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RAMBLIN WAYN -- ART
Music- Poetry- Paintings LIVIN' IS AN ART - VIRTUAL GALERY
THE MYSTERIOUS MUSICALLY GATHERING AT SETE CORAÃÃES, BRAZIL by Ramblin' Wayn
Short-story devided in 5 chapters
1 The sun was a-shining like a villain, while Juan Rojo stared at the bleak road, where birds of preys circling full excitement close to the ground, lookin' for lifeless body's. Juan was dressed in a old jean and filthy white shirt, his hair, now with threads of silver, plunged at his shoulder. He was wearing black leather sandals and a rawhide guitarbag balanced at his back. He was sixty-five now and appeared to be a half-gipsy with a beard full of silver strings. This time he came from Caracas, Venezuela, where he lived for the last six years, before that, he stayed, our let me say this more evident, he rambled through Mexico and Guatemala. The reason that he ended up here around Cicero Dantas was a kind of destiny, just like his life always had been. It's a long time since he said farewell to the world in which he had sunk, a irregular world full of fame, fortune and sadness. Away from Memphis, Tennessee. He wanted to live another life, a new and it should be a penitence. He took another name: Juan Rojo, worked on farms, factory's, constructions, was a tramp and played in small immortal bars a long the way. In Guatemala he lived together, just for a while, with a little hooker named Pluta. She reminded him, and this were Juan words, of his mother. But all went wrong and he started drinking, said goodby to Pluta ant went for Caracas, where he lived in region where crime was a passion and booze a normative obsession. But everywhere he went he took along his biggest love, his Gibson 1958, his support and remembrance of the things he always loved. And there was a another thing he couldn't get rid off: his love for music, the blues, country and gospel, the crying of the negro's way down at the lonely bars in the heart of old Memphis, and the spritual voice of big mama Loretta, which sang the words of the lord in that little sunday morning church. There was not a single day he didn't sang "How great thou art", and when he got too sentimental he crossed over to 'That's all right mama', a commitment to the woman he loved mostly. Well, Caracas was a living hell, and one night he got that stoned drunk, he reached a coma and stayed in there for two days, and while laying on his belly he throw up the fat-milk he drunk after two bottles of cheap rum, which assisted him to escape from a definite alcohol-poisoning. Anyway, he woke up in the rotten hotel 'Concordia' and the the first thing he did was looking for his Gibson, his wooden love. Then he saw the cockroaches dancing like ballerinas, while littlle rats racing across the room, over the tear-down sheets of the worn-out bed. It was like a destiny-circus, a world without meanings. He stood up, stumbled to the handbasin, but there was no water, no salvation! Just the horrible smell of a dung-hole, cockroaches and rats! But one of the rats took his attention, when it escaped through a litlle hole beneath the door and he saw the playing-card. It was a 'seven of hearts' with on the edge of the card the words: Bahia, Brazil. 'Amazinly,' he thought. How came this card beneath that door... and who put it there? That was the question! He started thinking, but his brains were a bunch of homeless jelly-fish, but then there was a light; this card múst be a sign, a mark to a place? In the Potuguese langue it signifies 'Sete Coraçôes' or 'Seven Hearts'; a place named Seven Hearts. Right, thats the answer. Many times he looked back at his life, a glorious one, than it became real, surreal, and because of that secrecy was not strange to him. The name on the card fascinated him, so he embraced a new direction.