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Street FiddlerJulia VinogradCopyright 1998 Julia Vinograd all rights reserved A young black fiddler naked except for a gold lamé loincloth blowing in the wind, semi-egyptian, and heavy anklets of morris bells high stepped his way down the avenue jaunty hip by step and turn. And I expected to see King Tut tut-tutting after him. But no one gave him more than a glance and a nod for the fiddle work. And suddenly I didn't want to know why. I didn't want the fiddler to be a balancing act between silly and a tarot card like so much of the street. I didn't want hungry meanings to curl around this smile like mosquitoes. I didn't want to see someone following him in ordinary time passing out flyers about a band or a rally or a reason. I've had too many explanations; it's like strangling in health food. I didn't even want a poem he was complete in himself. He came from nowhere, he was lovely and he's gone cradling his old fiddle against his young neck.
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