Shambhala‘s Soundsystems: she stood in the doorway. wolftime, she said. i went with her and the door locked itself. the last embers of twilight gave everything golden contours. the world looked beautiful, but we both knew it wasn't. it wasn't feral either. the world just is. untouched by our human efforts to infuse it with meaning, autumn leaves swing in the breeze, snap off and slowly tumble to the ground in varied patterns since time primordial.
we make our ways through empty streets swallowed by darkness while our eyes adjust to the moonlight. what was before golden and warm now turns silver and cold. blue hues on the asphalt, blue flickering hues from the windows. behind the curtains, where warmth resides, so familiar and cozy and a world apart. our passing in the night as invisible to the gatherings and homecomings and tired sofa evenings as their faces were to us. just light between us.
in the corner something stirred and joined our progress. lithe and silent, we were accompagnied by a single proud alleycat, after the next corner it was gone as it had sprung to life, turning invisible as it had been before it flashed its attention. we were clearly uninvited guests.
no fear in my heart, but joy at having such friends. no words needed, just open eyes. we got to the fire.
while before there was light, though fading, we were suddenly plunged into utter darkness. dancing, wild, longtongued flames. heat. and as soon as you were near it, just darkness around you. i was tempted to retrace my steps to where that fire was just a flicker in the distance. but no turning back. all quiet, we enjoyed the sudden warmth in the company of friends and strangers. silence. crackle. pop. hiss. it felt like standing inside a void, not even seeing the ground we stood on. if you tried to look beyond the fire, all you saw was it's brightness still etched in your eyes. we were safe, here.
i'm a nomad at heart. in real life, too. not for me the safety of cities, or small towns or just lonely cabins. for me they were just another shape on the road. i prefer the company of artists, poets, makers. bustle and flow. not for me, daily routines and simple lifes. sometimes i long for that, but to me our way of life was just as easy, natural, satisfying. a life of cameraderie and simple adventure. we don't hunt dragons. we make them. behind the fire, i could see it's blocky shape towering up all around me.
summoning its power is more gratifying to me than any corner office of a former life long forgotten. the soft carpets and the meetings of leaders. we scoff on that, leaders. lead your own way, that is all that matters now. the dragon snores, i want to ride it. everyone does. but tonight, it's time for silence.
we have met here because we are discontent. dark powers rule the land, dark warriors run the roads, trampling all beneath them. we smile at babylon. it just stares back. wondering where our coins are hidden. if it knew we have but little gold it would want to swallow us whole instead, like it swallows everything in the name of progress that smells so stale from afar. painting the same old needs anew daily does not satiate our need for freedom. freedom to choose whom to be. freedom to choose where to go, whom to meet, what to do. freedom to trade on a market that is hidden to most. for us, shops are where we go for commodities. we send one of our own for all of us. draw straws as to whom the obligation falls this week if for once everyone claims to have done it the last. but usually even that chore of going to the temples of abundance is fun somehow, entertaining, an invited contrast to our free daily surprising way of living. we never return the shopping carts but trundle them, ladden, to our camps and give them away to the homeless that stare at it as if owning a truck was something they always dreamed of. glad to oblige, many more where that came from.
the shopping cart. we should make it our symbol, paint it on our flags. the things it can carry, all the ways it can be used. long cables snake from it, you push it along one step at a time, while she doles the cable out. to collect, just reverse the process. water. speakers. vegetable and fruits. soup, less so, it tends to spill on the first inclination. think before you sit in it, it doesn't like that at all usually. herds of shopping trolleys live in captivity, spend endless empty days locked in the middle of a metal centipede. banged unwillingly around the aisles by angry dads, climbed by bored kids, spit and drooled at by flailing babies in seats designed for but not by them. all they usually do is fill up with food and toiletries until they resemble strange turtles out of their element. crawling to the cashiers in slow procession. there being cast aside, almost before their last contents are paid, loaded in bags and into the cars. left with a kick and the klinking of chains. we change all that every time we meet one. just around the corner freedom beckons, just down that road. passersby smile knowingly. if ever you meet a free trolley outside of its intended habitat of artificial light and stone floors you will notice its stubborn reluctance to return. it's wheels will suddenly feel like they want to go everywhere but ahead. grateful it offers you yet another idea, daily, of how to make use of its many talents. as long as it doesn't have to go back to the uniform herd, where just the last ones are the first ones to see action. the idiot in front, so proud this morning leading the pack snaking through the malls, now bangs its head each time a trolley comes or goes. free the trolley when you meet one!
back to the dragon. nah, that's a story for another day. go shopping.
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j mccloud 2025
