Los gitanos

Long fingernails describe parabolic motions on a fret board. The last four arrpegiate violently, while the thumb annihilates the low E on the upstroke. The man playing doesn't seem to be aware that he is even holding an instrument, but the sound that pours forth is spiritual. His long black hair is shining, and his eyes are glowing with curiosity. He observes his fellows on the bus as they contribute to the grand concerto. He is wondering where the music will go next, trying to anticipate, but understanding that it isn't really necessary; the only thing that matters now is THAT it 'goes'. The rhythm coheres to his heartbeat and the rest of him feels erroneous, superfluous. I stomp my feet along with everyone else, but I still feel out of place. Spending a night with these people doesn't mean that I am an inch closer to comprehending them. I am still the occidental here, and an appropriate amount of hostility was considered due measure. The music though, the music, everything has been forgotten for the music. The girl dancing in the aisle is no less than angelic, a perfect melding of purity and seduction. It leaves me with a feeling of otherworldliness. She is dancing in a void; some far away dark something where I wish to be. Sweet oblivion follows her every movement, it leaves me wishing I knew the steps. She looks at me occasionally when she turns, and I can't describe what it is I see there. It is a mixture of love and pity, which I suppose is the creation of compassion. The music becomes more and more percussive as it spirals upwards towards the suma. The only thing necessary is transcendence, the operation of higher mind function. The driver is the only correlation I have to things solid and sane. I could approach him, go to him with queries, but something restrains me. I have crossed over into this Meta, and I want to keep spinning for awhile. I understand he wonders over my presence, as he should. I find myself unable to explain the situation entirely either. I guess the only way I could defend the inside to the outsider, would be beauty. There is something beautiful here, and there can be no doubts about relativity and absolutes. Here lies the beauty of family, culture, bonds so strong the crushing weight of cold-caring civilization cannot staunch the current. Their story will not be taught in most history books, but it will flow from their lips if anyone cares to ask. I find myself wishing I could erase twenty-one years of empirical experience; begin again as a tabula rasa in order to fill my pages with people and places like these. I hate to think that my brief voyage into the dark is a simple in-authenticity and my perspective remains shallow. Since I have not yet obtained the ability to regress to the womb, I can at least begin a change right now. I will hopefully be dancing on this earth for a good many more years, and because of last night I will no longer color my world with falsity.