A few weeks after the Double Aurora, I drove to yoga class at the gym, and when I arrived, I parked and lay down in the back seat with the doors open to rest my back as I usually do after I drive. (I have a bad back.) In the back seat, I took out my journal and wrote this:
My penmanship on my back isn’t great, so here’s what it says:
“After a decade of breakthrough discoveries and signs in the heavens on steroids, it is starting to dawn on me that I am being called to do something important. I am seeking sage advice and counsel from a wise council, to found a major new world ideology.”
After I wrote this, I thought of all the times I had laid down in the back seat with the doors open in parking lots, and recalled that only once in a decade did anyone notice. (One hot summer afternoon years ago, a young lady inquired if I was alright. I explained to her I had a bad back.)
Today I had parked in a different area than I usually use, and a moment later, a car pulled in beside me. A lady got out and I heard a metallic knocking sound. She was knocking on my car’s fender. I rose to greet her and she handed me a package, saying “Would you like this shirt? It looks like your size.” I accepted her gift graciously and she want off in the direction of the gym. She was right. The shirt was my size (S).
So a moment after writing this passage in my journal, someone materializes from out of the blue and hands me a new shirt.
It could stop there, but it doesn’t. When I walked into the gym a few minutes later, I caught up with the lady who gave me the shirt and thanked her again. She seemed very happy. She explained she had bought the shirt for her son but he didn’t want it. She told me her name was J.J. (As a teenager, I was called Jay.)
The yoga classroom door opened and we both entered the room to discover a substitute teacher. Now the class usually does yoga to music, but wait a minute — that’s not yoga music she’s putting on. It sounds more like rock. Soft rock, but still rock. Well, no problem here. Bring it on. Substitute teacher, anything goes.
The tracks open with Procol Harum’s A Whiter Shade of Pale; a hippie anthem if ever there was one. Then came a strange sound. What is that? Alannah Miles? I haven’t heard that in decades. The last time I heard Black Velvet was in Phoenix in 1990. I remember it because it spoke to me then.
Black velvet and that little boy smile
Black velvet and that slow southern style
A new religion that’ll bring you to your knees
Black velvet if you please…
Listen
The moment I arrived back home, I asked my wife, Rita, to photograph the shirt.
I knew it was made by “IDC,” whoever they were, and that was enough for me. But my smart wife read the label and informed me who IDC was.
I rest my case.
To learn more about my work, click here: Buddha Gene
To read the first article in this series, click here: Double Aurora
J.L. Mee
May 3, 2019
© 2019 John Mee All rights reserved.
