Wonder as I Wander [Midnight Blithering]

I’m watching a hitchhiker on the side of the highway. At first he was standing over his bags on the side of the road with a cardboard sign out. Shaved head, black beard – he looks rough. Someone from the skate park across the highway yells something to him and he shouts back, asks for a smoke. The guy from the skate park comes half-running half-skipping across the highway, he reminds me of a lemur the way he hops across the median. The squeals coming out of his mouth I can only guess are some style of laughter – the hitchhiker laughs at his antics.

They stand and talk for a few minutes over a smoke, and the hitchhiker opens his guitar case lying on the ground with the rest of his baggage – my perceptions readjust with the first notes wafting over the mostly still night air as he begins to play. What a beautiful human.

Two more guys from the skate park come running over, urging their friend off to some rendezvous, but he is in no hurry to leave. They stay for a few minutes more before the newcomers leave, followed shortly by the first, skip-running with his lemur laughter. What a beautiful human. The hitchhiker laughs again.

I never knew about justified typeset – I used to wonder how writers made their words all line up to the edge of the page. But when I found out that many writers ‘justify’ their text, I began doing the same. I thought it made the pages look orderly and neat. The truth is, I was about to justify this post, but as I think about the hitchhiker serenading the night with his music and no one to listen but the empty highway I think, what if all humans were ordered and neat and fit to the page? What if there were no night-walking guitar-playing hitchhikers to show us the beautiful humans?

He seems sad now, alone on the street, he’s traded his guitar for the cardboard sign again, just an isolated traveler in a street-lit island in the night. I wonder what his story is, and will be. I wonder where the road will take him, and what kind of adventure he’ll meet on the way, and I wonder; what sort of interesting stories are the people passing by missing out on? I wonder.

What Sticks to Me

What sticks to me?
The moon sticks to me
In its midnight blithering
And the stars are my jewels
But the moon sticks to me

How? It is a mystery
The way it gleams and glows
It is ambiguity the way it shows
And the coyote cries
But the moon sticks to me

When I sing in the night
And when the fiddle calls
As the wolf sings his strange song
It echoes back the music
And the moon sticks to me

Crickets sing softly now
And the call of the turtle is heard
The wind whispers words in the treetops
And sounds of a brook are stirred
Now the moon sticks to me [1]

[1] The Moon Sticks to Me, September 2010
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