September 10, 2002
.09.10.02. - prediliction for silence [sappho]

[north jersey]

(james)
it's the picture of a man paused in motion, frame settled upon a turned over bucket, tattered longcoat folded into a neat tailbone preserving pillow, second-hand service boots complimenting nicely the surplus black BDUs that are, get this, beneath a faded gray surplus t-shirt..... now that moves.... probably because of the heavy tribal beat thumped from the steel barrel turned steel drum in this street corner charade

light brown dreadlocks bounce with the beat, his eyes mostly closed - but that amazingly easy grin for some reason still sticks around

whether it's widening for the occasional coinage or bill dropped into the overturned patchwork tophat beside his boot, or perhaps something deeper, something caught up in the rhtyhm that no mere mortal could understand

the cloth based rebar moves in a vision thing tapdance all it's own, trapped flashing in the hands of one homeless vagabond who seems like some gutterball rank got caught up in the wrong derelict carnival at the wrong time

maybe he plays for the money
maybe he plays for himself
maybe.....

(sappho)
Maybe she watches (she: this wiry, small and dark form slung against a stoop) because she's taking the measure of american streets and american street music. Maybe she watches (she: her dark, ripe lips pulling down sullenly) because she (is a Wolf: that is what they do when in the presence of humans. Watch, spectral, from the shadows: and scare) 's disdainful of the male past-time. Gee, look. Banging on a trash can. Isn't that something special.

Maybe it's just because he's that good.

Whatever the reason, for the past five minutes James has snagged a semi-permanent member of his audience, eyeing his grin and his rapid-moving hands... head canted, arms folded, still.

(james)
tis otherwordly, isn't it
like he isn't even there

and maybe he's not, if you perchance could happenstance the intricacies in the tune bashed from what was once only a lowly steel barrel igniting a vagrant's dreams of warmth now turned super-tuned drum of divine devotion, inspiration

and maybe a little magick too

street magick
and those eyes finally open with a wink aimed at a pretty girl, frame so deceptively muscular lifts from the bucket and now the rhytmic thumps being in earnest, doubling, tripling and, even, every once in a while skipping a beat just for flair, just for flavor - just to show what the boy man street performer can really do

(sappho)
all the same; Sappho crosses one leg over the other hooking the crusted-tire-track-heavy edge of her sneakers and rakes a snarl of dark hair back behind one ear. A bag of doritos crackles (aluminum silver siren and sirens' sailors blood red orange) and pops: the sound is lost below the (strangely primitive) candescance of palms against steel and steel against fingers. Beat, beat, beat-- know how that feels.

(james)
like everything primitive - one must progress
and so does the urban tribeman caught in a persistance of time and memory which ebbs and flows from the pulse of muscles tendons hands and rebar against unforgiving steel until there's a climax that - just as with anything - comes entirely too soon

a silence soon heaving from the make-shift drum thick as the breath from a charger
all he has left to offer those gathered is the easy smile which never seems to abandon him

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our performance..... please join us again for regular shows at 2, 5, and midnight, every other Sunday, six times a month....."

(sappho)
it's the voice; makes her narrow her eyes fractionally in contemplation turned truly measuring (or remembering) now. This is what a slicing intellectual glance looks like, folks. Place it. Place it. Popping and crunching a chip into her mouth even as she pulls herself up and (oh, violence) strides across the street. To donate, of course, to charity. Already a crumpled british pound is retrieved and then shoved back to be reborn as an american dollar. Place it. Place it.

This shouldn't be so hard. Her nod is quick. "The next spice boy..." ...Sappho oh-so-friendly greets(a hoarse velvet-over-gravel voice). "...and already he books his tour."


(james)
there a chuckle running rogue from his grin, dark brow lifting

"Oooohh..... Spice Boy is a new one.... but everybody's got to have their goals, hm?"

the overturned patchwork tophat picked up and the change sorted into the collection plates of various pockets, the rest of his gear soon packed or prepared for abandonment

"Here without the braying jackass tonight? Or is he cramping and fashionably late?"


(sappho)
"Ha!" slap. Palm against jean-clad thigh. Memory found. The dollar falls to whatever waiting pile of cash consorts at James' feet and she, "You." Her smirk is the kind of smile which draws from images of blood-dipped brushes and master painters--other wild (wyld) illusions. "I knew you." Her eyes narrow in (raging) amusement: sharp, sharp, sharp. "I believe he's in search of a working loo. Where we're staying not-so-five star."

Sappho offers her palm (a slash of a scar across it). "Name?"

Curt, but. That was her.

(james)
the chuckle develops into a laugh as easily as the casual smile remains, patchwork top hat returned to his head and tipped as if it had been there all along, the other hand responding to the invitation of scar slashed palm

"James Branson, madam, at your service...... sometimes called Jukebox or Drums-on-Skulls depending on the situation, ones like me earn many names in the trade....."

(sappho)
Her nod is edged and quick, dark (wildnymph) eyes flicking to one side then back to the metal-musician again. Xena? No. Xena would have gritted her teeth in a manly way and clutched James' hand for all that she was worth... well, alright. Perhaps Sappho has a strong grip, but it's more because of the leashed energy behind it--chained kinetic--then any need to prove. Anything.

[Appropos.]

"Hope you don't earn any from me; name's Sappho," gracious girl, "also called Silvertongue," or decidedly not.

(james)
not to mention that if she crushed his hand he'd be quite out of luck in earning any money, so he's rather glad she doesn't feel the need to prove anything, actually preferring that she didn't - not all Ahrouns have to constantly raise their hackles

"Considering how much the cramping setter slaps his lips I'm surprised you'd have a chance to call anyone names, Sappho."

winked in his grin, released grip put to work lifting and settling the longcoat over his shoulders before soon following suit with the Alice pack of his wordly posessions, slight longing filling him at the empty street save him and the warrior, but one can only do so much in a night, one supposes

"Is your group heading South for the same reason I am?"

(sappho)
Her smile.
[says volumes]

Then.

Sappho slashes another glance to the left; ordinarily edgy or just the stink of the city? (and is it the city in general or a particular odorous stench individual to this one alone) Her hands find a place in her pockets, hip slumped up as she slouches around to his other side. Monster in man's clothing, examining her small shoe for gum--smeared gray against the worn and tattered web of (weaver's) cracks on cement.

"Bloody disgusting."
Then.
"That would depend, mate, on what reason your group was heading south."

(james)
muscular shoulders shrug beneath the weight of coat and pack with little worry of strain - the city itself of little worry to him, he's visited far worse

"No group.... just me. The barking chain spoke of a certain nastiness down South which I was sent to check out."

(sappho)
her head cants, 'gain. he has her full attention. (thick like honey) then, "loner?"

(james)
"That's an interesting concept....."

grinned, for one such as he, is ever truly alone?

"Not in the larger picture.... but let's say I don't have the backup that you do."

though packless, indeed, is he


(sappho)
idly sappho knocks her elbow and her hip into the over-turned steel barrel, drumdadum without real rhythm (but you know. the city. the city). "Hah, solo-artists screw up their second acts," her voice is curlingly disdainful. "Look what happened to that," layers of brooding silence between each word, "orange-haired.... spice girl."

Then, "I reckon plays-with-prick would like some boytime. Obsessed with fairies, he is."

Grin. Wicked.
Fades almost as quick as it surfaced.

(james)
but the wicked grin surely does not walk alone, one creepcrawling across his own lips as well

"He does enjoy talking to his..... little friend."

his head cants beneath the patchwork tophat

"So what are you saying?"

(sappho)
"Not," (suddenly protective?, "that I've noticed a prediliction for silence in your case." Harsh.

Crunch, crisp, break--another chip. Her steady gaze, unwavers; "Don't be a loner. Stop by whenever you can bring your yankee ass to be sociable, if you like."

(james)
"You've never before requested there be silence."

a wink to break her steady gaze into his own eyes

"I'll keep that in mind, Sappho, thank you, I think I would rather enjoy it........ give the braying jackass my regards, hm?"

another smile, before coattails billow in the turn which takes him in search of tonight's cardboard palace

Posted by james at September 10, 2002 12:00 AM
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