The Fabric of time ...part 1 (c) 2025 from inside your Shadow edits in progress

 

…you gotta help me out. I’ll give you something. “The nerve of this haggardly skinny man,” he thought to himself, as he closed his guitar case. He had been busking all day long (playing his beat-up Murphy acoustic guitar on the sidewalk with Touch Down Jesus at Saint Elizabeth Church behind him). He had made twenty dollars in five hours.

When I removed the Peruvian Prayer beads from the energy point, there was a special guitar string that I got from Drew’s Guitar Shop. When I was talked into buying it for five dollars because he told me that it would never break. Instead of using it I placed it into the energy point. The powerful energy attached to the string went to a New Orleans side walk that was in front of Touch Down Jesus.

He was told never to make eye contact, but he did anyway. “Get Away From Me!” he screamed to the haggard thin man with long blondish grey dirty mop looking hair. Then a crowd walked by from a Haunted History tour and the seemingly beggar disappeared as they walked by, “Good,” he mumbled.

Well, I knew this time would come…

Or do I just want this to happen because

I’d rather it happen, than live my life to the fullest.

Afraid of People and Afraid of Rejection, I’m becoming

I Am becoming to think that people are just born a certain

way. If I have The Chance At Life Again, I’d like to be the lady’s

man. I’d like to be stronger. I’d like to be more creative. I think of my

hypocritical ways. Such as thinking vocally condemning those who live

fast ways: fast women, fast food, while I drink energy drinks and coffee like

water. I too have taken short cuts. One of the biggest was consuming many protein

powder mixed with whole milk drinks. Wanted to look a certain way. While I damaged my

body. Of course there was also the cigarettes that damaged my body. I also think about the probability of conjuring and allowing spell casting in my mind/but the shrinks say it’s nothing but ‘magical thinking.’ What sort of things have I brought into this world ‘My World.’ Would I have done such things if I wasn’t high from the drinking and drugging? And later, the caffeine.

Years ago, I walked up the sidewalk. I looked at the weathered worn  guitar mounted to the outside wall. I thought it was such a waste of a guitar. Then I remembered a picture of me in Memphis of me by a statue of Elvis. Elvis holding a guitar and in that moment I said out loud an affirmation, “One day I’mma come back here and take that guitar from Elvis.” I chuckle at that cocky grandiose statement as I walked in the door of the Guitar town store in Clarksdale Mississippi. There were unique amps on the floor and there was a two-foot-tall bundle of cotton that was comfortable enough to sit on. There were nice guitars set in such a way that the inside wasn’t cluttered. Some types were Dobro, Big Rich. Epiphone, and acoustic Taylor guitars. Also had vintage amps, like Reverb masters. Had vinyl album covers on the wall. Pictures taken with famous musicians. Pictures of Drew with his band, “What you need?” his silver hair was pristine on his head. He sat behind a glass case. Inside the case were tiny amps that fit inside your hand. There was also guitar pics, guitar parts, and guitar strings. “Man, I was at Ground Zero jamming. Would have been great if my string hadn’t popped. I need a good string. Like one made from adamantium. Like the stuff from Wolverine’s claws.” I replied. “Huh,” He took a long pull from his Papst Blue Ribbon beer then set it down by his small wooden box that contained guitar slides. Most of the slides that he made out of copper pipes, glass wine bottles.

“This String Will Never Break. It’s woven from a wiseman’s lock of hair. Like the wise man on the cover of Led Zeppelin IV. You know like the wiseman in the Tarot cards,” he continued as he teasingly waved it in front of me as it was a golden ticket. “Here you go dood,” he placed it in my hand. “Thanks Mister Drew.” “Yea, man. That’ll be five dollars.”

“Here’s what you do,” The raggedy old man strangely said. He had the biggest grin. These types have a conniving smile quite often. “Follow me!” Out of curiosity, the street musician followed the old scraggly man.

Live music seems to always float in the air, combined with the aroma of food, cigarette and other kinds of smoke. The streets only take a nap round two in the morning. Two in the morning is the time when the veil separating this world from the other worlds is loosened.

The haggardly man stood at the door of a bar that had a live band aiding in karaoke. The crowd was shouting every line to “Ache Breaky Heart.” The street musician watched a huge security guard come and talk to him. He hoped the scraggly old man would go in the bar so he could be rid of him. He thought about turning around, but yet, he walked up to the live Karaoke entrance. “Not this one,” the old man said. “You know I never got your name,” he inquired as they walked side by side. “My name is Tom Troubadour,” the scraggly old man. Tom grinned deviously, as he took out a Marlboro Red and stuck it in between his lips. He quickly remembered that he only had two left. He was thinking of how to ask Tom for his last one. “…and what’s your name?”