the need to compliment. That certainly added joy and cheer to my night.
I didn’t range as much as I usually do tonight, didn’t quite feel well enough. So I comforted myself with a few rounds of the drum circle—to see Osiris, Melissa, Amish, and others—and stuck around the street preachers. Primarily so that I could give Dusty thanks for giving me this new book. It is an excellent and well-thought gift.
