I don’t know that s/he was really a shaman, but s/he was the most likely candidate for one in that subway car, two-spirited, maintaining garland pose no matter how the train lurched or jolted, carrying a hand carved wooden staff adorned with beads, ribbons and feathers. And the only person besides me who could see the Shadow Person (for lack of a better term).
I learned that term “Shadow People” after posting a sketch of a hallucination (again for lack of a better term) I saw one night in our Qlipphotic cesspool of an abandoned factory.
Someone brought up this apparently worldwide phenomenon on Facebook. If you do a search on “Shadow People” you can find a whole number of theories about them. I don’t know if I believe any of them, but it’s entertaining reading on a cold winter night.
Anyhow, this was a biting winter day, which wasn’t stopping the hipsters from their annual January no-pants subway ride, icicles dangling off their ass-cheeks and all. Designated Subway Shaman was taking the opportunity to curse at them and their stupidity. Loudly. And I was enjoying their desperate attempts to appear to be ignoring him/her while scooting to the other end of the car in a jiggling cluster of cellulite and happy trails. Eventually s/he relaxed, conversing with the Shadow Person in more hushed tones. I guess that part was private.