To the beat of a diffrent drum:
Trails marked with the double yellow find me riding around Washington. A trek to Tonasket for a barter fair proved well for bringing the smile. "I love the smell of hippy in the morning" Such a gathering of peaceful and point making peoples finding inventive ways with intrest to communicate colabrate and clobber bordem with bonfires and special bon bons. A vast varity of folk at this one.
At night there was this TP beating out the door came drums. With rythem this head of mine bobs in the opening and await apporval as I dance like a dork to the dum dum dum ddadum.
Approval and we entry. One friend of mine, she crosses and takes keester in front a drum. I'm really gettin the groove off a groovy next to me. Fear, names, and ages had no place here. The music just flew up toward the top of the triangle tube. The fire was warm. My friend was recieving lesson to the tap, to her left the teacher with glasses and shirtless wailed and wallopped the couple of drums in front of em. Then the door then one more, quiet but the way a shadow is, his drum made noise. Then an older cat. He played a wood block. He seemed nervous to my eyes and to this I caught and made comphert by thanking him for us to be here. To his left was me. And then the old roudy. White beard protruding it explodes like perfume. He has the knack for good times and sees I do the same. Roaming was a man of many flutes and he sang them all. With wine and spirits we weave the kicks into the night.
At this time adventrous souls steeping from a strongly diffrent culture climb into our cave. I take it apon my self to usher them in for the good time. In moments I would become an intrupertur and ambassator between 2 not often crossed worlds, and kick ass they came. Buzzin cousion grabs the drum. The subject of beat was not a forgin ground, but the TPs beat had a deeply diffrent groove. Not even funk. Not at all hiphop. The native ants are not enjoying the nasty dirt scramble in the earlobe. With names I slow Cousion off to calm the peircing waters. I inform him straight I like his is there. Quickly I tell him to back off the beat and bring it back in. I explain that respect in this coulture is not to come blazing until all the mics drop. He sees the integerity I think honestly. He gets my scent. To get a turn on the table ya got to know who's eating. I tell him. These people respect humilitly far beyond any fame. These messages have meaning in his mind he knods back and relaxes. I can speak many languages of english. His mate ignores me. This I make a irrignorable smile and chuckle that he also ignores. I like when I see this. This man has taken the hard front. Whitebeard lets the boy know that he never plays when he is fried. The clashes rumble in my foresight. To set up the diffuse and due to my honest nature, I tell Whitebeard that most of the greats were fried in some way. Toshay (can anyone spell to-shay?). All smiles with bumps and it is the best of times. We make our way into the night somehow and find residence in the green giant.
Dirt and hay were the trails that wondered through the mass of vendors and selfmade vagrents. The sky was constantly moving throwing shade and shine, no one here is exactly on the same trip. No one anywhere really is. In the eyes of some I found the friendlies. Some was a vacent stare either drug or thought induced, or both. Some with lifetimes of banjos. Few had the anger that is present in most clusters of hampsters.
At night there was this TP beating out the door came drums. With rythem this head of mine bobs in the opening and await apporval as I dance like a dork to the dum dum dum ddadum.
Approval and we entry. One friend of mine, she crosses and takes keester in front a drum. I'm really gettin the groove off a groovy next to me. Fear, names, and ages had no place here. The music just flew up toward the top of the triangle tube. The fire was warm. My friend was recieving lesson to the tap, to her left the teacher with glasses and shirtless wailed and wallopped the couple of drums in front of em. Then the door then one more, quiet but the way a shadow is, his drum made noise. Then an older cat. He played a wood block. He seemed nervous to my eyes and to this I caught and made comphert by thanking him for us to be here. To his left was me. And then the old roudy. White beard protruding it explodes like perfume. He has the knack for good times and sees I do the same. Roaming was a man of many flutes and he sang them all. With wine and spirits we weave the kicks into the night.
At this time adventrous souls steeping from a strongly diffrent culture climb into our cave. I take it apon my self to usher them in for the good time. In moments I would become an intrupertur and ambassator between 2 not often crossed worlds, and kick ass they came. Buzzin cousion grabs the drum. The subject of beat was not a forgin ground, but the TPs beat had a deeply diffrent groove. Not even funk. Not at all hiphop. The native ants are not enjoying the nasty dirt scramble in the earlobe. With names I slow Cousion off to calm the peircing waters. I inform him straight I like his is there. Quickly I tell him to back off the beat and bring it back in. I explain that respect in this coulture is not to come blazing until all the mics drop. He sees the integerity I think honestly. He gets my scent. To get a turn on the table ya got to know who's eating. I tell him. These people respect humilitly far beyond any fame. These messages have meaning in his mind he knods back and relaxes. I can speak many languages of english. His mate ignores me. This I make a irrignorable smile and chuckle that he also ignores. I like when I see this. This man has taken the hard front. Whitebeard lets the boy know that he never plays when he is fried. The clashes rumble in my foresight. To set up the diffuse and due to my honest nature, I tell Whitebeard that most of the greats were fried in some way. Toshay (can anyone spell to-shay?). All smiles with bumps and it is the best of times. We make our way into the night somehow and find residence in the green giant.
Dirt and hay were the trails that wondered through the mass of vendors and selfmade vagrents. The sky was constantly moving throwing shade and shine, no one here is exactly on the same trip. No one anywhere really is. In the eyes of some I found the friendlies. Some was a vacent stare either drug or thought induced, or both. Some with lifetimes of banjos. Few had the anger that is present in most clusters of hampsters.
posted by Travis Stanton at 2:19 PM
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