There are some things that we remember, they stay with us forever. The sound of ancient melodies, a traditionally pink outfit, a perfume bottle filled withspiced sandlewood oil, and the steam rolling off of rice with cumin. Somethings become part of us like a painting from a dreamer who is longing for a sign but cannot yet quite put her finger on the truth of the color. Not unlike a writer who comes from a long line of esteemed writers who shaped the heritage of a nation, there is always something left to define. Readers dial into these channels of others and explain, answer, translate news, shape situations into digestable pieces hopefully that help satisfy the appetite of the person asking their question.
Readers are a mystery in the way that they move. Opperating from one moment to the next there is a now and a now again. The reader's dream life is rich. One story does not finish with the click of a dial. Sometimes heros will enter later into their psychi and relay a message. " My deity does not like you.", he says with a puffy smile and saunters off, hair pulled back like a chef in order not to offend. Whose message is this and why must I hear it now? The message goes into a file for later, it might help somewhere. Or it might be a bit of a larger puzzle that once complete is a nail pounded into a wall for protection. The smith and the reader are similar in this way. Neither one has to talk for days yet when they do it is for perfecting a detail.
I once met a couple who held readings in their home. It was a maze just to get to their flat. The whole experience held an air of mystique. The lady of the house served tea from little cups on a silver tray very nicely. Her husband, when my friend and I arrived, had a smile on his lips and a bird on his left shoulder. I remember their home as green but it might be a color my memory is obsessed with. I faintly remember that experience now and would write it off as a fantacy had I not had to have the paper translated that they wrote on. If only I still had kept it with all the other pieces of things if only I would have kept. A small room does not allow for years of if onlys. I do remember one thing that the wife had told me. It stuck to me like a curse. To this day when I think about her words and wonder is this what I am living now, her words?
Those learned mysterious people kept a long lasting impression upon me. If only I would have taken their picture. Grimmacingly I loved their air of unusal naturalness that can be found in one place in the world. It is the luster in their skin tone and dark eyes perfectly matching dark hair that has a slight wave. They seemed to move together in a way that made sense with colorful clothing and decor as a backdrop to a timeless culture. When I paid them for their service I felt like 4 eyes were peering into my soul and letting out secrets that even I did not know about myself. There was a strange comfort in the fortune they told. This is the aura of a reader and meeting them has changed and shaped me more than I knew it would at the time. They opened a door to myself and invited me to walk in.
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