The document is a story told in three parts between a man and a young woman at an urban music jam session. They use their imagination to tell an unfolding story about riding on the back of a large green mythical creature through a colorful forest. Their story explores themes of adventure, imagination, connection, and trusting one's inner guidance.

1. An Urban Burn Story.
My jam session comes to an end. After hours of playing the tangerine colored Stratocaster, laying heavy
beats, deep rhythms with sax, piano, flute, dangerous drums and vocals by the blue haired girl, someone
asks for the guitar. I give it up and hand it over to a Rock ´n´ Roll Jesus looking type of person, he has the
look I always wanted to have. I feel like giving up a part of me, but what the fuck, so is life. I sit on the
amplifier and takes a sip of my beer, feeling a little left out. I takein the feeling of being in a band and
now being outside it. I remember a saying someone shared with me a long time ago; “When one door
closes another one opens”. The ego acts in mysterious ways. Nothing has changed, I am still in a room
with great musicians. I too can pick up any instrument I´d like.
Happy with that thought, my eyes start wander around the room of the Urban Burn jam session room,
filled with people, some playing, taken by the new beats, some watching, others standing in the doorway,
halfway in – still making up the mind if to step in or not. I look around for open doors. My eyes stop. I see
a girl, half my age, sitting by herself at the wall, listening to the music. She seems to be waiting for
something. I ease my way through the room. I grab a drum looking instrument on my way to her. I sit
down next to her and start to move the drum to the rhythm of the music.
I look at it. It has the round form of a drum. Inside it there must be one thousand small led bullets. When I
move it sideways it gives sounds like waves splashing over rocks. I turn it around a couple of times. Now it
is the wind that comes to play with the waves of the ocean. I lean towards the girl, moving my instrument,
following the rhythm. And without looking her I ask her to share a story with me. Our shoulders meet for
a second. She asks: “What about?” “This”, I turn the drum instrument around again, the sound of the
waves, splashing upon the rocks, laughing and cheering.
“It is the ocean, and the wind”, she says, smiling, her eyes fixed on a point far away in. I fill in: “Can you
hear the happy cries from the naughty and playful wind? Teasing the waves to frenzy one minute, to
calmness the next? She looks at me and with a very serious tone shares her thoughts on the wind: “I

2. imagine the wind as a kid, maybe five years old, old enough to know exactly what he is doing but very
very naughty.” We both watch as my hands move the drum is various directions, up down, around,
rocking back and forth. She: “Yeah, it is that wind kid again. Playing and watching the reactions, hiding
and showing up when not expected. And the waves, patient, old and loves the massage from the wind.
The rocks, resembling life, holding space until time has come to transform into sand.”
I take a closer look at her. What strikes me is her eyes, so present and alert. They are blue or green. It is
hard to tell in the low light. She has a thin body, all covered in a black dress, nylon stockings with stripes
on them, in some random pattern. No shoes, tiny little feet.
I urge her to continue the story, it can’t end yet, she has merely started. She leans against my shoulder,
lifting her gazeand starts whispering. “I stand on the edge of the cliff. I feel the wind a memory of winter
and the promise of summer.” I can see her standing on the edge from above. I let myself fly in a circle
around her, watching her silently spreading her arms, facing the ocean. If she took one step more, she´d
fall. I see her calm face.
Our story begins here, at a place high above the waves, standing on the very edge of the cliff, with the
wind in ours faces. The powerful wind built up against the face of the cliff. A wind almost so strong that it
can hold us if we were to lean on it, stopping a fall over the cliff. Birds soaring below, talking to each other
with a language not understandable to the human ear. I take in this picture, store it in my mind. The
closeness to her, we stand a few feet apart, seeing the same ocean, hearing the same sound of birds and
waves. We are no longer in a room full of musicians, sweating as they focus on the rhythm, keeping eye
contact with each other, feeling each other.
I look down on my feet. I see they areplanted in the warm green grass, long enough to cover my ankles. I
move the drum and reflect over the picture in my mind. Our shoulders are still connected, our bodies
have turned slightly towards each other.
How did we come here? This story has no start and no end. That is the nature of the story and a challenge
for men who wants to know what is going to happen next or how everything started. Remember: there is
no starting point and a story never ends. If you would ask the wind to tell you when he took his first swivel
or what he will do when he is finished with blowing at the earth, do you think he will even understand the
question?
My elbow softly alerts her, it is time to continue the story. I let the drum takea turn. “It is that wind
again.” She says. “It is that that time of the day when the day is getting cooler and the sun sends its last
rays over the edge of the cliff, waving its goodbyes. We better find a place to sleep.” She continues: “We
turn around to look for a place to sleep. There is a tent with a light hanging inside form the pole. Blankets
and sleeping bags promise a warm and comfortable rest.” The musicians let the rhythm slows down. The
blue haired girl (is she from japan?) hums soft words in her microphone. She sits for herself, with the
knees tight to her chest. I ask my friend: “Can it rain? I love rain at night, it is so cozy knowing that I will be
dry and still so close to the rain.” “Yes, of cause!” She continues, now sitting in front of me, drawing the
story with her arms, making a painting in the air. “We wake up in the middle of the night, alerted by
raindrops falling on the tent. First a few drops, the more and more until they are showering the tent in a
slow steady rhythm. Cozy, it is easy to lay down and let the rhythm of the rain relax us.”

3. I take the lead in the story: “A bright light finds its way through the entrance of the tent. Straight in my
eyes it forces me to wake up. I feel I will have to pee. I struggle my way out of the warm blanket and
despite the hold of the sleeping bag I crawl out of the tent. I find my shoes and realizes that they are
dripping wet. What a sensation to put warm feet into wet shoes! I go to the edge of the cliff ad pee into
the air. Wow! As I pee I greet the waves, the birds and the wind.” She looks at me smiling, a little
surprised: “Do you like to do that? Peeing outside?” I think of her impression of me: For her I must be as
old as her father, naked chest, bald with nerd aviator glasses. A person she never seen before, sweaty
from playing the tangerine colored guitar. What if she thinks I am a freak? Suddenly I remember myself at
Burning Man last year. There I was perfectly normal, so why not here as well? I give her a short nod and a
big smile. No words are necessary.
She starts talking again, her eyes are fixed on one of the drummers. Later I learned the name he had
taken, drum Jesus. “Suddenly there is a lightning, a flash, coming straight from the blue sky! No clouds?
We get awareof a change in the energy field. Something different is here. In the clearing of the forest
stands a large fluffy animal, color of lime green. It is large, 8 meters or more, high like a two-story house.
Largeas an elephant, long as small buss, soft as a long haired fluffy mat. Its big friendly eyes look at us
with a silent smile, waiting. It waves its head to invite us to come ride on its back. We walk here, holding
hands. We feel its heart and know it has been looking for us, it has been lonely for a long time. It needs a
heart connection, a human connection to feel whole.” My friend stop and ask me if we can ride on our
fluffy, green new friend. “Yes, it wants us to ride on it!”
She continues: “We clime upon its back and grabs the pink handles, big fluffy handles, triangular shaped.
They areperfect handles. The same moment that it feels we are seated it jumps high above the tree tops.
We see the big forest, a forest with no end to it.” I ask. “Can it crawl?” She smiles: “Of-cause it can. It can
do whatever we want it to do.”
In our minds, we both feel how the fluffy, lime green swaying animal it goes down low, almost crawling
around the trees. And up again, a jump higher than before, low and up, low and up in a wave like fashion.
Fast, slow, high, low, from left to the right, from the right to the left. Above the trees, around the trees.
One moment we are in the sky and the next close to the ground. The rhythm of the music supports the
movements.
“Somehow it senses it is time to eat and rest so the movements and pace gets slower and slower. Finally,
it stops in a clearing. We climb down for the back. Where can we find food in this unknown forest?” My
friend claps her hands, almost jumps up and down as she realizes the solution, “the place is color coded,
what looks tasty is tasty and what looks safe is safe.”
I continue: “In a close by treelarge banana shaped fruits, pink and mango yellow points at us. The hang
just above our heads, teasing us.” At this point of the story I need to take a break and think. What could
solve the problem? I frown and put my hand to my chin, something I always do when difficulties areat
hand. She looks at me, expecting a solution. I catch myself liking her look, she is beautiful in a wild,
untamed way. “I put my hands together and you put you one of your feet on my human step, now reach
up and take the fruit!”

4. She: “Can I taste?” She has the look of a child just about to open a Christmas gift. “Mm, the sweet tasteof
mango mixed with the pink of that of the dragon fruit. But there is another tastealso. What can it be? Its
wild strawberries. “
Our imaginations take the same path without words, our minds drift as we both look around the room. It
is not big, people in every corner, dressed in odd clothes outside this room, in here they areperfectly
normal. We rest our minds for a while, connected by the shoulders.
She takes the lead: “We let go of the fruits as the connection with our fluffy friend comes back. Maybe it
is hungry too? Will it like the flowers I picked earlier from the grassy field by the cliff? Maybe it would like
to eat these? I offer our green fluffy friend the flowers. Gently it lets its long blue tongue takethe food
form my open palm, eating and smiling, its big eyes roll in the eye sockets with joy.”
My turn: “It is time to rest. We both sense the calmness of the place. The area is small as a basketball
court. It is surrounded by the dense forest; the largetrees stretch up towards the sky. The blue sky forms
a hole in the center of this hide-away. Let’s build a shelter. On the edge of the clearing there are some
stones. We´ll a roof if the rain will visit us again.” She puts a a hand on mine: “But we don’t want to break
anything in this sacred place, right?” I calm her: “Close to the stones there area couple of big leaves
hanging. Maybe we can stretch them just a little bit, just enough to cover our shelter?” She nods. “It turns
out that this green roof is very flexible and will be the perfect roof for us. But we need a fire to keep us
warm. We have wood but no fire. And then we remember: our new friend can shoot lightnings!” She
smiles, she remembers too.
I see that my friend Dick is half-laying at my feet. Is he listening or just enjoying the feeling of our joyful
conversation. I don’t know. Maybe he is following the music. I feel good about him, I feel safe when he is
around.
“Can I take the lead?” She smiles broader now. I feel that things areabout to change. “The evening comes
slow: shelter, roof, fire. Something is missing; we had water and sweet food. We need something salty.
Maybe roosted nuts? I have salt in my pocket (from a fast food restaurant). Look! There is a squirrel
looking at us for a position on the ground, next to a large tree! And behind there is a hole in the tree. The
squirrel jumps away and disappears in the green forest. Let us see if it has a stash of food in that hole. I
come back with a handful of nuts to roast.” I ask: “Will the squirrel miss then?” She shakes her head: “It is
now early spring and it will find new food in the forest now.”
A sudden change in the music alerts me, the story is put to a halt. I feel it is getting time to part ways with
my friend. For how long have we been talking? Must have been one hour or more. Dick is gone, so are
some of the musicians, they are replaced by others, the song seems to be unchanged, just played by other
people. Is it so that this room only can play one rhythm?
I realize that there was something else that had to be done before we break up. I have an important
message to here, brought in my heart for a long time. From a time, long before she was born. I take her
hands and hold them tight.
I looked deep into her eyes. “I want to tell you something about me that you don’t know. I studied the art
of fortune telling in Tibet for five years. I had to stay in a damp monastery with almost nothing to eat and

5. only the stony flour to sleep on. I was beaten up by the monks if I made a single mistake in my readings of
the future. They knew about their own future so they knew If I did the smallest mistake they would hit me
with a stick (I still have bruises on my back). The oldest monk said: What if the person who you tell the
future believes in you? And lives that future you showed her and it will turn out bad for her? I learned
indeed very fast. I often I wondered why I went through such painful times. Now I am happy I did endure”
“Do you want me to tell you about your future?” I ask.
“Yes, please do!” She says with a bid smile, nodding her head up and down to reinforce the yes, urging me
to tell her right now.
I give her my drum, shows her how to hold it, watching her move it with subtle movements, up and down,
from side to side. The drum sounds like waves splashing over cliffs, resembling the sounds of the
beginning of our journey.
“There are three keys to read the future, the monks taught me. The first key is to watch how you move
the drum, is it with slow movements or fast? Do you have an even pace or vary the pattern of movements
with sudden changes?” I look at her steady hands and then, again in her eyes. I put my hands onto hers.
“I feel you want your life to be smooth, predictable, controlled. But the fact that you are here at Urban
Burn tells me that you had an open heart for new things that crosses your path. To find them You may
need to jump off at the wrong bus stop or talk to a total stranger like me to find what you really need in
life. I mean we found each other at a jam session a late Saturday night at Urban Burn in Stockholm,
creating a beautiful story and there are hundreds of other people you could have talked to instead of me
here. What is the probability of our meeting?” I look at her to sense her reaction. She takes a deep gulp of
air: “How did you know? I just stumble into things and just in the right time too.”
“Do you want to hear about the next key?” I ask. She nods again, shining, leaning closer to me, still with a
firm hold of the drum.
“Ok”. I move my hands over her body. Starting from the root chakra, moving slowly over her chest and
head. I go back to the place where I felt most heat: her heart. The heart is connected with her eyes,
passionate and wise at the same time.
“I feel you have the power of a passionate and loving person, trusting your heart. It will lead your way,
continue to put your trust in it.” She looks at me, a little confused. “But can I really do that?” She asks.
“There are bad things out there.” Her eyes are fixed on mine. Her hands lay relaxed in her lap, the drum is
put aside. I look silently at her, our hearts are beat in the same beat as the music. I answer as simple as I
can; “Yes you can, you have always had that gift”.
A few moments pass as she processes the information. I look around the room. The musicians have just
changed to a bluesy style of guitar led jam. Drums in the back, organs in the front. The blue haired girl has
got company from a girl dressed in a Christmas red jumper and skirt. They hum softly a tune in chorus. My
friend grabs my attention again: “What is the third key? You must tell me!” Her presence feels very
strong. “Ok”, I say, “everyone talks about it, but few knows about their own”. I pause for a moment. “You
know already about it, you showed me the way. Do you remember how I approached you? I asked you to
tell me a story and so you did. You talked about the smell of the wind, how it brought the memory of the
winter and the promise of the summer to you” She says “Yes, I do”. She claps her hands in excitement.

6. “Tell me, tell me”. “Your talent is your ability to imagine, to fantasize.” I point out in the room, to all the
people there and ask her: “How many people outside the burning man community could createa fantasy
like you just did? How many can feel the memory of the winter and the promise of the summer in the
wind? I think out of ten thousand people only very few have access to their imagination. If the power of
their imagination would be resembling the strength of a light it would be very dark out there. You need to
shine for them and show them the gift they have forgotten.” She looks at me, surprised, eyes wide open.
She puts her hands to cover her open mouth and for a moment her movements freeze. After an eternity,
she put her hands onto mine: “My name is Hele. In Estonian language, it means light.” I reply and nod in
agreement, “Your parents knew about your talent.”
We both stop to ponder on this fact. I feel a sensation in my body. I was right, the destiny led my way
through a series of unpredictable, un imaginable steps of events to this evening, to this girl. Our ways
crossed at the right time, in the right place. A message is asked for and a message is delivered. My request
for her story, her imagination, was my secret password, her story was hers. Just as a lock needs a key, the
key is useless without a lock. Our meeting must have been planned for a very long time. By whom? The
gods? Does it really matter?
I sense that she must go now, her body moves in such a way, she is folding her legs under her body,
placing the weight on her hands, placed firm at the floor where we are sitting. I ask her if she want to hear
the short version of her future. She nods, now half standing, her body facing the room, ready to jump up
and leave. “You simply have to get off at the wrong bus stop, let your heart lead your way and use your
imagination” I say, smiling. She gives me one last look and asks if she can give me a hug. We both stand up
for the hugging. Then she simply leaves with a few words hanging in the air as she moves across the room:
“I must leave now, I have to jump of at the wrong bus station”. With a smile and the blink of an eye she is
swallowed by the crowd.
I sit alone for a little while and listen to the music. I look around the room and see that my guitarlies
alone on the floor, silently waiting for someone to transform its shape and form to sound. It is time to
rock, to lay down some heavy rhythms again. The tangerine Stratocaster fits me nice. Soon I am caught in
a beat again, same but different. I feel lighter, relieved and revived. I realizethat the roots of the rhythms
do not have anything to do with the outside, if you aregood-looking or not. The rhythms are rooted in the
heart (and some of them in the depth of the root chakra). I ask Drum Jesus to give me a fresh beat.
The end.
This is a true story, it took place in the jam room Saturday night at Urban Burn. I cannot tell the difference
of a make-up story from a real one. Maybe it was no story, maybe we actually went there, to the cliff,
rode the green fluffy friend, atethose mango pink banans and stole nuts from a squirrel. The only thing I
know for sure is that the future of the girl will come true. That was why we met. /j
.