coming_out_from_the_circus_wagon vichy have you come with us thus far? we travel between worlds, we cross bridges over peaceful streams and throw stones into the still water. we arrive unexpected in the rain and step up to the green painted brick mansion across from the library looking for myra posner. the woman, erudite in opposition to her ease, welcomes me and in seconds we are acquaintances. her husband emerges, and instead of simply standing before me questioning my presence, he with his 25 years of buddhist practice, journeys with me for thousands of years and we have been so many for so long until this day. we talk as friends, as brothers, as teacher and student. he is my mentor, i am his advocate. he is my guide, i am a tiny star hanging from a ribcage. i am a pioneer of the human landscape, settling down in the praires of the soul. i go on in search of myra, accepting my heartfelt invitation to return. i putter along church st. to college ave. and find myra's house hidden like a tibetian temple behind a forest of bamboo, a horticultural statement that has several of the towne's residents up in arms, demanding she remove it. but it's more than that. it's who myra is. artist. gypsy. immoralist. i wrote a poem to give her. it was one destined for blather, but i chose to give it away individually. i climbed the few stairs, still wet from the sudden storm, and immediately felt a comforting presence, as if cieans, those angels of mercy were sitting in chairs talking and then they see me approach, stop their conversation, wave hello, and then go on speaking. ciean-led is the best. i knock on the wooden screen door which is in front of the other door pushed open. i can see into the living room, shadows hiding a beauty i know would shine when the illumination comes. and out of them emerges, myra's daughter, choe, who i suspected was a foreign exchagne student. she looked egyptian. she was beautiful at first glance and then slowly revealed a magnetism impossible to avoid. as time played music from a child's piano and song in its poetic innocence strained to form adequate verse to interpret the moment, we proceeded to click, to accept, to trust. when i presented her with the saumboo fototext book, she asked me to sit down. is that the same as being invited to cross the bridge into her world? she smiled. she laughed. shw said, "can amelie be any cuter?" she told me myra was her mother and asked me how i knew of her. i said she had read palms at adele sternberg's birthday party held at nino barsotti's garden, the same spot we found a black and white kitten and later gave to sylvia. myra also used to run an herb store in mt. pleasant. it was like the chocolatterie in the brilliant film, "chocolat," with johnny depp and juliette binoche. the towne thought it hedonistic and licentious in the area of religion. i am the martyr of the foolishly trustful. 020818 ... mourninglight . 041027 what's it to you? who go blather from