Bohemian Girl

I see her often, quite a peculiar character. Asked what’s her name, what she did. She says she’s an avant-garde artist, sometimes actress. Transparent are her rehearsed answers. I know better. She’s just another Bohemian from The Village or some pseudo-intellectually savvy purlieu. The ones where they wear their thick square framed glasses lamenting on foreign policy and the peril of man.

It’s easy to tell by her thick eyebrows and the way she ambulates. Oh how so precisely her body flows, in almost dreamy ardor hipness. Her roach infested loft on 8th Street reeks of patchouli incense while the stereo plays Ravi Shankar and then Sun Ra creating a time warp. The mesmeric sounds of that Hindi rhythm. The only means of escaping it is a breath, a simple breath of fresh air.

She claims to paint people’s minds in any color, in any size, for the simple price of a smile. She smiles now. That forced enstretching of the mouth, attempting to feign pain and happiness. She’s not tortured, only pretends to be. She demonstrates her whimsicality in painting my supposed inner-thoughts in a one color stroke of her Be-Bop Beat brush on a canvas with such emotioned anticipation. I saw her now. A bottle of vintaged red wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other showing plenty of strong teeth, she is just a woman and nothing else. All the time going into complete detail of her visions of Salvador Dali as if she were his personal argyle. But I know better. Dali would never appear to anyone who reads Rolling Stone or The New Yorker. Would he?