Walter Kist & the Seven Whorls Chapter 9

Jesus pamphlets, chewed bubblegum, poker chips. I used to get some strange stuff in my busker hat. One day among the coins and bills I found a shiny silver tube of lipstick in a shade called Drop Dead Red. The very next day there was a plastic compact of grey eye shadow named Gunmetal. The day after that, a bottle of purple nail polish called Deadly Nightshade.

A theme was afoot and it made me uneasy. My mind wandered to Irma Tragalean, cuckolded cosmetician. Could this be her work? Had she burned my image into her brain the day she saw Kist’s photo of me? And perhaps like a methodical assassin, gone tracking down each and every member of her husband’s harem?

I considered going to the police but didn’t know what I’d say - “I’m a mime and someone has put morbidly named makeup in my bowler.” I figured they’d laugh me right out of the station unless I could give them more than that.

For instance, I could tell them that the enraged wife of a guy who used to regularly pay me for sex had once seen a photo of me. I decided against this line of action and brushed aside my fears. Choosing power over pith, I went back to work the next day.

Coming out of a deep bow at show’s end I saw a woman walking away through the crowd who looked like Irma from the back. And in my hat, black eye shadow named Coffin Dust. Breathlessly, I high-tailed it back to my secret room where I scribbled a note to Kist: “Deathly cosmetics in my hat and a red dress with football shoulder pads walking away through the crowd…”

My heart was beating erratically as I crumpled the note and lay down. Calming my breath, I imagined light-filled bursts of colour emanating from each centre in my body. As I envisioned myself becoming a human prism, it occurred to me that just as Kist was sort of thumbing his nose at the whorls, I was embracing them.

No doubt I’d have been better off at that moment with a shot of Ambra's limencello than with a head full of rainbow light. Soon enough though darkness encased me. I fell asleep and dreamed I was at the beach in my sun-yellow suit when Kist pulled up in a daffodil-yellow rescue boat to take me home.

When I awoke, I struggled up through a thickness of fatigue and the threatening darkness of the windowless room. Staggering out onto the terrace I tried to breathe the Manipura light of the setting sun but it felt like coffin dust in my lungs.

October 81.

Dearest Anahata,

The root chakra anchors your spirit in the physical plane. Its colour is red. Not the red of a battlefield but the red of rubies and cardinals in the snow. Not Holly Golightly’s mean reds but the red of a sunset over English Bay.

The kid in my photograph looked like she was feeling way too anchored in the physical plane when I spotted her on the outskirts of Athens. Turns out her dad was in the city on business (they are Brits) and he’d left the kid to her own devices. With nothing else shaking she was game to play my game.

I gave her a quick rundown of what I was up to then asked her to strike a few poses with my bottle of rose liqueur. I turned my back on her and placed my camera at my tailbone (Muludhara is at the base of the spine).

Look, she's feeding it to Alexander the Great! Alex would’ve been turning in his grave, for it is thought that what killed him was poison from a Christmas Rose.

My camera-shy pal who made this liqueur said that one must pick highly scented red roses early in the morning before the sun has drawn out their perfume. I could think of nothing I would like better (well, maybe one thing – when am I going to see you?) and it explains why this elixir tastes so sweet and rosy.

At the end of the shoot the punk said (smiling innocently) that someday when she was older she hoped to try rose liqueur. It wasn’t until I developed the film that I realized her little joke.

She reminded me of you, Anahata. Not just because of her blonde hair and Vishuddha-blue eyes but because of her irreverent attitude and skepticism when I told her about the seven centers.

Yes, she certainly reminded me of you - but then so much reminds me of you. Roses in the morning remind me of you.

Love,

Kist