The smell of cigarettes and whisky filled my nostrils as I make my way down into the darkened lounge. It’s crazy that I would find one here, especially in a town like this, but here I am, standing in my newly thrifted satin-like dress, looking around and taking in the aroma.
Soft jazz plays quietly in the background as a woman tells a passionate story on the mic. I make my way over to the bar and order a gin & tonic, taking it all in. In the dim lighting, you can see various artworks by local artists covering the brick walls. Various types of chairs circle the stage with a few mismatched tables sprinkled in for good measure. Old couches are placed in corners to create little nooks where people have more intimate conversations.
The stage is the focal point, simple but powerful with its thick velvet curtains and single mic stand that is currently being used by a poet. The crowd is a mixture of people from all walks of life, from college kids to older artists and even some finance bros. They’re all here either taking in the scene, reading in the corner, having debates, or preparing for their turn on the mic.
This is my scene. This is Bohemia to me. Something I knew to be true when I was younger but couldn’t quite put into words or aesthetic. To me, being a bohemian is not about traveling the world like a vagabond or going on spiritual retreats. While that is the vibe for some, it’s not the only essence of bohemianism.
Bohemianism is turning your life into art. It’s about freely expressing yourself, no matter the looks or the comments you get because the way you present yourself is your art, your expression. It’s not about being fanciful with designer duds or having the latest and greatest; it’s about creation.
When I set out on this journey, I did it with one goal in mind: to live my life as I see fit and find my people. That led me to a lot of joy and pain but ultimately, it took me back to art. A simpler time of feeling grass under my feet, the sun on my back, and music in my ears (à la my hippie era) to my tattoo era and now my self-expression era.
Bohemians live life on their terms and put honoring themselves and their journey and art above all else because we know it’s all we have and what is left of us when we go. It’s not just tribal prints and dreadlocks; it is a life full of passion, living in the moment, and finding beauty in the mundane.
Looking around this room, you don’t see any phones, no one snapping pictures, just a group of people vibing. This is bohemianism. The poet’s set ends and everyone snaps or claps. She bows then slowly looks up and scans the crowd. When we lock eyes, a small smile appears on the corners of her mouth. I smile back and sip my drink. It’s my friend Cornetta. She invited me down to see her set thousands of times and I finally made the trip. I’ve known Coretta for as long as I can remember and she has always been a passion seeker. Whether that be in love, or career paths she is always there for the artistry of life and finding her next great love. It’s something so admirable to live life on your own terms, she’s strong in that way.
She leaves the stage and makes her way to me. You wouldn’t know it by her stage presence, but Cornetta is possibly one of the most bubbly people you’ll ever meet. Always has a smile and a kind word to say, but when you get her on stage she talks with the passion of the ancestors.
“I’m so glad you made it!” she says to me, giving me a huge hug.
“Yes, finally!” I respond, matching her energy.
“I have something to tell you about Mahogany from last night,” she says with a sparkle in her eye.
“What happened?” I ask, leaning closer in anticipation.
Cornetta’s eyes light up with the excitement of telling a story. She launches into the tale of her evening with Mahogany, painting vivid scenes with her words. From the charming bar to the moonlit stroll, every detail is infused with passion and anticipation.
As she recounts their moment of intimacy, her voice softens with vulnerability. “I couldn’t go through with it,” she admits, her eyes searching mine for understanding. “I really like him, and I don’t want it to go somewhere and not be able to make it back.”
I nod, offering a reassuring smile. “That’s a fair assumption. There’s nothing wrong with waiting to see where it goes before you share your energy with him.”
“Right, but when he left, he gave me a look of such irritation and disappointment that I’ve never seen before,” she confesses, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I haven’t spoken to him since. Maybe I should have just done it.”
I shake my head, placing a comforting hand on hers. “You should never have to have sex to get a man to stay. If he doesn’t value you with your clothes on, then he doesn’t deserve to see you with them off.”
She sighs, her shoulders relaxing with a newfound resolve. “Yeah, but girl, I was ready! I just couldn’t. Something was off. Like my body didn’t melt in his presence; it tensed up. I’ve never had anything like that happen.”
“It’s a sign. Don’t do it,” I reassure her, squeezing her hand gently.
“Yeah, but now I want to see the darkness, you know? What’s going on in there?”
“Some things just aren’t worth it. You don’t want that energy put on you,” I caution, my tone gentle but firm.
“Right. Time to grow up and realize I deserve a man who doesn’t make me feel obligated to do something with him just because he did something nice for me,” she says, her voice filled with determination.
“Exactly,” I say, raising my glass in a silent toast to her newfound clarity. As the music swells around us, lifting our spirits, I know that no matter what, we’ll always find our way back to the light.
With love & moonlight,
Vintessa
Sacred musings | Mystic practices | Soft heart, wild spirit