“When I’m sad, she comes to me… With a thousand smiles, she gives to me free… It’s alright she says it’s alright… Take anything you want from me, anything… Anything.”
James Marshall Hendrix, Musician, 1942–1970
Vitor Weiss strode forcibly down Ocean Avenue Southward. Angela Weiss had voluntarily supplied the location runes, poked him with her finger, giggled, granted him the appropriate ley lines. Brought him coffee black double espresso cream no sugar. Real cream.
The Tom Tom Spell-Box burned traces inside the borrowed retinae. Titanium flame rivers dividing divining destiny across glassy plains of azurite. Vitor Weiss tasted the copper landscape, sniffed it. An oncoming migraine reminding him of serenity vanquished. Stasis never again. A few tears dried in the harsh December Wind.
It had been a long day. Tungsten fire rolling across the Pigment Blue Shell containing all the goodness and laughter gifts of Angela Weiss. Brilliant white gulls, fat, impeccably attired, cruised for sustenance. The music, she called it, of Shaman Jimi drowned out the otherwise desirable expansions and contractions of waters worrying the slippery algae covered rocks like teeth of drowned sailors.
Shaman Jimi Song, blasting, guiding, held tightly within Vitor Weiss. Forever, he vowed.
It was the Raven-Priests who conjured Jimi. There seemed to be no end to the variety of sanctuaries, shelters, and temples for the too-many Vitors and Angelas… But!
Flat Screen was the residence of Shaman Jimi. The Raven-Priests, Loud-Speakers, they were named, resembled monoliths of obsidian, grandly styled, bearing charcoal textile tapestry garments of priesthood. It was the activity inside that priestly weave which moved Vitor Weiss so irresistibly!
Flat Screen materialized, coming up much like the sun above the marble terrace outdoors, but no! From the impossible blackness of the flooring inside that residence of sublimity. Library, she said. Any religion this magnificent, capable of managing Flat-Screen-Rising was a force to be careful with; although Vitor would not act upon impulse.
But — if trouble came from it — he would act fiercely effectively rescuing tiny bird-Angela, white, pink, scented like hyacinth flowers.
An unlikely Djinni, intense but friendly? Resembling dark Vitor more than pink glowing angel-Angela. A warrior, based on his size and height. Brandishing… What?
He gripped confidently something resembling a small tree, reverently, but this could all turn bad really quick! Bells clamored inside Vitor’s tightly-organized mind, fashioned after Man In His Image. That little tree, sprouted ornate pegs and silvery lines inlaid, forming laddered patterns, then terminated at another arrangement of even more odd-looking pegs with alternating tiny vertical posts inserted into white and titanium rectangles. What?
This Jimi Djinni motioned and waved hand-spells fluidly in greeting. That, in turn inspired the Raven-Priests to distribute a blessing. Angela said, “Rock.” Angela said, “Music.” Vitor knew of rocks. Music?
Vitor studied the awesome one occupying Flat Screen. Color of garden earth, large gleaming pearl teeth, capable of rending flesh, ample nostrils for moving the air in sufficient quantities to conjure a lethal storm directed against he, Vitor and Angela. Once more, again fear and trouble resulting from Angela’s undisciplined magick! The fierce questionable one moved his face. Delicate dark shrubbery chased his dusky features.
Vitor Laughed Softly at the day. Vitor Walked The Violet Night.