Who is the Mystic Chap

An island. Which one. Certainly one of three or four. He’s writing at a little table on the porch. It’s dark. This is good, since so are his thoughts. He is considering a history of thirty-five years or so and society in general. It seems clearer now — in the sand, in a little hut on shore — then it was at the time these things were happening. Clearer for him anyway. It may be the air, the sand, the beach, the sea — the reggae in the distance… the sound of the sea. The water moving up and down the beach. It seems that he can see it all as if he is inside a crystal ball that gives him truth. He doesn’t believe that it is all illusion. He knows that life goes on in a more hectic state for many, in more hectic places, but he paid his dues, he earned his trip. And now he ponders of a misstep or two and a decline in society during the last thirty years. It’s hard to take. Is this what all roads have led to? Gentle breeze warm air, water warm and clean and clear, and sitting on shore inviting him to take a swim. He starts writing the beginning to the end.


Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat, a little guano — the mystic chap — I know him. I know he’s in my head; he’s clever, but I see him there. Don’t tell him. I’m gonna scare the shit out of him.