This story is the
final installment of Brother Gypsy's Dance
with the Veil between this world and the next. Where do we go next, and what do
we do between now and when we get there? This story
is the third part of the tale of The Borderlands Café; the space between here and whatever awaits us in the future,
as told in Brother Gypsy’s words:
I danced
with the Veil again and came back. No, before I walked across the veil, walked
through and came back. The time before, I just sat there. I didn't walk it.
This time, I rode the boat from the River Styx, except this one looked like an
old wagon from a 30s movie, like I told you. And some old black lady in the
back of the wagon didn't like me being there
because she knew I hadn't paid the fare. I didn't pay the Ferryman.
Maybe that's
the ticket. Maybe if you don't pay the Ferryman, you don't get to stay over
there. They bring you back. That old black lady, she didn't want me in the back
seat of that taxi, that horse-drawn taxi. I don't even know if she saw what I saw. She could have been seeing
something altogether different because she wore a black funeral dress with one of them cookie-box hats with
black lace. It was the kind of hat that women
wore in the sixties.
I can't tell
if she was seeing what I was seeing, but she didn't want me in the back. I
hadn't paid the fare. That or maybe she just didn't like the fact that I was in
her car. I have no doubt that somewhere tonight, an old black woman crossed the
River, past the Veil.
She was
sitting all proper like you would expect
an old black woman to do, with her purse all tucked up in her lap, one of those hard-sided, patent-leather purses with the
strap and the clasp, and the above-the-knee skirt, you know, that one-piece
dress from the sixties. I have no doubt that somewhere out there, an old black
lady died tonight, May 15th, 2011.
Yeah. I hope
she finds her way. I hope she finds her way to someplace jubilant for her. Some place where she doesn't
have to be proper. A place that doesn't have discrimination, because she was
from that era. I don't think she saw me. I think she saw what she expected to
see: not a white man invading her territory, but another woman. In the back of
the bus, crossing the river, or going down that dirt road in a Lincoln
Continental.
We all
choose what we see when we look at the
River Styx. This time, it was done in thirties movie props. I don't know what
it'll be like next time, but there will be a next time. Wow.
I could be
mad. It could just be the metal poisoning. I'll let you be the judge of that because you're of sound mind and body. But
you saw my eyes. You know my heart, my mind, my spirit. If I'm mad, you'll
never take this anywhere. But I'm not mad. Maybe You'll make us famous. Yeah.
And of course, I'll never know because
you'll never tell me if you did think I was mad. (Chronicler: Yeah, I would.)
You'll just
sit and ride with me into the madness because you love me, hoping that I come
back, saying, "Yeah, Gypsy's having delusions from the metal again."
Anyhow, I'm gonna have a smoke.
#BrotherGypsy, #TalesoftheRoad, #dancinwiththeVeil, #JackKerouac, #roadtramps, #deathanddying, #dreams, #acceptance, #crossingtheVeil, #Jungian archetypes, #dancinwiththeBeatBoys, #rappinwithKerouac
#BrotherGypsy, #TalesoftheRoad, #dancinwiththeVeil, #JackKerouac, #roadtramps, #deathanddying, #dreams, #acceptance, #crossingtheVeil, #Jungian archetypes, #dancinwiththeBeatBoys, #rappinwithKerouac