A Place Called Pasaquan

By Peter Bowden


He woke with the sun creeping in across the tile floor, a beam slicing the dust like it was holy light. The cats were already at the door, weaving between his legs, wordless and wise. Coffee bubbled on the stovetop, and he sat shirtless in the kitchen, a red bandanna tied loose around his neck, sketching spirals on the back of a gas bill envelope.

By mid-morning, the air had thickened. He stepped barefoot across the yard, past walls dressed in color—turquoise, saffron, flame. Every inch of the place pulsed with rhythm. His paintbrush moved like a prayer. He talked to the faces he’d carved in stucco, whispered things no one else could hear. Spirits. Ancients. Futures. “We’re not gone,” they seemed to say. “We’re just painted into the walls now.”

Lunch was boiled peanuts and a warm Coke, eaten in the shade beside the mandala tower. He rolled a cigarette, watched clouds pass like slow thoughts. Later, he’d tell a visitor that he wasn’t crazy, just connected. “You don’t see what I see,” he’d say. “But it’s all here.” And when evening fell, and the frogs began to sing their deep, wet hymn, St. EOM stood beneath the stars, arms crossed, heart open, wondering if tomorrow would bring another vision—or if today’s colors would be enough.

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