Diary of an unborn writer #8

Green seats on yellow trains and rain runs down the window pane...

On the way home from Rotterdam where I've been to see Xavier Rudd - a bearded Australian hippy man who doubles as an international shaman.

Playing guitar (mostly slide) drums and didgereedoo, he kicks off with techno and a bass blast on the didge that shakes the chest of each of us there.

United in a single note - the crowd is primed.

As he blows and bangs and slides his way around fretwork he's making shapes with his hands. Animal shapes like snakes and buffalo horns - the way the old shamans would to call an animal spirit to guide, lead, empower and flow through them.

He doesn't need to play music anymore, just express that sprit as it flows through manifesting as hymns for the Earth and love of good people.

An exceptional beautiful man.

And you can feel it too. That night I dreamed of snakes and buffalo, flowing through expressing through my days.

He ends the night alone holding a stick high above his head. On one end is a dream catcher, the other two eagle feathers.

He speaks aloud a poem "while polar bears still give birth to their arctic young" (I'm paraphrasing). And none if the assembled moves an inch.

I've been watching with Evelyne beside me. She's found the crowd a little much. We leave, collect our coats and out into cold December rain. Heading for the station I'm thinking I could get used to this one.

We kiss goodbye.