Friday, December 21, 2007


The main room of the whorehouse has the decor of a doctor’s office; mostly bare, save some plastic chairs and a bio hazard waste basket.
The walls are pristine and white, devoid of stains. It is cold and germ free- lacking any human touch.
The linoleum floor faintly smells of bleach, it shines in a lacquered brilliance, reflecting the glare of the florescent lights overhead.
Upon the light beige counter tops, next to the large stainless steel sink, are two oversized turkey basters. They sit, on a clean paper towel- full of amphetamines and vaccines. The shots are administered before each paying customer.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Facing the Maelstrom

The sea level has risen catastrophically so that what was once a cliff is now a beach. Dark waves tumble chaotically with mammoth force. Creatures are rising from the deep.
Two gray whales breach, their colossal bodies sending the turbulent surface into even greater paroxysms. Swells climb to mountainous heights as innumerable Orcas surface to defy gravity with their awesome acrobatics. These great warm blooded killers move with speed and grace. Their presence is at once mirthful and predatory.
The building sea threatens to swallow the stormy sky. Only a band of fierce clouds streaked by momentary flashes of lightening remains visible. Huge sleek black bodies weave in and out among the choppy surge, darker even than the water, their white markings staring at the shore like big Egyptian eyes. This procession threatens to over take the remaining stretch of beach.

The waters lap at once unknown shores. A handful of daring human beings are in the water with the whales. Their tiny bodies are in constant danger of being swallowed up in the maelstrom, but like the whales, they are gleeful, eager for this encounter.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Panic in the City

High rise buildings in various somber shades cover the earth- dense in their geometric formations. There is smoke coming from one of the towers, shaped like a tall, thin pyramid, thick plumes of gray escape from its pointed peak, rushing to atmospheric freedom.
Surrounding me is panic, the road is consumed with chaos; cars are turning around, trucks are crossing lanes to exit, some speed towards the large bridge in the distance.
The burning gray figure looms close, the ominous vision that further turmoil is imminent.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Path Through The Hills

The hills are dusty and the color of camel humps. Bare of blade, they are littered instead with jagged rocks which thrust themselves out of the surface of dirt like little pointed teeth. The occasional twist of branch jutting out of the hillside only further illustrates the arid condition atop these sunny mounds. These are low growing shrubs and trees that reach out towards the sun and salty sea.
The path is cut into the hills and runs a course high over the green waves. It is narrow and settled deep between walls of parched dirt and sun warmed sandstone. A burrow passes with ease through most of its course, but occasionally the walls give way and the path rises steeply to a narrow ledge. Here the rider must give up the jouncing ride and lead the animal by tether, a perilous operation.
At times the road is lonely. Often however it is flooded by foot traffic coming from the opposite direction. Noisy conglomerations of tanned humanity, feet shod in simple leather sandals struggle to pass burrow and rider on the narrow highway. Baskets and bundles balanced on heads and under arm, they carry on their conversation without greeting the foreign traveler, their white teeth glinting in the sun as their smiles widen and heads are thrown back in laughter. Then they disappear around the bend leaving behind a haze of trail dust and the echo of their voices.
The distant murmur of the sea will fill the silence pending some future encounter. The road is always more solemn in their wake.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Cherry Trees on a Hillside

There are cherry trees in full bloom.
They stand along the lower edge of an isolated hillside, creating a canopy above the trail up and through the land. Their whitish pink blossoms cover each branch in an explosion of delicacy. The flowering mass is so thick that they filter the harsh sunlight of midday, turning the rays into a diffused light with a cool tempered elegance.
In a fury to pollinate, the grove has dropped thousands of soft pink blooms, causing those that walk though the path to sink knee deep into silky petals. With the intention of making a crown, I reach to snap a blossoming sprig. Covering every curve of the tree, down to the thinnest limb, is thick metal wire, deep orange from years of rain and rust, but still dutifully clinging.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Final Walk

There is a black car parked just beyond the trail, on the shoulder of a forgotten road. The air is crisp with chill and a little damp.
Escaping from pale pink lips is an apparition suggestive of vitality. Breath, or spirit, it flees from those thin parted lips with every exhale. The breasts heave under the crisp blouse and tailored suit jacket, clinging to life as the lungs expand to take in another sacrament of life from the atmosphere, before expelling it again.
The shiny black shoes with their commanding square heels plod awkwardly along the dirt course. Shapely legs move mechanically towards their destiny, their elegant contours hidden by the smart gray skirt.
Their master, bleary eyed with un-cried tears has ceased to plead indignation or innocence. Her fate is certain.
In another setting, in a banquet hall, before a podium, in a marbled office, this elegant blonde creature would be an imposing figure, only those with power would dare to hold her frosty gaze. Here, her glossy hair and fine suit hold no enchantment against the low growing yellow grass and petite white wild flowers. The trappings and tricks of the cunning human animal and its politics fade against the elemental. In this quiet field laced by the outlines of towering trees, they only betray her mortal vulnerability.
With fawn-like submissiveness she tramples onward, the menacing figure at her back driving her along the path, towards the wilderness and oblivion. Calm and sure footed, this other moves with the absolute certainty of triumph. One black gloved hand wields death in the form of a drab 9 mm Luger. A shadow in a wool overcoat, this calculating, patient adversary urges its ward forward.
On she goes, waiting for the tell tale "crack" that will shatter the silence as bullet parts from chamber and slices through the same air that she now labors to breathe. With each progressing step the expectancy grows, but the only sound is that of her own ragged breathing and the crunch of dirt clods under heel.

A far away mist veils the sky muting the sun's seeking rays. It hangs like a white backdrop against which the jagged tree tops are a sinister green-black. They cut into the whiteness like a hungry line of teeth. The trail slopes downward to pass through a barren little valley. Nothing there but the stunted blades of yellowed grass fringed with sparkling frost and the little white flowers drooping with wet and cold.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Desolate Road

There is a car on a desolate road. It is alone, a small speck in a greater landscape of hills and plains. Somewhere, hidden in the valleys are rouge houses and abandoned cars, but now, the car is the solitary mark of the human world. The sun shines, warm and bright, but the air is cool…bringing with it the knowledge that this warmth will change into something else, that nothing is constant. The tar black road creeps at an angle, heading up towards the foothills beyond. Large hills, like rounded walls on both the right and left of the highway block the view of anything else. They are massive in their abruptness, the warm mounds resemble the thighs of a woman, with her legs spread wide apart. Hugging her skin and soil are the dry golden grasses that lay flat, all struggle towards growth has ended, the season has changed and they lay down on their sides, submissive to the great cycles.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Guest House

The house is mammoth and labyrinthine with red wood floors and elegant fixtures. The stairs are wide. There are both large airy halls and luxurious rooms, and cramped quarters and narrow corridors.
Tall and plain with a frank bearing, the owner of the house acts as a gracious host. He and his father built the house from the ground up, and yet he is anything but possessive of it.
Maintained and stewarded by him, the house accommodates many guests. They are drawn here by some thread of destiny, a mysterious call.
Some are more aware of it than others. Here, they wait for something. It is understood that only a few will be together in the end.
One gentle natured guest has hypnotizing blue eyes veined with amber. These veins of color seem to form a sigil of some kind, the shape of which is treelike. He sits upon a red velvet upholstered couch in one of the expansive common rooms. Overhead a golden chandelier emits a hospitable glow.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Night Meeting

A wooden canoe floats on black water. Stolen from its area of storage, it drifts now in a lake, surrounded by 200 ft pine trees and swapmy shores. There is a hint of cooler days to come, but now, the night air is warm and still, not a ripple laps the wooden sides.
A young woman, perhaps 20 years old stands in the vessel, an ivory dress clings to her body. It drapes over her curves, covering her legs and arms completely, just the white of her chest is exposed, her heavy breathing accentuating the smoothness of her skin and roundness of her breasts.
She gazes at the black bearded sorcerer who stands waist deep in the water, just a couple feet from her. Returning her gaze, they are perfectly still. A soft glow of sparkling gold emanates the space around them.
There is no fear of this darkness, the night is theirs alone.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Ancient Trees

Their bodies are gnarled and gray. Spanning out like the fingers of an outstretched hand their branches hold up crowns of fiery orange leaves while their roots, in some instances, surface above ground like breached whales.
The dank earth is obscured by a blanket of titian mirroring the canopy above. The color is startling and vivid, lending life to the ancient trees pocketed with dark cavities like open mouths filled with gauzy spiders webs.
A perfect morning light filters down through the florid plafond, caressing every bough, sparkling off of every arachnid spun thread, conspiring with these elements to perfect beauty, inspire awe, and make hearts peaceful. An assembly of monarch butterflies flutters delicately near a spiders meandering gossamer weave. It is positioned loftily between two high branches, one of which is bent like a crooked elbow. On another gray limb two brown squirrels play, barely visible behind the whitish veil of cobwebs.
The hush about the place in miraculously undisturbed by the creatures dwelling here. Their movements only feed the quiet with their rustle. Everything is drawn in like a stilled breath.

Sunday, September 23, 2007


There is flutter and fury within the grand stone banquet hall. People in shabby wool clothes anxiously wait, filling the second floor interior balcony- the ledge stretches the entire length of the stone room. On the main floor below, there are peasants holding torches, providing the light and casting dancing shadows upon the massive cold walls. In the center, filling the empty space is a blue dragon. Breathing fire and bearing a cross, he is a mile tall, easily reaching the ceiling, looking at those of us on the balcony at eye level. It is him that is calling the battle, calling the names of people and animals meant to fight- it is a battle for the universe, communicated both subtly and forcefully with his presence and fire.
I am on the balcony, the dragon is before us, he is calm, watching attentively. The carved stone railing that once prevented a fall from such a height has crumbled, nothing stands between us. There is a stainless steel table at the ledge, and upon it, a woman. My hands are gripped tightly around her neck, holding her forcefully to the metal surface. The dragon has made it known she is on the list of the "fighters". The realization comes as a shock, she thought she would be someone’s lover, this, perhaps sparing her from battle. Now, her body rocks and squirms, vibrating with pain while she is injected with powers meant to aid the fight. My hands tighten, gripping as she convulses, becoming bald. Her body soon evaporates, transformed into a flock of five bats, beating their wings furiously, they fly out of the grand room into the reddish black night.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

The Outcasts

It is a creature too human-like to be anything but revolting for its differences.
Its saggy, baggy flesh droops from the chest and the area where it should have genitals. Worse, it is hairless but has a hideously long cap of flesh that dangles from the crown of the skull. This is much too long, like a nylon stocking made of skin and it makes me queasy to think of it incidentally flapping against me.
Totally naked, there is an embryonic quality to its presence, as if in an early stage of development its psychic as well as physical formation deviated from what we sapiens would consider completion.
There are others like it here and there. All are shunned by the nicely formed human machines that hurry to shop in the outdoor mall, their high heels clicking, painted faces turned from the abominations among them.
They seem cognizant, but in a way that is grossly different from myself and my kind, especially given the similarities.
They seem incapable of clear movement, and drift like timid bits of kelp on a tide, torn from the forests of the deep.
Making weird cooing noises as if it were imitating the sounds of birds, this one lingers around a fountain.
These sounds are not a language as we know it. It is consciousness riding in pure sound. Quelling my revulsion, I look into its eyes and begin to coo in response.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Theft at the Airport

I am in a crowded airport, in seems to be in an urban area, somewhere in the South. I am at the bottom of five stairwells and there are people, mostly black youth, going in all directions.

It is all very chaotic and I see a young man in a maroon jersey running up the stairs with my computer. I had left it on a podium, thinking my friend's would watch it, but never clearly communicating my need before i had stepped away to use the phone.
I stare helplessly as the boy is climbing to the top of the landing. I yell "stop that guy! he stole my computer!!" Some people reach out to grab him, both mechanically and unenthusiastically, barely slowing him down.
But he's stopped just enough that a small crowd of teenagers is able to descend upon him, slinging punches..they push him into the bathroom and retrieve the computer. When I suddenly find myself in the bathroom, I realize they haven'tbeat him to save my computer or to help me, they have stopped him because they want the computer for themselves. I hold the computer in my arms like a baby while begging them to let me make copies of my data before they take the computer forever.

Friday, August 03, 2007

Recording Their Passing

The room is bright white and rectangular. There are tables or shelves along the walls and a round table in the center of the room. It seems that the room gives off its own light but there is also a window. Through it comes sunlight and a breeze that teases the white cotton curtains.
I have the impression that beyond the window I would find a serene country landscape. There
is a quiet feeling, as if am adrift in a lonesome world, the only active inhabitant in a house full of sleepers.
I am excited and very busy. I have equipment in this room. Some of it looks like the controls of a starship from a black and white 1950s TV show.
I spend a great deal of time and attention manipulating particles of sound. I separate them like selecting individual grains of sand from a vast shore with the intention of creating a Mandala.
I am immersed in the detail, rearranging the most miniscule, almost nonexistent elements.
I move and redistribute them creatively, fluidly, without concern for the end result. I have
the utmost trust that the final product will be wonderful beyond my imagination.What I am touching is real, has a life span like a flower or a snowflake.
It will expire. It exists only briefly for a single delicate moment. I am moving quickly to catch as much as I can, like catching the white butterflies of my childhood in subtler form- with a circuit board for a net.
All I am really doing is recording their passing. I cannot hold them, cannot produce them, I can only track their motion.
Like clicking a camera over and over again without looking to see what image may be developed
because all you aim to do is dance with light. So I delight in sifting through an infinite supply of something invisible as quickly as possible. If I am not quick I will miss brushing up against something unique and unrepeatable.
I have equipment for tracing this interaction between myself and the invisible tears of a hundred thousand angels, and I have equipment for playing it back...
The play back is like displaying cups of water, there is no way to know that I danced with the rain to collect those seminal pools of life spent.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Transient Contact

I am houseguest in a new mansion. It has the feel of a colonial track home, made to look authentic but you can tell it's an imitation, the old time feeling is just not captured.
This is my temporary home. I don’t know where I came from or where I am going, but there is a room with many beds, for transients like myself, and I am calling this home for the time being.
There has been an outdoor barbeque in the shade across the street from the house and I am the last person cleaning up and gathering the small amount of trash that remains.
There is the relaxed atmosphere of a summer party coming to a close, the air is still warm and there is no need to hurry. A small white pickup truck drives by me, I make eye contact with the young white man in the driver’s seat, his skin is tan from working or playing outdoors. We lock eyes and I smile as the car moves past me.
He is stunned by my smile, wanting to feel the emotion again, he stops the car and backs up, repeating the scenario, I smile again.
The realization hits me: I need to end contact with this man, we cannot take this flirtation any further. I turn my head and walk away to find the trash can, feeling his eyes follow me.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Father Talks

An arrangement of family members are crowded into a stark little room. Many are gathered seated around a folding table.
There are no pictures on the walls, and the only other furniture consists of a handful of folding chairs. There is an air of disposability to the space.
Despite this fact everyone is behaving as if they are in a cozy dining room. It seems to be a family reunion.
My cousin is a dashing young man with a head of shiny blond hair. He reminds me of a male version of myself, or a younger replication of my father. I feel very fond of him.
My father is trying to make a point and begins to relate his experience as a cast member of A Chorus Line. I had no idea my father had ever been involved in theater.
This comes as a shock and I am awed by the humility exemplified by my father in divulging this to us. He speaks uncertainly, struggling to tell us something real but locked into his habitual approach to communication.
My cousin is angered by the approach my father is taking, his need to make a point and the supposition that everyone should share his point of view. He completely misses what is really coming through because he reacts to the delivery.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Open and Exposed

My legs are spread wide open as I lay naked on a table.
I am docile, unsure how i got there or when i may leave.
There are two people crouching, kneeling close to my legs, they are peering inside. I recognize the dark haired woman, but the man at her side is a stranger to me.
A handful of small white stones that resemble pearls have just fallen out of my vagina. They bounce slighty and roll away. The couple have noticed the stones and are curious. With their eyes and body language, they communicate with each other: What were those little white things? Will she produce any more? They move even closer to my vagina and look, stopping just short of touching me.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Little Dorothy

I still want to tell him about my dream, but we leave the stone courtyard with the bench and its withered occupant: the eavesdropping old man.

My companion leads the way to the street. His black hair is blowing in the brisk breeze. I insist that I have more to tell him but he says he doesn’t want to hear anymore. The sky is overcast, the atmosphere cool and moist suggesting that we are near the sea. There are people out on the street busy with their own affairs. The have an idyllic old world look to them. It seems possible that they are Dutch. They wear funny shoes, white aprons and hats. My companion is walking quickly and it is difficult for me to catch up. He isn’t waiting for me and takes no notice when I fall behind. Frustrated I stop. He hurries along oblivious to my absence. I watch him for a moment, my own straw colored hair lashing my cheeks in the wind. Resigned I let go of my open umbrella and it tumbles down the street, blown in the same direction as my companion. I turn my back on them and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

Suddenly I hear tires screeching in the road behind me. I turn and see a little girl in a blue dress and white apron crumpled in the street. She lies unmoving at the nose of a big black automobile, a classic car with a shiny chrome bumper. A woman cries out,"It’s Dorothy! She’s dead!"The girl, blonde braids spilled about her crown, is indeed dead, but the woman must be mistaken.
I am Dorothy.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

The Times They Are A'changing

I have been on a beach for years, spending the days playing soccer in a bikini. Each day bleeds into the next with the same activity. The light is both dark and light at the same time, existing someplace out of the normal day and night categories.
There has been a small tribe of hippies living on this beach, pursing happiness. Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A' Changin' starts playing over a loud speaker, and I kneel down, crying. In the middle of my tears, l look up and notice that one of the hippy girls has taken off her worn bikini and changed into some stylish black clothes, she is looking at me through a plate glass window, sorrowfully waving goodbye.
I continue to cry, knowing that one day I will do the same thing, I will leave, with hardly any words to the people who knew and loved me.

Monday, July 09, 2007

Never Fast Enough

There are people everywhere enjoying themselves. The tables are all covered with white or pink table cloths. I am removing the dirty white dishes that constantly pile upon the table tops. The crowd is feasting. Caterers in white dress shirts, black vests and bow ties bring out the elegant looking plates of food.
I , in uniform as well, clear away the unwanted remains. There is music and laughter, the tinkle of clinked stemware and the scrip scrape of knifes scratching plates. Little ribbon and pearl centerpieces adorn the tables. Round men in tuxedos bare toothy grins. Women in satin and taffeta don tight hair buns and white gloves.
I scramble to keep up with the pile up of dirty dinner ware. I carry a toppling stack back into a kitchen. Here I meet with an obstacle: an insurmountable mountain of plastic folding chairs bars me from the great stainless steal sink. I try to climb it balancing my unstable tower of dishes. I become stuck partway up, physically unable to cross the distance.
The dishwasher is a middle aged man wearing a huge white chefs hat, white pants, shirt, and apron. He has a clean looking mustache and glowers down on me while complaining boisterously about my incompetent handling of the situation. I know that in the dining room the situation must be getting out of hand.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Exposed Sensuality

I am in a small square pool in an Arabian courtyard. The robe I have used so often to cover myself is all wet.
I notice an old man with a white beard look at me. He is in the pool, and he looks with both disapproval and lust when my robe accidentally drifts above my ankle.
The garden walls and grass around us have melted and only a blanket of water exists, I see dozens of women in the distance. They are all wet, bathing in their robes. Most of the women are sitting upon a large stone, close to the surface of the water, all of them have their robes pulled over their ankles, almost covering their toes.
But there is another woman, up to her knees in the water and surrounded by bright golden light. She is youthful and her blond hair has been tied in two braids. She is unconcerned with her veil, although two of her friends are trying to adjust her headscarf and cover her exposed arms and neck before she is punished for her sensuality and sexuality. She smiles slightly, loving the sensual pleasure of water and sun.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007


The houses are solemn, the street is empty and quiet. I strike out towards the beach, my feet thudding rhythmically upon the black asphalt of the avenue until I reach the sidewalk stretching along the camel colored sands. The sky is overcast and I am struck by so much gray, the hazy heavens above, the concrete below and a steely chain link fence bordering the walkway.
At the first post of the fence, where the street meets the sidewalk, I pass a woman with long dark hair and a similarly featured little girl. I look into the woman’s eyes as I pass.

There is a predatorial, reptilian quality to the way they size me up, dilated pupils and green irises fixed on my passage.

As I walk, I realize the little girl has stepped onto the sidewalk and is trailing behind me. She is just a little girl, I tell myself, but I feel fearful, I am being stalked. I walk faster and in return her pace is hastened. I break into a run, part from the walkway to plod through the sand. It slows me down, absorbs the shock of my footfall as the grain shift around my bare toes and heels. The girl pursues me, her mother lingering in the distance, keeping track of the hunt. The dark and white crested surf licks at the shore with a constant murmur, reaching out from a black horizon. I veer towards it, an escape plan working it’s way into muscular action.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Ancient Dance

Everything is black except the dancing bodies illuminated by firelight.

I sense that we are on the edge of a tall cliff with nothingness spilling into the distance. The women who were once covered in veils and cloth have shed their layers, given up their modesty and fear of earthly retribution by decency, laws and men.
There are female drummers along the edge of the cliff, the shadows of flames move across their amber skin.
One clearly visible drummer is wearing tattered clothes, sexy in their dirtiness and caveman aesthetic.
All of the women are barefoot, dancing on the floor of an ancient, sacred cliff. Long, wavy hair sways wildly in circles as they move. Their movements look like guttural, body responses to the calls and instructions of the rhythms. The movements are heavy and pound upon and into the earth with extreme intention.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Skeleton House

The frame of a house stands in front of other houses built on a charming residential street. It is a mere skeleton with flights of stairs reaching more than seven stories into the air. There are no walls and no floors, only the basic outline and those stairs.
My companion urges me to enter, and with another friend in front of him and myself taking up the rear we begin to ascend the flights of stairs. I can see the rectangles of green grass lined up beside the sidewalk below.

When I glance to my right I am looking at a complete house painted in a very regal eggplant hue. To my left is the street, more grass, sidewalk, and high end homes. Their front doors have brass knockers, their windows are arched rather than squared.

The structure we are in is out of place, practically in the front yard of the eggplant house. We are nearly to the third floor when it begins to sway unsteadily to and fro.

For a moment it leans on the house to the right. Then suddenly every beam gives way, the stairs fall into a line of planks, like toothpicks glued end to end set dangling in mid air.

I have managed to grip this. I am swinging on it, trying to reach my friends hanging from suspended beams before they fall.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007


I was in a small octagonal submarine with a mission to learn seaweed harvesting techniques. As we went down, liquid came through the bottom of the craft. It was green and gelatinous, and I became claustrophobic from the thought of soon needing to get into the water and use a square black breathing device that was known to attract sharks and dolphins, which was apparently useful for our purpose.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Attack from Within

Her hair is almost white, her fair complexion is masked by an elaborate paint job. The pattern is exotic, the colors vivid. Bright red features predominately.
She is on the floor convulsing. For the first time I am able to perceive that which vexes her.

It is barely visible, a yellowish vapor with a distinct shape. It reaches into her through her vagina with two arm like tentacles.

They look like the spine of some bony fish made outrageously long. Its head is featureless and elliptical, protruding from the end of a gangly limb like torso nearly undistinguishable from the other two appendages. It moves with determination and presence, clearly a calculating life form. I sense that it derives some satisfaction from its probing and the screams it elicits.

As her writhing and her cries cease I look away not wanting to comprehend the significance of such sudden silence.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Twisting Road

I am driving on a twisting, winding road in El Salvador with my sister.
The road is narrow and treacherous, plenty of people have accidentally driven off by a slight gust of wind.
We are headed over a mountain covered in lush jungle foliage and I have a birds-eye-view of the car. As I try to concentrate on the road, I take a quick glance at my sister and notice she is my mirror image.
She gasps as she remembers she has forgotten something, I wonder if we should head back...although I am unclear where back is.
Is it in front of us or behind us? It is clear that we have been here before..the end and the beginning are blurred.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Something Lurks

The ground is littered with leaves of brown and gold. Knotted oaks snake upward, their bodies fat and twisted.
One is missing its canopy. It has a gaping black opening in its trunk. This tree, or remnant of a tree, is to the left. It seems to offer both protection in terms of a place to hide and pose hidden threats of it’s own.
The landscape is uneven. There is a creek bed up ahead. I have advanced on this place repeatedly. Sometimes I find the creek full, other times at a trickle or bone dry.
Something lurks out here. It has taken someone I know.
I am almost in the creek when I catch a glimpse of it beyond the opposite bank. It is quick, running up right like a man, a blur of thick orange fur. I have not seen its eyes, but its mouth is black and has teeth for tearing flesh. It disappears amid the distant trees.
I begin to climb the bank and head in its direction.

Friday, May 04, 2007

Three Women

Three women, myself included, are paddling on surfboards.

It is night inside a place that feels like a bio dome or some enormous enclosed space. The waters are black and we are making an escape… old white men with outdated methods and philosophies, men who teach at universities, are our detractors; we are trying to make a change and go somewhere new.

Then, in the middle of the ocean, my surfboard is pulled under, by what force it is unclear. I try to dog paddle as one of the women dives under to try and rescue it, but she comes back to the surface without it. They are both aware of my propensity for asthma attacks.

Then the other woman slides off her surfboard into the water, she pushes the board towards me and says "Go!! Go back to shore!"

As the two us ride away, and back in the direction we have come from, she tells us to "keep researching." She goes underwater, into an old telephone booth under the surface. In there she waits to drown and be devoured by all the sharks and various fish that are swimming nearby.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007


The sky is a pale blue cooling into grey. I gaze out at it beyond the telephone wires
I am steadily approaching. I pass through the wires without a tangle and press upward.
I can see the crimson sun set now and its last bit of illumination spilling into a bustling marketplace. I descend to that place.
The buildings are dark, almost black and made of stone. They have an old world feel to them. The crowds are modern however. They sport revealing neon sports gear, fashionable totes and shoes.
In fact, they are even more modern than modern. Combined with the little storefronts all twinkling with lights and digital gadgetry it is a cyberpunk world set in the cobble stone of old Europe.
The tiny streets come to abrupt turns and stops. Every corner poses a question, hides a mystery just around its turn. The fading light of day gives way to the artificial dazzle of LED lights.
I bask in their imitation of warmth, the suggestion of life after life. Here, when the old sun hides its face away, still the crowd can ramble and play, crawl along these little paths like the inhabitants of a well cultured ant farm. That old sun remembers some of the things happening behind these storefronts, and has still to dream of others.

Monday, April 30, 2007

Endless Road

I am with two friends on a desolate road in Idaho or Ohio, some place where the roads stretch on for eternity and humans seem small; their roads, lives, everything is small compared to the infinite space around.

We are on this isolated road to photograph the cover for an album. We stand in the center of the road, knowing no one is around for many miles.

My friend is in front of me and I can see through his eyes into the road keeps going straight ahead, gently moving up and down over hillsides, but straight ahead nonetheless. His eyes are like warm stained glass...fragmented yellow, green, and bright brown, they are clear and beautiful and I feel safe.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Without Help

It doesn't hurt exactly, but I can feel it, and it feels very wrong.
Once hidden tissues are pressing out of the gaping wound at my throat. It seems as if my head is hanging on by a thread.
I stand on the street. It bears an air of abandonment, this road that leads off the beaten path. It appears as if I am in a gray and weary industrial park. There is however, a scant trickle of pedestrians, and I am eager for them to notice and help me. I see a black woman and her little girl. They have learned to mind their own business under all conditions. All the same I hope
they will veer of course and help me.

I want to ask for help, call out to someone, but it is impossible to speak with a slit throat. No one notices me. No one who notices cares.

I watch an elderly Mexican gentleman peddle something to passers by. I can’t tell what he is selling but I watch on urgently. I listen intently to his chit chat with the occasional customer hoping that someone will eventually see that I need medical attention.
They are very wrapped in their business, their gossip. They tend to it eagerly. I am loosing a great deal of blood. I’m a horrid mess, but they only glance at my face while relating some
trivial bit of data about weather or politics or what they do for a living.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Dark Blue Water

I was treading water in dark blue ocean waters, my body was bobbing up and down with the currents.

There were sandy dirt cliffs directly in front of me, blocking access to the shore. I tried to climb over the cliff, but pieces of earth kept breaking off in my hands.

I settled back into the water, there was algae bobbing along beside me, swaying with me. My mood was calm, it seemed to be an obstacle that needed another solution, it was a rational thought as opposed to a feeling.

I wanted to get to land...then the cliffs were gone, I tried to swim directly to the shore, but the waves and currents kept pushing me out, further into the sea.

I attempted to start swimming to my right, then I remembered the theory that one is supposed to swim diagonally to shore when the current is strong.

I started swimming again, to my left this time. The water was dark, blue...almost black. I swam confidently and calmly.

Soon, before I realized it, I had reached the shore.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

War of Divas

The colors are wild.
Electric yellow bouncy curls, hot pink sunglasses, black and white striped stockings on legs that are long beyond credibility. The costuming seems to stretch beyond the performers and melt into the scenery, a stage that stretches into the most hidden regions of mind.

Whatever is desired can be conjured into existence upon this stage, the shape of the stage itself is subject entirely to whim.

Whose whim?

It seems that there are only two here of any consequence, only two conjurers, other characters are merely the accessories of this pair of Divas.

The duo are engaged in fierce competition.

Each one wants to be the only one, the center of a Universe she creates to adore only her.

It is a gay battle of titans. Everything is called into being with song.

Sound, color, form, constantly shift as the two attempt to trap and out maneuver the other, create scenarios in which the other might be eliminated.

There is no way to win in a game without rules, a game in which the players are unbound and infinitely creative.

Monday, April 23, 2007


My friend and I are small, the size of faeries, maybe smaller…
We have the ability to expand as well.
We are in a house which changes into a red tent. This structure expands and contracts
with our movements. We are floating in space, it is black and stars are visible outside the windows; but I also feel we are in a deep ocean that throbs and bobs, swaying us gently in dark
Looking out the one window, I see there is a wooden ship outside which is looking for us. When it comes near, we hide mischievously, making ourselves small, at one point the structure around us is almost like shrink wrap (the size of a pea, although it feels large) and I have to poke a small hole in the fabric so that air can come through.

Sunday, April 22, 2007


Everything in the room is beginning to darken and glow around the edges.
The edges jiggle jump and ooze. My heart is racing.
Everything inside seems to slow down and my flesh ripples and crawls so quickly that it must be undetectable by the human eye.
I am sinking fast. The darkness deepens, penetrates everything.
My companion holds me so that our faces are close. I kiss him and my cracked heart explodes, everything hot and black spills out of me.
First from my open mouth and melting tongue, then from every pore.
As I slip into oblivion I know I have been exposed. Everyone can see the contents of my heart in this shattered condition.
The secrets it held bleed into the view of the cruel masses.
Just before my mind and being fold into a tiny pin point and dissolve I am vaguely aware of a girl, sobbing like an animal in the distance.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Dividing Door

I am in front of a door...
more precisely, there is a doorway separating me from a friend; sometimes a door appears, sometimes it is invisible although the feeling of a boundary remains.

My friend is testing the lighting situation, looking at me through the peephole in the door...the sometimes invisible door.

She says she can see my dark shape, she knows I am there...although my details are completely obscured.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Screams in the Temple

A large temple, filled with the flickering of candlelight. Great windows of stained glass surround the place in barely visible colors. Any tiny sound becomes a huge echo in the vast open hall. Two stairways lead up and behind the main altar, which is surrounded by tall, burning cups of fire.
A tall man in a dark robe stands at the head of the altar, looking over all that is happening. His face is hidden by the robe he wears, his hands are crossed and also hidden by the wide sleeves. He evokes a mood of harshness and deep judgement.

I see him from the center of the hall. I know I am safe. But I can hear the screams of others who aren't. The screams come from somewhere behind the altar. I feel the impulse to go and help. At the same I know that this place is Eternal and nobody can truly help the ones who are screaming.

Not unless they know how to ask.

Monday, April 16, 2007


The water is fairly shallow, it laps around my calves.
Before me is a cliff wall that curves out into a narrow peninsula. Both the cliff wall and the peninsula are composed of grayish rock.
There is no easy way out of the water which is calm and opens into the wide sea. The salty smell and feel of it is soothing. I look down into the greenish sparkle. To my relief it is clear enough to see my feet and the sandy bottom.
A strange sea creature swims in with the gentle current. It is an amazing Precambrian creature. Squid like tentacles extend out of its spiraling shell. They have a raw look, tender and coral red.
I watch in awe as its upper half begins to separate from the tentacles.
I am witnessing some eerie evolution, the birth of one creature from another.
My heart is deeply affected.
I feel tentative joy and the sorrow of sacrifice.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Couple Watching

There is a dusty road next to a desolate field.
In the middle of the field, a middle aged couple sits on a large sofa and watches TV.
They are very happy. They wave at passersby. They wave at me
and ask me to come over. I look at them from the distance.
They have created a gentle, simple world around themselves, around
the sofa, around the TV. From their post, higher than anything
else around them, they can see everything.
But mostly, they watch the TV.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


I am in an old shop, filled with old carpets from the Middle East and antique treasures.
There is a mirror I have been coveting.
I have dreamt about this mirror before or have some strange feeling of recognition that I cannot place. It is a large oval mirror, the size of an adult and it's attached to a solid base, so it can stand alone anywhere in a room.
I run my fingers over the carved, cherry wood....the woodworker has decided to make the edges into waves, resembling mermaid's hair. As I admire it, I discover a hidden mirror on the top- it can be pulled out or pushed back. When I pull it out, the bottom mirror is useless- it has stopped capturing my reflection and only in the square mirror on top can I see myself.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Meeting at the Old House

The carpet is the tan carpet of the custom built homes of my childhood. The whole house has that feel. It is a dark earth toned den from a bygone era of architectural history.
Houses like this one are always a little creepy to me… almost haunted with dirty hues of brown. At the same time they make me feel at home.
There are people everywhere. They remind me of over zealous Amway representatives. The leader is blonde, a white trash self improvement high priest. The lights are dim. We are all sweaty and moving through the room.
My solar plexus is weirdly warm.
Women and men wear sparkly lengths of fabric draped and pined in a fashion reminiscent of costuming for a fourth grader’s school play. Their street clothes are still evident beneath the sequins and glitter, New Years Eve party masks, and feathers.
Bodies weave through the space passing closely to each other without ever colliding or pausing, moving as a whole like a school of brightly mismatched fish.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Poisoned Tea

A group of mostly latin women are preparing for battle with their men, the father of their children.
They have known, for some time now- that the men are cold and ruthless and brutal.
And although everything appears normal and cordial on the surface between the two groups, the tension has been building and the women have secretely been meeting...learning how to use clubs and other instruments.
Both men and women are in a room with a long bar...they are all about to go somewhere in a van big enough for the 35 of them and the 12 children, all who are under five.
Before they leave, the men have prepared tea, which they serve in small cups to the women, and it seems obligatory to drink. There is a signal from the head female organizer.
With her eyes, she tells the women that the tea is poisoned and to pretend to drink.
The woman walks out of the room, into the daylight- and becomes a silouette surrounded by blinding white light, spitting the tea out on the grass to her right.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007


I can’t believe my eyes.
The road ahead slopes steeply downward. Clearly gravity will pull us off of this outrageous road. I feel frightened but have no hope of avoiding the cataclysm.
I am in the backseat with my hazy sibling and other peers who may or may not really fit into this cab. They seem to fade out into nothing in order to defy spatial restrictions.
This is my father’s pick up truck. The detail to this aspect is very real.
I can feel the coarse tan upholstery under hand as I grip the seats in front of me to brace myself. My father is the driver.
He is in a good mood recognizable from my childhood; full of himself, opportunities knocking and everything is possible.
His passengers are scared shitless by his recklessness and he’s enjoying it.
My mother is riding shot gun, and between my parents a family friend, Maureen.
She crawls down to the floor and lays there.
We’re on our way . Amazingly we remain on the road.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

The Two Birds

I rested my head on the shoulder of a chubby crone.
She was in yellow and orange hues, short blond hair.
My head slipped slowly down to her chest, i rested like a child.
She cautioned me to keep communication open, that hard tasks and challenges have only begun.
As she talked, we watched two birds a couple feet in front of us on the ground, next to a bunkbed.
The size of pigeons, but yellow, orange, and green, they walked around or over each other, trying to grab pieces of marigold and chrysanthemum flowers. One bird would take a bite, then fold in on itself, the inside becoming the out.
Like a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, with each bird movement, the scene changed/became distorted.
A graceful flow of geometric shapes...the unfolding of yellow and orange petals.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

No Will Of Her Own

It is Easter.
I feel the arousing of life all around and within
me. I cross the sparkling green lawn to reach the mailbox. I
find that it is overflowing with packages wrapped in yellow
I feel a wave of anxiety. I know who they are from. I
know that they were selected and wrapped with an open heart. I
also know that trouble won’t be far behind.
The gifter is like a Trojan horse; she is sweet and sincere but has no will of her own… the demon inside has brought her back to us.
I am torn. I want to leave them where they are. I don’t want to accept them.
But my partner has decided to welcome her back. I have no say in
the matter. I begin to pull the packages out and read the gift
There is one for each of my daughters. There is one for my old roommate. Within the depths of the mailbox I can see my partner’s name on yet another. I don’t want to find the one for
Then I wonder: perhaps she wont be coming after all? She
left the packages after a mercifully timed change of heart?
I feel that it has been worth while to control myself. It seems
that perhaps the danger has passed.
Our Easter will be preserved.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Real Monster

I am an observer to this scene, standing only feet away from the others.
There is a couple, a man and woman, dressed as sexy cops, something out of a cheap Halloween costume.
The man is in a tight satin blue shirt, the woman in a mini skirt and police uniform. They are dressed for a costume party.
The friend they have come with, a nerdish-type with glasses and quite shy, usually is dressed in a monster outfit.
He has a mask made out of plastic covered in dark hair.
Steps from the doorway, the entrance to the party, the couple back out...decide not to go in.
By the look of disappointment in the guy's eyes, they have been doing this to him a lot, but he goes inside anyhow.
All the people inside are dressed as monsters and they all begin to start howling and whopping and beating their chests.
The nerdish guy is unmasked for a moment, either by his own hand or perhaps it is only me that can see the flash of horror; evident not only in his eyes, but throughout his whole face, the way his mouth opens, the color draining from his pink face...
when he realizes that at least one of the monsters (the biggest and most brutal) is not wearing a mask, he is not dressed up or pretending...
he truly is a monster.

Friday, March 16, 2007

The Great Game

The countryside is charming, seemingly touched but undisturbed.
I am very happy walking down this dirt road.
Someone in my entourage shades me from the merrily glowing sun with a parasol.
I am confused by the scene I have stumbled into. It takes me a few moments to realize I have interrupted some organized sport.
On the left side of the road are gathered an assortment of young men and boys, healthy and good natured youths, many of whom have impishly discarded their shirts. On the right side a smaller gathering of somberly and properly clad little old women have converged.
Both sides are eagerly throwing summer ripened strawberries at the opposing camp. The boys are shouting and laughing, their trouser legs are rolled up. Their zeal for the battle is equally matched to that of the old women.
This band of gray ladies is mirthful as well, although they have a more subdued way of expressing it. I am caught in the crossfire. Big juicy strawberries so ripe they explode at impact hail down on me.
There is a cease fire and the young men come into the street to check on me. They offer apologies mingled with laughter.
The delight and good will emanating from both sides is contagious. I feel very pleased by the whole affair.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Spanish Hills

There was the aura of war, the feeling of escape and preparation for another battle.
A group of people that are a hazy blur and myself have retreated into the Spanish hills, its light is yellow and the hills are covered in dead yellow grass and low-growing green shrubs.
We are camping inside and next to old ruins...Old bricks of buildings that were once glorious.
I am standing inside an old ruin we have turned into a house, I go to open the door, there are three people I recognize from our group.
Two men and a woman, a wordly young woman with long dark brown dreadlocks streaked with maroon highlights. Multiple places in her body are pierced. Her clothes are artistically tattered. She is decorated and tattooed.
I notice that she is pregnant, she only wears a bra-like shirt and her belly is exposed.
I look at her belly and see a joker's face and smile looking at me, it is the unborn baby. It is coolly detached and smiling with huge red lips.

Monday, March 12, 2007

The Evil Breed

He is a famous (or perhaps infamous) man known for his good looks, a troubled relationship and involvement in a questionable esoteric society.
He is in pain and very ill.
Outside of social conventions I touch him, help him.
He surrenders himself into my hands, completely in my care. The space is bathed in pale light. There are linens strewn everywhere.
It is unclear whether we are indoors or outdoors, perhaps something in between. Towels on a clothing line flap in a breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.
I lay my hands on his crooked back, feel him burning with fever. His eyes are strange, his face wan and clammy.
I can see how others would be frightened or disgusted by what emanates from his eyes, a peculiar breed of evil.
It only endears him to me, seals a silent understanding.
I am strong enough to lift him onto a bed of sloppily strewn multicolored blankets. My heart is brimming over with pure love as I apply myself fully to tending the fever, a strange combination of detachment and sincere caring.