Friday, February 22, 2008


The theater is dimly lit. In the eerie yellow light, shadows seem to come alive out of the drab patterned carpet and complimentary red velvet curtain.
There is a man that you recognize there, standing outside of one of the isles. He will greet you and tell you what you have missed, who else is here in the theater, and where you should sit with him.
The chairs are folding metal chairs that squeal and scrape when shuffled, making the noises of injured elephants. Black and white images flicker rhythmically across the screen. They are scenes from a dozen unrelated movies, edited together to the timing of the new music.
Does this movie make sense? World war two soldiers die in a trench, a doctor in a white lab coat walks a long hall, a white bird sits on a placid lake.
It seems beautifully profound in one blink, tied together by some subtle thread.
In the next- nonsensical, meticulously edited by idiots.
The people in the theater talk over the movie and scoot their chairs around. There is constant movement as those seated on the right of the auditorium stand and duck through the shifting isles of metal chairs to sit on the left.
The migration transpires perpetually with much clatter. In this theater where you sit, it is of utmost importance.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

House of the Witch

Dark wooden steps extend treacherously into the hazy sky. The steps are wobbly, they creak and sag beneath any pressure, even the wind causes them to moan. Haphazardly holding it all together are protruding rusty nails; once vertical testaments to durability, they’re now bent in a multitude of ways disguised to snag bits of unassuming pink flesh.
Among the metal traps are spiders seeking refuge, ingenious little dwellers who’ve made delicate homes in the decaying timber. An the army of termites have rendered a safe ascent nearly impossible. Many planks are on the verge of crumbling and the long fall to the earth is far and hard.
At the top, miles above the earth is an old rickety house. Made from the same forest as the stairs, they share the color of wet earth. The house is small and broken, the window panes have shattered long ago and cardboard attempts to keep out the wind.
No one has seen her, her presence moves like a traveling vapor that touches the earth dwellers below; but within the walls of decay, in between soil and sky, the witch lives.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Moon Glow

The night is dark, free from the light pollution of street lamps, illuminated only by a round moon hung white in the sky. Dust underfoot belongs to a dirt road, the end of which disappears into the deep purple shadows. Here it runs along the sparse rural fence of wire and wood to end wearily at the gate.
In the darkness, beyond the sagging lines of wire, an ample house lies low, hugging the earth under the canopy of a stout tree. A picture frame window glows yellow, promising warmth and comfort to those who will enter.
There are horses in stalls obscured from view of the road by nocturnal blindness. The stable can be only dimly perceived from where it hides behind the house. Outside the dominion of the fence, wild grass lays limp in the dewy moisture, it’s yellowness muted by moon glow. Bracken is charcoal hued, a reflection of the mysterious ambiguity bred in lack of light. The field spreads unabashedly under the caress of dark sky, a lonesome tree adrift in its vastness.
Near at hand there is the crackle of movement in the underbrush. The rustle of leaf and limb brushed by a sizable and advancing form. The cool electrifying night air awakens with its approach.
Moonlight glazes everything, the fence posts with their peeling white paint, the lonely tree in the field, and the big black wolf emerging from the inky chaparral. Its individual hairs lay like stiff black wire bristles upon its muzzle, spreading out and back, away from the black nostrils and round yellow eyes. A growl bubbles steadily in its throat like water coming to boil in a cast iron pot, and its pointed teeth glisten white, jutting from the pink gum line revealed by snarl curled lips. Its grimace is beautiful, riveting before the sleeping homestead, framed by purple night and bathed in moonshine.

Friday, February 01, 2008


There is a marble courtyard that sprawls in endless directions.
Multiple levels are connected by narrow pathways and carved steps, like a simplified Escher painting.
Below, the ground is a kaleidoscope of soft hues, cream and coral slabs cover the earth in subtle geometric patterns. Stairways of only a couple of steps are soft and unimposing, they gently offer a new direction. The smooth marble of intricately carved handrails lead to wide open chambers.
Above, the sky bestows clear blue light and the warmth of a mid-fall sun gently radiates the courtyard. Only the sound of the wind adds sound, for there are no humans or animals.
The courtyard is empty, it feels as if it has been this way for a very long time, longer than humans can imagine. But, the space is not forgotten, it is still tended while it waits patiently for something new to arrive.