Chambers in the Labyrinth

The Brook

2011-11-20T16:10:00.001-08:00

I am sitting on a small walkway between two houses. The back doors of each face me, their shiny brass knobs and square covered windows stand still, motionless. It is a narrow five foot space of cracked cement, an old walkway covered in a tiny layer of moss. The green is thickest on the sides, creeping up from the dark moist earth like a premonition, as if to remind me that soon all of man’s ingenuity will be covered in a thicket of leaves and mushrooms.
The cement is cool and moist, ten degrees colder than the air gently floating by me. The space is shielded from the sun directly by a set of worn, slumping wooden stairs and a tiny square landing. The staircase starts a few feet from the backdoor on my left and leads swiftly, without any meandering, to the second story, where another door, this one without a window stands closed.
Only narrow bits of sunlight reach the short walkway between the houses, and though the space is not covered in warmth, the light is bright.
I am sitting outside on the concrete, my legs and bottom quite chilled by the temperature of the ground. The door to my right, three feet away, is a faded blue. There are yellow spots along the edges of the door, created by time and salt and elements with complex symbols. The wooden planks on the exterior of the house are a very pale yellow, almost white. Large strips of paint are gone, revealing a spotted gray wood battered by the ocean air. Opposite the blue door is another house, this one with a new coat of thick beige paint and shiny veneer.
On one side of the walkway is a running brook. It emerges from a depressed bit of earth just below the cement, travels above ground for three feet, then disappears into the earth once again. Along the edges of the flowing water, which trickles gently over smooth stones the size of large hands, are tender stalks of green foliage. There are leaves with wide heart-shaped leaves that search upwards for the sun. Beside them are small white flowers on thin single stems sprouting from the brook. Dark colored moss verging on black grows over the sides of the rocks lapping against the water.
Wedged into one of the green stalks is a tiny brown incense stick. A thin stream of white-gray smoke wafts upwards, dancing like the branches of an old oak tree in constant movement- curling, jagged lines, beautiful ballerina swirls that leave the scent of amber.
The air around me is alive and full. Cool and moist. I breath it in deeply, inhaling thick, nutrient filled earth.

Flat Land

2011-10-27T18:42:00.001-07:00

The land is flat, stretching on and on for miles and miles. Going to places I cannot imagine. The earth is pale brown. Parched. It has settled on a hue where yellow, white and brown converge into a shade so lacking in green it can only produce dust. For as far as I can see, the earth is bare and mute, lacking trees, shrubs, blades of grass.
No houses, cars, buildings of any sort. It is pure flat dusty earth. The only signs of human life are the two lane highway and an old bus stop.
The wind is continuous, blowing gusts of super fine, dry earth up in pale sandy curtains that at times become so furious they momentarily fade the glare of the sun.
The road is just in front of me. A narrow strip of tar once bright black, but now dulled by creeping sandy earth, coming in not just from erosion on the sides, but also by the wind. As it blows over the highway, a slightly darker canvas than the earth itself, I can see where the wind turns in spirals. Mini cyclones, small dances.
I am standing next to a bus stop. A narrow structure made of clear plastic. A curved roof, three walls designed to protect against rain and wind. Its brightness has worn from the sun, a force shining down without clouds to buffer its bright light. Pure brutal heat.
Behind the bus stop are four dozen flower pots of various sizes. There are some short stacks, but most of them sit on the ground. They are empty vessels, worn and awaiting soil and water. Some are deep and made of terracotta, others are so shallow, if it were not for the small drainage hole at the bottom they could be mistaken for salad bowls. There are tiny pots made of blue and white porcelain, the shallow ones are glass, looking like cheap crystal candy dishes.
I am moving them one by one, taking them from the area several feet behind the bus stop and moving them closer to the road. I am stacking them one on top of the other, creating three piles.
The wind continues to blow, swooshing in my ears, sounding like a roaring ocean.
I am alone here. Moving my pots into piles, waiting for a car to pass.

Indoor Pool

2011-09-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

The enclosed pool area is delineated from the hotel lobby by a set of four French doors. Cherry wood framed panes of glass stretch for twenty feet, giving anyone interested a view of the interior space. The heavy doors and thick glass keep a tight seal on the warm, contained moist air and the heavy chlorinated smell that is all pervasive, air that seems more tangible and easier to grab.
The indoor pool is enclosed on all sides. Above it is a solid ceiling thirty feet high painted in pastel tones. The ceiling gives way to large squares of glass that taper at a 15 degree angle towards the ground, creating the greenhouse heat and light that pervades the room.
Immediately inside the French doors is a cement walkway that is three feet wide. It leads up to the cement lip of the pool and continues around the hard right angles on all four sides. The cement is wet and cool, an intense contrast from the humidity in the air. Along the walkway, spaced at uneven intervals, are plastic white lawn chairs, some with gray scratches on the legs and back. One of the chairs has a pile of three folded blue and white striped beach towels on the seat, another has a used looking towel draped over its back.
The pool is long, designed for laps and swimming caps. On one end, in the corner, are three steps. On the other end are two metal bars and embedded steps in the underwater wall. There are three lights on in the pool, they illuminate the painted blue sides and bottom, creating the illusion of yellowish-green water. Steam rises from the surface, dancing, twirling gently as it disperses into the thick air of the enclosed space.
Behind the pool are two Jacuzzi. Empty, they gurgle wildly from the mighty force of their underwater jets. Heat leaps from the roaring water, twisting violently into the cooler air it meets above the surface. White and ice-blue colored water bubbles over the smooth cement sides of the hot tubs, spreading out onto the already wet cement floor beyond its walls.
Between the two Jacuzzi is a narrow walkway that slopes upward at a 10 degree angle. Fifteen feet long, it leads to a long narrow room with glass walls on all sides. There is a row of running machines, stair climbers, weight benches, and free weights. Each piece of equipment is lined up, facing the side-street. A lone woman in tight lycra pants and a long red baggy t-shirt is on the stairmaster, moving at a steady rhythm as she reads a magazine spread open before her.
Parallel to the narrower ends of the pool are two tall walls that face each other like mirrors. At their base is a ledge of tropical plants with wide bright shiny green leaves and pungent soil. Behind the plants, stretching five feet up is a checkerboard pattern of pink and blue tiles. They reflect the diffused afternoon light coming through the glass ceiling. Where the tiles end, a mural begins. It is a beach scene painted in pastel colors. There is a bright sun, an ocean in the distance, and three bright pink flamingoes in the foreground. The image is mirrored on both walls.
Posted on several walls beside the pool are signs saying, “NO Diving” and “USE at your own risk.”

The Sacred Chamber

2011-08-31T01:02:00.000-07:00

There is a rectangular room without the human-generated lights of man. A room with four walls and two doorways, arches really, that can lead to either the hallway or a room crowded with two computers, four desks, and three arm chairs. The lights in the hallway and the crowded room are off and they are mostly dark, the shapes of them lit only by the glowing, dancing lights of tiny flames in the rectangular room, a room alive with moving candle flames. Most of the candles are encased in a thick wall of clear glass and the white wax within glows slightly just below the dance of the flame.
There are two sizes of glass candles, one that is a little over a foot tall and the other which is half that size. The larger candles have smaller wicks and smaller flames, while the tinier candles have an inch and a half long flame which glows brightly, waving like a flag in the summer twilight. Around the room, in opposite corners and along the middle of the wall, where the carpet meets the long surface of the wall, are candles on small hand-made ceramic saucers.
The longest wall, a wall covered mostly in plate glass which faces the street outside, is covered by four thick panels of black velvet curtains that dangle unevenly a few inches from the floor. The edges of the panels are clipped together and there is tape on the two outer panels, each bit of tape brings the curtain to the wall beside it to prevent any escape of light and movement from the room into the world outside.
In one corner of the room is a non-working fireplace. The frame around the open hole of the fireplace is decorated with small square tiles depicting a country scene with ox and wagons. Below the decorative wall is a narrow flat ledge of bricks which once would have protected the floor from flying sparks of lumber. Now, it holds two large votive candles, some lit, scattered tea lights, a bright green house plant in a terra cotta pot off to one side and a book with the title, INSTRUCTIONS. The mantle above the fireplace is wood and painted with a shiny coat of white. There are six candles, two small ones and two large ones spread out over the mantle ledge as well as a handful of small white tea lights encased in thick aluminum which are interspersed among the glass-encased candles.
Above the mantle, on the smooth white wall is a square photograph mounted onto foamcore. The image is mostly blue with small bits of purple and pale pink and depicts a holy mountain with small, almost geometric shaped figures scaling the edges of the mountain. Directly below the photograph, in the center of the mantle, is a turquoise ceramic chalice. The edges and handle of the chalice are thick and there is a small, button-shaped bit of clay in the center of the chalice with a square cross on it.
The space of the room is mostly free of any furniture, no chairs or end tables, though there is a small Formica cabinet that houses several DVD players and a stereo, above which is a long, rectangular flat screen TV which is dark.
In the center of the room, on the ground, is a thin layer of foam covered by a thin pale purple cotton sheet. Above the sheet are two outstretched thin, plush blankets. One is pale green, the other is light blue. The improvised bed takes up almost the entire room. Sitting above the soft bed in a triangular-like circle are three people. A man and two women. Each has their hands on their knees, their eyes are closed and their breathing in unison. The sounds of their inhalations and exhalations are like white noise, it is the only sound other than the occasional popping of a flame.
The soft yellow glow of candlelight flickers over their skin and on the surfaces of the creamy white walls which now look gold in the firelight.

Zipolite

2011-08-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

My body is cradled in the strong nylon grip of an old hammock. The purple, blue and red material is faded from the incessant heat and mild salty air, the colors remind me of old beach towels left in the far corners of a linen closet, but the lack of rainbow brilliance is compensated in the tight weaving of the thread, an iron grip which for me, on a wooden platform fifteen feet above the sandy beach below, feels as secure as the cradle of a mother’s arms.
The ocean, no more than two hundred feet away, is calm and dark blue. Rhythmic waves less than hips height, roll in on shore, creating a calming, constant roar on an otherwise quiet beach. In the distance, I can see the silhouettes of a couple, a slim woman in a small bikini, a tanned man in long swim shorts. They are too far away to see any of their features or to hear their conversation or laughter. They walk away from me, their shapes mostly darkened as the sun creeps slowly downward in the sky. They are the only people I see, the only moving shapes besides the blue water stretched out like an open, living canvas in front of me.
A gentle warm wind sways the hammock, and my naked body within it from side to side. Above me is a thin roof which blocks out the direct rays of the sun, but does little to stop the incessant heat which rises from the bright white sand fifteen feet below. The hammock is but one in a row of fifteen which hang suspended from the wooden rooftop. Towards my right, I see the long, single row of one-room cabanas, the wooden platform that stretches the entire length, the rooftop above that shades the platform and hammocks. Each cabana is raised fifteen feet from the ground, a handmade wooden ladder extending from just outside each cabana door to the sand below. Swaying in the breeze, I cannot tell if the beach is prone to flooding or it was just built to give a clear view of the entire beach, a long cove etched between a series of two cliffs that are about a mile apart.
The other cabanas and the other worn hammocks hanging from the overhanging roof are empty. The unfilled carcasses of faded nylon sway slightly in the breeze, moving as gently as the one I rest in, a crisscross pattern etching itself into my slightly tanned white flesh.
Resting high above the sand, I can see both ends of the beach lined with old hotels and cabanas, all looking like relics from another era. Almost all of them are vacant now as the rainy season approaches. The waves roll in to shore, their roar is the only sound.

Angular Tube

2011-08-03T00:27:00.000-07:00

It is an angular tube made of slick paneled walls brought together by plastic joints and hidden metal screws that evade detection. It is a long tunnel in the shape of a hollowed out rectangle stretching at least a hundred feet, curving ever so slightly in the middle towards a goal I cannot see. On both sides the walls are shiny gray plastic without reflection or texture. They are simple, sterile. If needed, they could be disassembled in a matter of hours.
We wait in a single-file line within the tube. I cannot see the beginning, I cannot see the end, there are bodies in each direction. Most are dressed in long-sleeved dress shirts that button to the neck. They are men of all shapes, sizes and skin-tones. They all shoulder either a black computer bag or a small black suitcase with wheels and elongated collapsible handle. We wait, each facing forward, just a few inches from the person before us.
The man in front of me taps the plastic wall with his finger impatiently. He is tall, reaching nearly seven feet. His outstretched arm, covered in a cotton pin-striped plaid design, can reach easily from one side of the corridor to the other. He rests his right palm on the wall and taps his index finger in quick agitated bursts.
The dull sound of strangers is all around, the sound of communal silence unbroken by questions or laughter. We stand, waiting, all looking forward towards the corridor’s curve into a future which cannot be seen.
Overhead are evenly spaced strips of florescent lights that glow through narrow plastic frames embedded in the ceiling. There are lights every five feet, providing the plastic tunnel with rays of yellow illumination in an otherwise dim, windowless chamber.
The black plastic floor below my feet is covered in a pattern of raised circles the size of silver dollars. Somewhere behind me a small suitcase rolls relentlessly over the plastic bumps, thunk thunk thunk thumk. The rhythm adds one more layer to the soundscape. On both sides of the ground where the walls and floor meet, stretching the length of the tube, is a foot-wide striped yellow and black plastic sticker indicating a warning of some kind.
Close by, an idling plane hums, its roar finding us through the plastic walls, its constancy unable to drown the silence of strangers.

Cave

2011-07-15T04:21:00.001-07:00

The space is illuminated in soft yellow light bordering on orange. It comes from an unseen source. It’s cast over everything, creating the sense of a space that exists outside the extremes of day and night. It is a chamber neither lit nor dark, cloaked in a space that seems to be free from the constraints of time. The light is warm, almost embodying a feeling within its colors, a warmth that is calming and safe and full of something that can be perceived but not fully described.
The chamber is enclosed on all sides by thick rock walls made only of natural curves and a stucco-like texture. There are no clear angles or smooth surfaces, just raw rock hollowed naturally to create a near-perfect circular chamber without windows. The boundaries of the space are seamless, wall gradually drifts down, becoming earth without announcement or clear distinctions. Higher up, the walls gradually merge into ceiling, an entire space without boundaries or clear definitions or hard angles. The walls are thick, there is a mountain between me and the sky I vaguely remember.
In the center of the space is a small naturally occurring pool of water. The edges of the earth around it are moist and small green sprouts gradually give way to pure water that ripples with tints of yellow and green. Foliage is scattered through the chamber, it grows up through jagged cracks in the rock, sprouting green shrubs with long thin leaves. Some have tiny white flowers in the shape of miniature cones. In abundance by the pool, growing thick and in bunches, they display their obvious preference for moisture.
The cave is completely silent save the soft sound of slowly lapping water. I can feel the thickness of the walls, the intense isolation of the chamber.
A man is in the water. His torso appears to be floating, riding the edge between water and air. His legs are submerged, visible only as shifting pale light without clear shape. The skin of his chest and arms looks quite white, very bright in contrast to the dim light. His dark-hair-covered chest glistens with a sheen of water, leaves and small twigs are entwined in the flowing mass of his long black hair and sprinkled on his chest like the adornments of an earth god. His arms, outstretched, play with the water. His wide-spread fingers move softly along the water’s edge. He smiles as the sensation of liquid moves through him, past his long fingers.
I stand several feet from the pool, inhaling the scent of moist rocks.

Mirrored Pod

2011-06-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

The room is wide, almost shaped like a circle. It is a bit longer on one side, with long white walls that are slick and shiny and look like the kind of thick, extra-strong plastic that is used to make spaceships and other environments designed to withstand extreme temperatures and settings. The only sound is the constant hiss coming through the cooling system, which keeps the space at 68 degrees. The artificial overhead light, which is bright white and perfectly coats every inch of the room in an equal amount of light hits the walls and turns into long strips of illumination.
There are no obvious angles in the room, everything is smooth and so white and perfect it gives the appearance of sterility. There are no designated walls, just one long surface without edges, one smooth line that encompasses me without beginning or end.
A wide blanket of thin, cream-colored carpeting stretches to each edge of the space, it is perfectly clean without any stain or indication of human use. Above it are sparse pieces of white and egg-shell colored furniture. Just a few chairs, a stream-lined loveseat, a smooth table made from the same material as the wall.
There is a small toilet hidden behind a door in the smooth surface of the wall. It resembles the type of small water closet found in airplanes, though it is smaller, just a few feet tall, as though designed for other creatures with smaller limbs or the ability to contort into tiny sizes.
The floor beneath my feet vibrates softy. I can feel the movements of the train that carries me and this portable condo-pod. Everything shakes in soft friction as metal wheels meet the metal rails. Every so often the compartment jerks suddenly, harshly, and I brace myself while standing in the open space beside the narrow stairs that lead to the lower level of the condo-pod.
Along the edges of the upstairs room are many pieces of broken mirror. They line the edges of the wall. Their jagged edges are a sharp contrast to the smooth, controlled design of the room. Some pieces of the mirror are embedded into the wall itself five feet above the carpet.
I can see my reflection in each of them. My brown eyes, pale olive skin, dark hair. I see a thousand images of myself in the room and I think to myself that I must take a picture and remember this moment. It is eternal. It must not be forgotten.

Blue Closet

2011-06-17T21:09:00.000-07:00

The chamber is small, the size of a closet that somehow, despite the constraints of white walls and ceiling, still shares the periwinkle blue light of twilight from the world outside. I am leaning lazily into the only door of the closet, holding it open easily with the weight of my body against it.
The lower half of the door is solid wood, painted white, while the upper half is like a French door, made of many panes of glass divided by a thin frame of white painted wood. My body pushes into the door, lightly, almost seductively, my entire front side completely aware of the sensation, the hard, solid mass against my flesh; the cool, constant temperature of its form.
The closet is filled with the soft blue light, a color that is as clear as it is solid, both things somehow being true. The space is empty, without even a wooden bar across the side for hangers and jackets. I stay just on the periphery, leaving the chamber free of objects, my body inside the space by only a few feet.
A pleasant breeze blows through the closet, coming in so easily it seems as though there is no roof, no walls. The ceiling appears to be blue, clear, leading to the stars.
The air moves naturally inside, softly, looking for places to caress and journey. I am aware of the cool current on my hands that press easily, lightly into the sides of the hard, wooden door. I feel the air on my chest, above the low-neckline of my white shirt. The thin skin of my chest and neck tingle with the moving force of air.
My reflection in the glass panes is one of softness, of surrender, of a woman without rush, hurry, or stress. The face reflected back is calm, with dark eyes that tell stories in soft whispers, eyes which seem to laugh in silent bliss, needing no ear for its tales. My hair, in soft windswept curls along the side of my face bounce gently with the breeze. My loose fitting long-sleeved shirt, made of lightweight muslin cloth ripples softly, so quiet it seems almost silent.
Coming from somewhere far away, I hear the sound of chimes tinkling lightly on the current of moving air.
I realize that I should write down the details of this chamber. The blue, the mood, the calm, the reflection in the glass.

Massage Room

2011-05-25T20:35:00.000-07:00

I am in a narrow rectangular room with one closed door off to the side. The small space resembles a log cabin or sauna. The walls are all made from thick pieces of wood. They are still cherry brown and unfinished and smell faintly of the forest they came from. The long back wall and two narrow sides are without windows. They are uncluttered and alight with shadows cast by the single white candle in every corner.
The center of the room is taken up by a row of tall massage tables. They are placed one next to the other without any gap between them. They nearly fill the space. There is just a two foot periphery on every side of them. The padded tables are covered in crisp, sun-smelling white sheets that look orange in the glowing candlelight. They too, seem alive with the constant dance of flame shadows.
The front-wall is made of wood, made of the same cherry hued tree as the others in the room. It is differentiated by a series of five windows that look out onto a cemented patio.
The windows are three feet high and two feet wide. They are spaced four feet apart. Outside I can see a collection of simple metal chairs. The chairs are not facing the windows directly. They are turned to the right, as though the few dozen people sitting in them are awaiting an entertainer perpendicular to the small room.
But all the spectators are turned towards the windows, towards me. Their dark eyes, lit by the florescent overhead lighting that hangs from the ceiling of the outdoor patio and the lit street lamps outside, search through the barrier of the thin glass pane, looking for us inside.
The men in the crowd have thick, dark mustaches and wear top hats. Their suits are cleaned and pressed and gray. There are a few little girls in the crowd wearing dresses with lacy frills at the collar and hem. Despite their child-like dresses, they look just as austere as their mothers, who sit silently with pale faces that reveal no emotion or curiosity, though their heads are all turned towards the windows.
There are twelve massage tables in the room. Each of them is occupied by a young woman. Their torsos are bare and their pelvises are covered with a folded white sheet that also appears to be orange.
I am standing in the center of the room behind the massage tables wearing a sheer white camisole that only gives the illusion of a shirt, my nipples are dark and evident and poking through the fabric. I am massaging a blond woman who lays face up on the table. Her eyes are closed and I run my hands over her firm stomach, feeling her ribs just beneath the skin’s surface.
Each woman on the table is being massaged by someone. I am aware of the crowd outside sitting several dozen feet away from the windows, all of them looking for a peek into the massage room. I don’t look towards them. I am aware of the women beside me and the others on the tables, but I put all my energy into the movement of my hands. I am so focused on my hands that all external shapes fade into the walls and blend seamlessly into candlelight.

Apartment

2011-04-29T17:53:00.000-07:00

I am standing in the kitchen of a small apartment. I am leaning against the cool metal siding of a stainless steel sink embedded in a long white Formica countertop. The sink is clean and shiny, all remnants of past meals and dishes have long ago been scrubbed, dried and put in their spots behind white painted cupboards.
There is a window behind the sink. A crystal clear single-pane window that is uncluttered by curtains or shades. In perfect view is the gray cement rooftop of a tall red brick building across the street. It is so close I could jump from the window onto its sun-baked roof.
Two men sit on the cement, looking at each other, blocking the sun from their eyes with the aid of their cupped hands. Sunlight covers their legs and arms, brushing their already tanned skin. Just behind them are two wooden patio chairs which they have ignored, worn but well maintained red wood that lets off waves of glimmering heat.
Along the edges of the rooftop are red and pink geraniums in evenly spaced wide terracotta pots. The colorful petals are illuminated like stained glass, glowing in the afternoon light.
The sunlight streaming into the kitchen has taken on a pale blue color, verging on ice. The few appliances on the countertop are muted and fuzzy, seeming almost ghostly in shape and color.
To my right is a man. I can’t see his face, though I can see that his hair is dark and short, his skin is olive and tan. He wears red running shorts that reach his knees and a long white T-shirt that is baggy and slightly wrinkled. His eyes are fixed on the roof, at the two men sitting on the cement rooftop, on the one in red running shorts and a baggy white T-shirt.
Down the hallway from the kitchen is an open sliding glass door. A warm, yet slightly cool breeze blows through the open doorway. The wind plays with my hair. A black dog runs in circles on the balcony, barking excitedly in intervals to things I cannot see. The balcony is a mixture of sunlight and speckled shade. Any view from the high-rise apartment is blocked by tall, leafy trees and the thick interweaving vines that wrap around their boughs.

Small Apartment

2011-03-19T23:25:00.000-07:00

The brilliant heat of a Duraflame log is burning in a corner fireplace, sending most of its smoke up the chimney, though the small apartment still has the distinct smell of burnt wood. A young woman is laying on her back, stretched out on the thick white carpet of the one-bedroom apartment, her head supported by a large blue plastic bag full of thin folded blankets. Her entire body is facing the fire, the soles of her feet are the closest, standing upright though tilted outwards slightly, taking in the warmth of bright yellow flames leaping towards oxygen.
Two feet from her head, to the left of her body, is a large flat-screen TV. Men in tight primary-colored spandex uniforms run back and forth across a field chasing the illusory ball of dreams. The familiar sound of sportscasters and the low, slightly dull noise from a crowd of thousands fills the small apartment. No conversation can be had over the sound of the TV and no one tries.
Beside the young woman is a large tan dog with wide, floppy ears. The dog is laying next to the girl, pressing into her slightly with warm weight. The dog’s head constantly turns upwards, looking for a hand and affection. As the fingers of the girl’s right hand twirl the dog’s pliable ear round and round, the dog closes her eyes and sinks into the sounds of the room.
Behind the young woman is a plush gray couch. A sheet is stretched across the lower half to prevent the constant attack of dog hair. A short man with thin limbs and a slightly bulging stomach is sitting on the couch, his left hand full of sugar-covered macadamia nuts. Every few seconds he raises his hand and drops a few more into his mouth. He is watching the game before him with mild interest, though he looks around the room every once in a while to see if anything has changed.
A younger man is sitting in the leather armchair beside the couch. His eyes are focused only on the TV. Every few minutes he yells out, cursing some move made by someone thousands of miles away.
Ten feet away from the couch and the fireplace is the kitchen, a small nook without walls that is drenched in overhead florescent lighting. A mother and daughter are in the kitchen. They share the same coloring, pale skin verging on pink, light hair tending towards red, though the mother has taken pains to highlight her short hair in blond streaks.
The mother is moving around the small kitchen rapidly, opening drawers, shutting drawers, turning on the faucet, pulling on the roll of paper towels, opening the oven, closing its creaking door with a muffled bang as the aroma of cooking oranges and cranberries escapes into the scent of burning wood. The mother moves rapidly, repeating the same gestures and movements in quick succession.

Cul-de-sac

2011-02-22T20:05:00.000-08:00

She sits in her small black truck in an affluent suburban cul-de-sac. The road is somewhat narrow leading in, but at the end, where the road dead-ends in a row of shrubs, the asphalt opens wide, creating a circle where any car can turn around fluidly.
There are two spots of shade on either side of the street. Her car is parked beneath one, next to an old yellow fire hydrant and a five foot tall row of shrubs. In the other swatch of shade, an occupied mail delivery truck sits with the motor turned off, the mail-person is just barely visible below the reflection of autumn leaves on the windshield.
There are three large houses that face the cul-de-sac. They are many feet away from the street, shielded from the asphalt by long driveways and ivy and bushes. There are mature trees and shrubs that separate the houses from each other, with ample space between them for fencing and foliage.
Parallel to the cul-de-sac, just forty feet away from the houses and the nearly deserted street is a fairly busy road. Sitting on the cul-de-sac, she can hear a busy street not too far away.
She can hear the sounds of the school on the opposite side of the busy street. Children are playing, calling to each other on the large carefully tended field. Little boys scream with pleasure as a goal is made. There is a repetitive sound of green balls hitting the floor of a tennis court.
Cars pass regularly on the street behind the houses and cul-de-sac. Occasionally a truck with its powerful diesel engine winds its way through the neighborhood and passes the school.
Her car adds to the music, something is ticking mechanically, though the engine is turned off. In the trimmed bushes beside her car, hiding in the thick bed of fallen leaves, a small animal scavenges for food, crumpling leaves as it walks and scuffles the underbrush.
A gentle breeze passes through the two open windows of her truck. It is soft, sending a cool touch over her skin and rattling the long pieces of hair that hang on either side of her face. She sits in the car, her eyes closed, listening to the chorus of sounds that fill the cul-de-sac with vibration.

Strip Mall

2011-02-02T09:39:00.000-08:00

The sun has just left the sky, leaving the faintest glow of yellow hovering close to the horizon. Twilight is all around. Feathering out from the yellow-lit hue is a pale blue which fades abruptly into deep cobalt and purple-black. Several seagulls cross the sky silhouetted against the pale blue night.

I am sitting under the thick metal awning of a short strip mall on the outskirts of a sprawling apartment complex. Squat, two-story condos and tall apartment buildings are interspersed like a twenty minute long checkers match, they stretch for blocks and blocks, creating a mini-city. To the left, several hundred feet behind the grocery store at the end of the strip mall, is an apartment building standing twenty stories tall. A few of the windows are lit from inside, though the majority of them are dark. In front of me, just beyond the parking lot, is a long two-story apartment building that vaguely references Greek architecture with its two white pillars on either side of the main front door.

There are twelve different businesses all sharing the same long florescent-lit awning. At one end is the mid-sized supermarket with a front-facing glass wall. Covering the glass wall are an assortment of neon beer signs that each vie for attention. They blare their colorful message into the night, looking for thirsty eyes and loose wallets. On the other end of the strip-mall is a lonely-singular ATM that stands unprotected against the night. A solitary bulb embedded in the awning shines down, illuminating the money machine.

Between the two anchor points are a dozen storefronts. I sit out front, at the only outdoor table drenched in the glow of an arabica bean-scented coffee shop. My white paper to-go cup of milk-drenched tea rests on the table to my left, the cup still too hot for my fingers to hold. Two men play chess at a small table directly behind me, we are separated only by a thick glass pane and a thousand other invisible walls. Next door, a brightly-lit laundromat hums with the sound of tumbling clothes and a screeching baby that takes short breaths between wails. Three young Asian guys are standing just outside the open doorway to the laundromat. They talk amongst themselves in gangsta accents, simultaneously laughing together and making fun of each other.

Closer to the market at the end is a burger place with a sporty, Hall of Fame theme. There is an ice cream parlor, a smoke shop that sends the constant perfume of nagchampa drifting out its open door, a pizza place, a kick boxing school and two other small storefronts under construction. The steady tap and boom of the construction work mingles with the insistent hum of dryers and swishing washers. Somewhere above, a jumbo jet cuts through the sky, its noisy engines rattling the metal table and the contents of my paper cup.

Beyond the storefronts and sidewalk is a small parking lot with a hundred spaces, though only a handful are occupied by silent cars. Just beyond the lot is a narrow street lined with glowing street lamps and one large silhouetted cypress stands tall and dark against the changing sky.

Oak Tree

2011-01-26T22:21:00.000-08:00

The hum of bees fills the otherwise quiet cool air. They buzz softly around the trunk of an old oak tree where their hive is nestled in a crack that was made in a long forgotten lightning storm. Roots, long and gray, reach out through the carpet of prickly golden oak leaves creating small to mid sized nooks, spaces between the roots where the leaves are thicker.
The canopy of the tree spreads wide like an umbrella and drips to nearly touch the ground so that just a thin band of horizon is viewable between the dark green leaves that hang with resolve on the living branches and the yellow and brown leaves decomposing between the rising roots. Horizon is divided between strips of pale violet sky and the shimmering rolls of grassy hillside, glossy blond after a long dry summer.
A coyote moves smoothly over the hills, ears raised high, picking its way delicately through the rippling grasses with the grace of a ballet dancer. The sweet raspy cry of a hawk pierces the muted hum of the bees and soft rustle of grass, only now and then revealing its presence above the canopy with these cries.
Lying on the bed of leaves a man and woman clutch each other, their cheeks touching. The woman rests on top of the man and he rubs her back and thighs through her jeans and yellow T-shirt, kneading the flesh underneath like dough, his broad hands and strong pale fingers moving slowly and deliberately, almost tremblingly, as if the strength being exerted is only a fraction of what is available and great restraint is required to prevent his fingers from pressing through the flesh to grip her bones.
Her face is hidden against his cheek and neck and under hair the color of old straw that spills out over the ground beside them. She is very still and both bodies rise and fall gently with their synchronized breath.
His clear blue eyes look up from under bushy black brows, gazing at the canopy stretched over them like a ceiling of shivering leaves. Small brittle leaves from the ground cling to the sleeves of his blue and white flannel. His face is smooth and pale, his lips full and bright. His head, covered in a fine layer of dark stubble, rests on a pillow of rolled jackets.
The smell of oak and earth envelopes the place like a perfume and is stirred to freshness by the cooling breeze. Warmth from the heat of the day still lingers in the ground and in the bodies of the man and woman, and on their nearby backpacks, but the breeze carries the coolness of the violet sky and the promise of dusk.
The tiny bodies of the bees can be seen now and then looping their way towards the heart of the tree or venturing away beyond its shelter.
The woman sighs so quietly that it is barely perceptible, except to the man into whose ear her warm breath is expelled at his fingers' urgent request.

Convention Hall

2011-01-13T01:13:00.000-08:00

The large convention hall is shaped like a rectangle, though there are many banisters and stairs to divide it into multiple chambers, giving the impression of many rooms and divided spaces. The only windows and natural light come from the four sets of glass doors on the south side of the building which are spread every one hundred feet. Besides the exit doors which provide only minimal light through the tempered glass, there are the front glass double-doors and its overhead windows on the western face of the building.

Interior light mostly comes from the intensely bright white spotlights that dangle from the wooden ceiling. The light is directed downwards by large metal lampshades with a diameter of two feet.

The space has a cozy modern feel with angled beams of thick wood that jut out from the ceiling at 35 degree angles and end at the floor of thin gray carpet or ¾ of the way up the vertical beams which are spaced evenly along the sides of the hall, standing every twenty feet and providing structural support for the roof and foundation.

Twenty steps from the front glass doors is a 15-step staircase covered in blue carpet. It leads to a small annex above the main space of the convention hall. The annex has an a-frame shaped rooftop and opposite the front staircase is a maroon railing with a view of the convention hall and another set of stairs that lead directly down to the main lower floor.

The heart of the convention hall is sunk a bit deeper into the earth than the two long sections on either side of it which are elevated by four feet. The three distinct spaces are separated by metal banisters. The outer raised sections are accessible by several equally spaced 5-step staircases that lead to the middle section. There are three staircases on each side of the interior space.

Throughout the three sections are eight-foot wooden tables. Each table is uniquely decorated and covered with varying styles of table clothes. Some are black, others white, some in colorful fabric or cluttered with felt letters or plastic-wrapped artwork. There are hundreds of tables lined up one next to the other. Along the exterior the tables are set up a few feet from the wooden walls. In the center of all three chambers, the tables are aligned to create a large island or donut in the center of the space.

On every table there is some form of artwork. There are books and thin glossy comics. There are dolls, key chains, buttons and shirts available for purchase. There are hundreds of handcrafted goods, all sewn, pasted, drawn, or painted. There are small paper zines and stuffed animals made out of plaid fabric, buttons and stickers and knitted mittens and artwork in mats and wrapped in protective plastic.

Behind every table there is at least one person, though several have two or three. Some people behind the booths smile brightly and try and make eye contact with the people milling about the space. Others stare into books of their own, trying to appear disinterested and distracted. Several are in conversation with their table-mates and others engage actively with the people in front of their table, encouraging them to leaf through books or try on jewelry.

An intense hum of conversation and activity fills the space. It is like the low drone of an airplane, its decibel only detectable once it’s gone.

Guilty Fruit

2010-11-02T00:11:00.001-07:00

The walls are white between the bright crimson spattering of juices. On the floor, pooling over the tired nude linoleum along the floor boards, the juices are partially dried around the edges to create a stain. Here and there the seeds of the guilty fruit lay like red tear drops the size of baby’s teeth. They are on the ground, spread sparingly from one wall to the next as carefully distributed as stars throughout the universe, giving each other a wide berth and only occasionally meeting in groups of three or five.
On the dirty white seat cushions they sparkle like delicate jewels and on the table the white inner membranes of the fruit are strewn over the plaid table cloth among paper towels. The red and pink and speckled outer skins are there too, keeping their disgorged inside company.
On the tile countertops all parts of the fruit that bring death to the world lie scattered and the juice runs in tiny rivers over the grout. A butcher's knife lays gleaming on the cutting board, also sullied with sticky sweet nectar, adding to the unsettling aura of gore that permeates the room.
The red liquid splattered on the walls, pooling on the floor, running in rivers over the countertops, is highlighted by the stark whiteness of the cabinetry, tiles, and unsullied portions of wall. White and red fight for control of the atmosphere and both loose sway at the stainless steel sink crowded with soaking pots and baking sheets. The sink is an explosion of soiled steel nestled in the greater explosion of red and white, like the pink nipple and aureole at the tip of a pale breast, or like the pollen laden burst at the center of a flower.
There is an odor particular to dirty drains and stainless steel sinks which mingles with that of burnt remnants absorbing water on the surfaces of cookie sheets, and of course, the musky smell of that fruit. It is difficult to smell the juices over the unique and strong odor of the membranes and peel, their smell is unlike the smell of other fruits.
On the counter, nearly hidden by ruffles of crumpled paper towels lies a wedge of the fruit possessing all of the parts; tough red skin, white membranes holding and hiding their treasure, and a multiplicity of ruby hued seeds. The pattern calls to mind the nests of wasps while the color, especially the juice, begs to be confused with blood.
A white bodied lamp holding a pear shaped light bulb without the modesty of a lamp shade bathes the scene with a butter cream light. It is aided by a light mounted on the ceiling where multiple bulbs are occluded beneath a dome of etched glass. The pattern of the etchings is a precise array of concentric rings textured with ribs or diamonds in an alternating pattern.
Light glows in the shape of a shamrock on the glossy white paint of the ceiling surrounding the light fixture. No red here, only white and crystal and butter cream playing peacefully together above the mayhem. The jealous red is stealing its way up the walls in the form of those bright splatters, but it never quite reaches into that last bastion of pale solidarity.
The stovetop and oven, like the sink, are engaged in their own game unconcerned with the struggles of white and red. They enjoy the geometric austerity of square doors and round burners dressed in black and white like nuns. Underneath this happy pair a seed or two of the messy fruit lays sequestered, enjoying the solitude and anonymity of darkness where their crimson stain is stripped of significance.

Lake In The Jungle

2010-10-28T21:01:00.000-07:00

The lake lay just under the earthy banks pierced by roots which dipped their tips into the cool green water. It was long and narrow, making it easy to rest hidden among the trees on one shore to spy on the bank of the next. Tigers of a brilliant orange camouflaged with black stripes did just this, spying on brown skinned men who watched them from the opposite bank.
Floating near the surface of the lake, mid sized alligators let their green bumps and ridges break through the glassy green water like tiny islands, now and then yawning to expose the pink insides of their cavernous mouths with lake weed caught on pointed white teeth. Where the bank provided a beach rather than dropping abruptly from jungle to water, the wily reptiles lay in the dark moist sand pretending to sleep, sometimes with mouths open so that daring little birds could venture inside to pick out the lake weed and worms and leaches that made their own micro dimensional jungle around the white teeth.
The larger jungle which held tigers, and men, and alligators, and tiny birds that could travel between macro and micro worlds, was possessed of the sort of trees whose arms and roots twisted and intertwined so that it was difficult to discern where one tree ended and the other began. They wore streamers of dark green moss the way Spanish ladies wear lacy shawls over their arms and shoulders, and sometimes vines dared to wind themselves around the pale trunks and branches.
Lines of ants employed these thick juicy tethers as highways and marched throughout the canopy and back down to the earth on them, stopping now and again to attack some other insect in mass or to sample the nectar held in the yellow blossoms that interrupted the vines' straight lines like Diners made cheery by a waitress named Doris along an abandoned interstate. They knew the jungle and the lake's perimeter from a vastly different perspective than either the men with their long black hair and dark round eyes or the tigers who went about silently on padded feet or even the alligators and little birds.
The men, the tigers, and the alligators had to be wary of one another, whereas the ants were rarely considered by anyone but the vines and trees whose flesh they tickled incessantly. The men would dive into the lake for a moment now and then, shaking the water from their long hair after bursting back up from the lake's verdant depths. There was an awkward symmetry to the lake's patrons; alligators preferring the sunny bank and men therefore preferring the shady side.
Fish were universally threatened, swimming pink and silver, and green and even striped in the lake's depths. Now and then a school would shimmer just under the surface looking like a trove of jewels before meeting their fate. One third swam into strange pink and white caverns, never to return to the wide open waters, another third became tangled in nets fashioned from retired vines and the other third managed to collect together far from peril and preserve the future of their species.
The lake banks were mostly quiet, disturbed by the occasional growl of a tiger or the laughter of a man or a splash as an alligator rose or descended from the lake's surface. Tiny birds made tiny noises and tigers sniffed through the moist lake smells to make out the odor of edible flesh. The men checked their nets and watched the tigers prowl the opposite bank. They smelled like the lake themselves, with only the tiniest hint of salty sweat betraying them.

Show

2010-10-14T18:55:00.000-07:00

I stand in a dimly lit room alive with the sound of gentle murmuring from a few dozen men. They are all dressed in a similar way. Dark shirts and jeans, black shoes and thin dark jackets. They all have dark, dirty hair that has been styled by the salt-drenched wind, left wild and crusted with the taste of tears.
The room is crowded, already filled beyond the capacity of the short walls and uneven floor and more men enter every few minutes having paid the entry fee at the door. They enter through an open doorway off to one side of the room, a man stands just outside the doorway collecting money in a wide coffee can.
Beyond the doorway the night is dark. A wide, flat parking lot sits empty, the black tar and white lines of demarcation are illuminated by a lone double-bulbed lamp that towers thirty feet in the air. The lot looks forlorn in the yellow light, missing cars, people and trash.
The small single-storied room packed with men is attached to a larger structure, having been built at the same time decades before. Through the wide rectangular window facing the parking lot, I can see the larger structure since the entire building is shaped like an L. The surface of the larger structure is covered in corrugated metal, though the small room where I stand seems like an afterthought, a janitor’s closet that has been forgotten, appropriated by a handful of young men in the dark night. The windows of the larger building are dark and I know that we are the only ones here.
I look around and realize I am the only woman in the tightly packed room. There are young men sitting on the floor, others leaning against the wall in silent pensiveness. Others have merged into small huddles talking quietly, filling the air with a gentle murmur of anticipation.
While most of the men sit or stand, there are five among the dozens that move, setting up their musical equipment against one of the walls. At their feet are several amps, half a dozen microphone stands and a crate of miscellaneous cords. There are other hard black cases on the worn blue rug waiting to be opened, waiting for electricity and skilled hands that know all the right knobs and switches to make them come alive.
I look at the various men leaning against one of the walls and see a familiar face. Pale white skin and a long dark beard, his eyes look around the crowd observing it all in interested delight. I know that in this crowded space, among this many men, there will not be any place for me to hide.

Auto Shop

2010-10-02T23:09:00.001-07:00

The smell of oil and tires linger, though a breeze moves through a wide open roll-up door that faces a moderately busy street. Every so often the multiple swooshing sounds of moving cars outside enter the quiet chamber of the auto shop, interacting with the occasional bursts of mechanical drilling that come from the heart of the garage. There is the occasional clatter of metal hitting metal, or a drill, or the sporadic chorus of ringing phones.
The space is long and narrow and goes deep into the two-story building. The front of the shop is evident to the outside world simply by the open roll-up door and the sign above it that reads in handwritten red paint: “Mas Auto Shop.”
There is a continuous low hum coming from the back of the shop, from someplace far behind the roll-up door and office and waiting area by the front. The sound comes from something mechanical, some machine in a state of waiting, charging for use.
Fifteen feet from the roll-up door is a walled-in office with glass windows on two sides that open into the garage. Inside the space is illuminated by yellow overhead lights. There are two long wooden desks piled with paperwork. There are two computers on each desk, miscellaneous office equipment: pencils, staplers, ballpoint pens, notepads, a calculator. A girl, hidden behind the counter in front of the desks, is talking. She speaks with an Asian dialect, she talks very quickly.
On the outside of the office wall, just above the window, facing the opening of the roll-up door, is a big square blue sign with the Chevron emblem in the center, below the emblem in bold white letters is the word ‘Lubricants.’ Next to that large sign is a collage of other smaller signs. There are signs for the shop’s promotions and specials. “Lamp Station Prices” with hand-written in prices, ‘Smog Check’ signs with the type of inspection and the hand-printed prices beside them, and on the corner of the wall, a big STOP sign, below it is written: ‘Stop here please.’
On one side of the rollup door is a rack of new tires, a small wind chime hangs from a metal bar on the rack. On the other side of the open door is a small space for waiting. A row of decorative bookshelves three feet tall delineates the space between work and rest. The black bookcases are divided into a checkerboard of cube-like shelves, some with open backs and others with cardboard backs. On top of the bookcases are four equally spaced plants in white and blue ceramic pots. Towards one side, there are two variegated climbing ivy plants, and then two other small palms with alternating stripes of green and white.
Within the waiting area are a variety of seats. Against the wall of the shop that faces the street is a black exercise bike. A few feet from it is a gray and slightly stained rug with two loveseats and a wooden bench that face each other. The cream leather loveseat sofa faces the wood and wrought iron bench. Perpendicular to the cream leather loveseat is a worn light brown loveseat. It is plush and the fabric on the headrests is slightly darker than the rest of the fabric, indicating that many people have rested their heads against it.
In the center of the carpet, between all three loveseats, is a large round coffee table. There are piles of newspapers, a week’s worth of news. Almost all of them are in an Asian script, though there is one local newspaper in English, pictures of a neighborhood fire grace its cover. A pile of magazines with only their spines showing sit buried below the piled-up newspapers. An abandoned white paper coffee cup and an empty folded white paper bag which once housed a pastry sit on one end of the coffee table. Across from the coffee cup, on the other edge of the table, is a wide jade plant in a terra cotta pot. A terra-cotta looking plastic tray rests below the pot. A small stuffed Hello Kitty face hangs from a thin string from one of the jade plant’s thin branches.
Between the two plush love seats is a small end table. The wood is worn and the varnish is nearly stripped along the top, though the legs are still shiny. On its surface is a large jade, its leaves are smaller and lighter than the plant on the circular coffee table.
The phone rings and is quickly answered, then again, the space is made alive by the tinkling of the chimes.

Pool

2010-09-01T22:18:00.000-07:00

The sky was perfectly blue and warm, its color matching the bright rectangular pool below a cloudless sky.

The pool was alive with bright blue waters, rippling and bouncing off blue painted cement that had begun to fade and looked like the skin of an old person, splotched and uneven in color. There were speckles of pale blue, spots of cream and white, though the overall image was that of bright blue.

On the cement ground beside the pool sat a deep mesh net on the end of a long metal pole. The net was lined with a few inches of soggy leaves and small dead bugs that had been filtered out of the pool. It sat now silently in a stain of water, a shallow puddle that marked its journey.

The long rectangular pool lapped just a few feet to the right of the white painted house. Closest to one length of the waters were the French doors and side windows of a teenage boy’s room. The shades were drawn oven the door, as were the tiny shades specially made for the two five inch windows on each side of the double doors.

The other long length of the pool was edged with a four-foot high stucco wall. Behind the wall was a wide sloping landscaped hillside covered in lavender and large bushes that were every color of green and yellow. Bees moved purposefully between lavender flowers, staying close to their nectar and never veering away from the boundary of plants to human domain. At the top of the hill were large pine and birch trees and barely visible beyond them was the geometric roof of the neighboring house.

There was a girl floating in the pool. Her lower half was covered in a small orange, yellow and green narrow Brazilian bikini bottom. Her pale white breasts were covered in a shiny black bra. She was in the pool, in the center of a hot pink inner tube made of clear plastic that was opaque enough to look through and see the light filled waters below.

The only other thing in the water with her was the fleshy plastic mouth of a pool pump that sucked on the cement edges of the submerged floor. It was attached to a long white plastic hose that was connected like an umbilical cord to one vertical wall of the pool.

She held onto the float with her arms while her feet propelled her across the length of the pool. She was breathing heavily while she moved her legs in an amphibian way, drawing her touching soles together and towards her crotch, then pushing them apart and out, and then, completing the circle, drawing them in once again.

Amidst her laps, she would look occasionally to the French doors covered in shades. There was just a foot of non-covered window at the very bottom of the door and she would look towards it, searching for eyes.

The water was a perfect balance of warmth and refreshing coolness. It lapped across the edges of the pool and spilled over onto the cement floor of the walkways surrounding it. Long streaks of it continued past the black metal gate several feet from the end of the pool. The gate stretched from the pale stucco wall edging the lavender and ended beside the wall of the house, very close to the kitchen door that led to the patio.

Beyond the metal gate was the formal patio area with a floor of red bricks that had been heated by the sun. As water from the pool spilled over the edges and past the metal gate, it met the hot red bricks and some of it turned immediately into steam.

The formal patio was cluttered with various pieces of outdoor furniture. A wrought iron circular table and six matching chairs sat close to the metal fence, as did a small circular fire pit and two chairs made out of metal and gray plastic fabric.

Across the fifteen feet of red bricks, on the edge, by the grass, were two chairs and matching ottomans that were made of espresso colored rattan and padded with thick beige pillows. Perpendicular to them, against the white wall of the house, was a long sofa made of the same style and covered with the same beige pillows.

The girl drifted in the pool. There was only the sound of the lapping water. She made lazy laps and protected her sensitive lips from the sun whenever she turned towards it.

Confectionery

2010-08-09T20:32:00.000-07:00

On the edge of a worn asphalt driveway, embedded in the graying tar substance that was new and fresh decades before, is a large sign atop a wide cream-white metal post. The sign sits thirty feet above the parking lot that is littered with crumbling pebbles of asphalt.
The sign is unlike most, neither a rectangle or square, neither circle or oval. It is at least four feet across and three feet high and it is a blend of many shapes. Its right side is curved like a circle, though it extends down into a point both above and below. The left side is a mix of curve and point as well. The interior space is painted in a creamy white. The edging around the sign is painted pale pink as is the vertical script lettering in the center which reads, ‘Shaw’s Plaza.’ The shape and style and lettering of the sign speaks of a by-gone era of architecture, but the sign and post itself are in good form without any signs of rust or wear besides a general fading of color.
Below the sign is a another smaller rectangular white sign that is painted and has black lettering that is a little to the left of center. It says, ‘Sweet Memories Confectionery.’ The letters are spelled with the kind of temporary plastic letters used in movie theater marquees, though the letters themselves look static and slightly worn and small compared to the painted sign above.
The parking lot itself is large and mostly bare without any distinguishing lines to delineate individual parking spots. A single blue minivan is parked. It’s side door is open and a Latin man with tan skin sits on the floor of the van, his feet finding comfort on the asphalt driveway. Two children hover around him with half-eaten ice cream cones in their sticky hands.
Across the parking lot from the sign and the minivan is a building whose front is made of plate glass windows and whose wooden sides take turns between blue, white and pink. The edges of the building are lined with light bulbs in precise intervals, looking like permanent, over-sized Christmas lights. The bulbs line the thin, flat roof and they line the vertical edge where two walls meet. Some of the bulbs are gray, some are missing, but most remain in place, perhaps waiting for darkness.
The building faces the street and sidewalk, looking at the world through glass windows. From the street in front, it is hard to see inside the store because of the flat roof that extends over the building and to the edge of the sidewalk. The extended flat roof provides the thick shade for the patio, which sits between the sidewalk and the actual entrance to the shop which at least fifteen feet from the sidewalk.
There are 6 circular white metal tables on the cement patio. Four hard plastic chairs are clustered around each table, each chair being either pink, blue or white. The legs for each chair are not singular metal legs, but instead are wide metal triangles. Two metal triangles emerge from the bottom of each seat, they extend at an 35 degree angle and the base of the triangle rests along the patio floor. The tables are unoccupied and covered with the shade of the thick flat roof above.
Beyond the plate glass windows is a fully stocked candy shop. Bins of liquorice, peppermint and strawberry taffy sit in individual wooden baskets. By the long counter beside the register is a glass case full of fudge in different forms, some white, some marbled, some mixed with nuts or topped with toffee. The simple glass shelves that line the walls facing the street are crowded with bags of jelly candies in every imaginable shape and color. There are green beans, blue sharks, pink bears, rainbow colored ropes, orange smiles, and purple worms.
Towards the side of the shop is a glass wall facing the parking lot. There are several more circular white metal table on that bright end of the shop. Surrounding each table are four white metal chairs with red vinyl seats.
The smell of sugar escapes from the open glass door and into the front patio, as does the loud metal music coming from a radio behind the counter. A man’s gravelly voice bellows, ‘search aaaannnd seek and destroooyyyyyyy!”

The Dark Road

2010-07-25T21:48:00.000-07:00

A long journey on a dark road. Over my shoulder is the strap of a small cloth sack, holding cranberries and almonds. My chest is covered in a blue wool coat that reaches towards my feet and wrists. It is a long road, curving over the earth like a serpent, winding past deserts and over mountains and into valleys. It is a long road, a long journey and it continues with another step. One tiny step on the gravelly road mixed with dirt and dust. The earth crunches beneath my weight, each step grinding rock to sand. Night has fallen and the sky is metallic silver and black. There are no individual clouds, they have merged together, forming a giant blanket of moisture, a thick sheen of other-worldly color and implication.

I look to the sky, searching for something; for a shape in the heavens, a word to appear in the silvery darkness. I squint, my chin raised, looking, looking.

The journey is long, walked step by step, each one as important as the next, for the future can come only after the present has been walked. They are tiny little steps on an earthen road with nebulous edges that fade into fields of grass. The path is either forgotten and clear as the night time sky. The past is mine alone. Mine in this valley below a metallic sky. These little pointed black leather shoes carry me onwards, my only protection from the sleeping jagged pebbles.

It is a long journey on a dark road. The sky is metallic silver and black and a raven flies overhead. His wings are spread wide and full, adding another shadow of dark to the sky. He swoops in alone, circling the valley in wide circles, soaring on a cold wind that comes from a forgotten dead sun.

Surrounding me on all sides are steep barren mountains. They surround the valley like the edges of a high bowl. I walk slowly, taking little steps with my leather shoes. A raven flies overhead, ringing a bell. The sound moves through me, riding my veins like a thousand tiny ships.

It is a long journey on a dark road. The sky is metallic silver and black and a raven flies overhead, ringing a bell. The blanket of clouds begins to pulse, responding to the waves of sound. A wind begins to sweep over the mountain sides and my body shudders in the wind. I am the blend of mountain, of wind, of cloud, of blood; held together by the bell, its sound running through me like dark angels flying into the metallic night.

Coffee Shop

2010-07-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

He held a steaming white paper cup of hot black coffee in his hands. He held the disposable cup with both hands, cradling it with reverence, taking slow, long sips of the bitter dark liquid. He sipped slowly, tasting the soil where it had grown, his tongue finding remnants from the sweat of campesinos and hot sun and blue skies dotted with light passing clouds. The cup was nestled between his long fingers and wide palms, held steady without its plastic lid so the steam was free to rise for a brief journey. It shot up from the coffee in swirled blasts of continuous vapor, rising, leaping and curling, twisting in on itself for more than half a foot until it drifted and dispersed, transforming itself.
He sat in a short padded leather armchair, the contemporary conservative style of the type that could be found in lawyer’s offices. Its lines were smooth and inoffensive, its simple shape inviting. It had huge overstuffed armrests, providing the place for the man’s elbows to rest while his hands held onto the coffee; steam jumping from the cup, creating ethereal patterns over his face, steaming him with warmth.
His back was facing a large plate glass window that faced a narrow cement patio with a few wrought iron tables and chairs. A few fabric covered umbrellas rattled in the breeze. Just behind him, the window was painted with a semi-opaque image of blue ice cubes falling into a plastic cup that had been painted with a pale white color. The light from the window behind him almost made a silhouette of his shape, though there was light coming from the interior of the coffee shop that gently filled in the dark corners.
The man’s face was old and weathered by time and age. The skin around the edges of his mouth sagged, though he held onto his manly dignity, holding it firmly with both hands, gripping it with his long fingers and wide palms. His eyes were covered in wide dark sunglasses, disguising the places his eyes wandered, though the tilt of his head gave a small indication when he watched a tall blond nurse walk through the front glass door. The skin on his hands and face were pink and though his hair had thinned and turned the color of pure snow, he still had enough to part on the right side and comb over towards the left.
His slender legs were crossed at the ankles and covered in pale blue jeans. Feet hugged in black socks were tucked into brown leather shoes. He wore a pale blue sweater and a white collared shirt that just peaked out over the high neckline of his sweater. There was a belly paunch that was round and full, covered completely in pale blue wool. He checked his watch every so often, keeping both hands on the cup, but turning his wrist up towards his eyes.
Jazz, infused with horns and the low grumbling of a large black man, filled the room with its melody. Steamers from the espresso machine hissed, bringing cold milk into frothy bubbles of foam. There were several circular wooden tables and chairs scattered through the room. Solitary people stared into the glowing screen of their laptops. Next to the man with the sunglasses, a mother sat staring into her illuminated Blackberry while her baby slept in a stroller beside her. Throughout the room, everyone was engaged, enthralled with their own electronics, it was just the old man that sat, holding his coffee with both wide palms, watching as people walked through the door towards the counter and then eventually left out the same door with a drink in their hands.
Old time jazz and blues flowed from the speakers, and the man sat, holding the steaming cup with no lid, holding it with his long weathered fingers and wide, capable palms.

Invasion

2010-07-08T17:31:00.000-07:00

There is a building, the only building on a barren earth that is covered in long-forgotten yellowed plains and dried up grassy hillsides. The building is a tall rectangle that reaches for the clouds, but finds itself stuck ten stories high. It is simple and made of brick, with several windows on each floor. It is lacking any embellishment on the outside surface, there are simply old red bricks that have gotten more brown with each kiss of the sun. It is a simple rectangle reaching upward, pure right angles that flaunt function over form.

Within, the structure is stuffed with people and furniture. The ecstatic energy inside is frantic and crowded, like a third-world bazaar or market. Each floor is crowded with old wooden hand-crafted furniture from Russia. There are decorative couches with broad armrests made of wood and padded fabric. Embroidered cross-stitched pillows sit on every chair, coughing up floral patterns. Crocheted doilies rest on top of hand-carved armoires and dressers, protecting the delicate, shiny surfaces from plastic flower stuffed vases and old picture frames.

Rugs of many sizes cover the floors; tiny rugs big enough for a pair of feet in front of grand one-person chairs; large monumental weavings that sit below a set of three couches. Rugs of all shapes and earth-toned hues.
Struggling for breathing space among all the furniture are the throngs of people, all of them moving in the same direction. The one set of stairs wrapping the length of the building from the first floor to the tenth is overwrought with a mad panic. Men and women jump over the stagnant pieces of furniture to find a bit of footing on the stairs. Small children are left to fend for themselves as people clamor to the top.

Visible beyond the sparse windows are the series of hillsides on all sides of the building. The sky above is blue, yet a thin layer of white brushes everything in its soft stroke, muting out the sun just slightly. The hills are soft mounds of yellowed grass that continue towards the horizon like a monumental mountain range, continuing on and on past the line of sight. Coming over the crests of the dead grassy hills are men and women on horseback.

Most of the mounted riders are holding long poles with thin triangular ribbons attached to the tops of each pole. The ribbons flutter in the breeze like thunder, stretching a hundred feet behind each mounted rider. The men on horseback are dressed like Mongolians, wearing thick leather pants and jackets that are lined with pale brown fur. Their features are wide and their skin is like burnt copper. Their feet are covered in leather boots that reach their knees and they kick horse bellies with their boot heels, urging them on shouting “haw!” Between the sweaty horse breasts are more women on foot. They climb and conquer the hillsides in bare feet, running towards the building holding their square flags high above them. The cries and hoots of the invaders compete with the fluttering of the ribbons and flags and a chorus fills the valley.

Hallway

2010-06-18T15:26:00.000-07:00

A young woman stands in a dim hallway. She is on the seventh floor of an old apartment building built with a communist aesthetic. The building is tall, narrow and long. She stands in the hallway, a long corridor lit only by a few small windows on each side of the buildings’ length, beside the stairs. A pale light seeps in and bits of dust travel in its rays.

The young woman is slender and pale, her shoulders revealing the pointed bones just below the skin. Over her slender frame is a red 1920s flapper dress. The fit is baggy, hiding all of her curves, though its low neckline begins to hint at her pointed breasts. The hemline reaches to her knees, where several inches of gold trim sway with each movement of her body. The dress has signs of wear and the seams along the sides have begun to loosen. A thin stretched out spaghetti strap keeps sliding off her bony pale shoulder, exposing the black strap of her bra. The girl’s hair is short, cut just below her ears, it is a messy head of wavy hair. Her cropped bangs hide the shy pale skin of her forehead.

Balanced in the palm of her left hand is a large plastic serving tray. The tray is long, wide, and oval, its shape providing the flooring for several dishes displayed on white porcelain plates. Each plate holds a different type of egg. Sunny side up, poached, boiled, soft boiled, she holds them all on the tray, attempting every now and then to replace the red strap of her dress to her shoulder with her right hand. It slides off quickly and when it does, she lets it be.

She stands in front of apartment #4 with the tray of eggs. Not far from her, in the doorway of a different apartment a few doors down, an older white man in a white tank top and a protruding pot belly stands silently. His large shape and broad shoulders almost block the entire doorway, covering everything behind the threshold. Without any words, with just a cold, indifferent stare, he watches the waiting girl.

The girl looks down at the worn dark carpet in the hallway, then back to the door of apartment #4. There is a small square glass window two-thirds of the way up the wooden door. She peers in, sneaking a glance at four young blond men putting on their military coats. The uniforms are maroon, decorative coats with metal buttons and bits of embroidery along the shoulders. She peeks into their space, then returns her gaze back to the worn carpet at her feet.

The Edge Of The Mountain

2010-06-11T14:05:00.000-07:00

A young woman is standing in a small room drenched in soft blue light. It is the kind of light that can only be created without bulbs and switches. It is light that streams in from the single tall and narrow window that hugs the corner edge of one wall. The walls are bare, white when illuminated, but now, in the dimness, they are a pale gray-blue. The floor is covered by dark blue carpet. It is a covering without plushness or comfort, carpet that is just one step above the hardness of stone.

Foam blue yoga mats are laid out on the floor, four of them lined up vertically to one wall, another four across from them against the other cool wall. In the room are several young men in white linen pants that are held up with red rope. Baggy white T-shirts cover their muscular chests. The men look like copies of each other, each having short dark brown hair and olive skin. Each with a solid stare of brown eyes and covered with thick, bulging muscles.

The young woman looks out the room’s only window. The view outside is of wilderness. The sky is blue, though the sun has fallen behind a mountain peak, on its way to the other side of the world. A few meters beyond the window, a grassy clearing has turned yellow and limp, the long stalks of grass laying down like a mass suicide. On the edge of the clearing, a thick forest begins. Tall green pines stand tall and vertical, covering the mountain behind them in a dense green blanket. The gaps between the thick trunks are dark, nearly black, with hardly any light making it through the thick canopy to the forest floor.

Wandering around the clearing are a cluster of at least twenty bears. They swirl around each other, moaning and roaring, sniffing the air. They walk slowly, maintaining the dense cluster though there is plenty of room in the clearing. There are two types of bears, each in equal number. Half have dark chocolate fur, the others have light tan fur with a golden sheen. The bears mingle, sniffing the air and each other, walking slowly and deliberately around the area, stopping every few feet to look around, roar and huff or raise their nose into the air.

Market

2010-06-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

The air is hot and dry and hurts the skin with each step. I’m covered in a long black robe, my head covered from the sun by a white scarf that billows behind me in the breeze. Bursts of hot wind blow dust into the air, creating dirt devils that swirl and twist violently until they run their course, dying without a trace.

The sky above is clear blue, not a single cloud lingers. The landscape is totally flat, no mountains, no trees, just pale sand that has turned hard enough to walk on without strain.

I walk between rows of tents, on a surface of bleached sand only few degrees shy of white. The road is well traveled, covered in sand ground to fine dust and millions of footprints from those who’ve walked before.

On either side of the four foot wide street are tents made of burlap and dark canvas. The fabric is sun bleached and worn, covered in dust and pale dirt. The structures are square and feel permanent, though they lack formal foundation and could be taken apart in minutes. The roof of each tent is flat and sinks inward, creating an inverted dome in the space within. Canvas walls are tied to metal poles creating the 3 dimensional square. The doors are long rectangular pieces of fabric that can be pulled to one side, creating a triangular entranceway.

On the long street of tents, nearly a third of the tents have their soft doorways pulled to the side. Within those open doorways, close to the street, I see tables of fruit and metal wares. There are woolen carpets and tea in jars and baskets full of buttons and cloth. I can see just the things closest to the door, beyond that are just shadows, darkness that begs the eyes to look. Most of the canvas doors are down and tied, leaving their treasures and secrets hidden from the bright sun. The street of merchants is long, stretching into the horizon and then out of sight. One after the other, they stand without a gap between their walls.

The street is deserted, and I can hear the soft padded sound of my footsteps and those of my companion, also covered in flowing dark fabric.

The smell of thick, pungent coffee and burnt sugar wafts on the breeze every now and then, sometimes mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke. Every so often I hear the thick rumbling laughter of an old man.

Mountain Path

2010-05-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

The path is cut in the foliage, a brown band of dry compact soil that stands out clearly in some places only to taper off and disappear completely in others. Around the bend, behind a cluster of boulders, or dipping down a shelf beside tree roots that dangle out of the cliff face like long splintered fangs, it twists and evaporates and re-emerges with the same disregard for logic displayed by a photon fired through a screen with two slits. In the silver moonlight, it assumes a lackluster roll, out shone by the pale boulders that seem to bubble up from the darkness of the earth like matte pearls. A fine gauze of mist slowly chases its own tail around the trunks of deeply grooved and twisting trees and the lazy lumps and ridges of the mountainside, content to swallow the path here and spit it out there along its way. The moonlight’s reach is stunted and muted by the mist’s slippery moist hide. In the patches where it hangs thickest like the swollen length of an albino anaconda squeezing a live hippo into extinction, the moon’s soft glow is entirely denied admittance. In these places where the light fails to penetrate, the darkness steals around unhindered, like a purple stain oozing over rocks and soil and ragged tufts of bracken. It has a life of its own, wriggling beyond the moon’s impertinent gaze. The dark green of the undergrowth is blackened and forms amorphous conglomerations that bear resemblance to sinister animals crouched over their quarry. Real beasts play their dire games amid these imposters, hiding beneath the bony branches and brittle leaves. The waxen flash of a rabbit darting from one lump of foliage to the next punctuates the slow slinking of a scrawny coyote who would be invisible except for the sheen of his eyes. A startled faun streaks over the path and bounds away, again and again, imitating the delirious loop of a skipping record.
The fresh scent of juniper hangs in the air after it has been wetted under the mists crawling belly, along with that of sage, and something faintly evocative of licorice. The musky odor of dirt is also detectable after it has been excited by such a close encounter with this moist serpentine body of vapor.
The steep cliff side drops away completely into an abyss of shaggy greenery in some places and offers the path an opportunity to continue its discordant adventures along narrow slopes. The trees here and there reach their bare riveted arms skyward and seem to hold their clusters of greenery like wispy clouds or steaming platters proffered to the sky. Rather than reaching tall and lean they seem to be stretching horizontally as though they were trying to catch their balance along the rolling slopes and keep their platters from slipping away. In these endeavors they stand apart from one another, each aware of the others’ awkward situation and the need for space, each so absorbed with their own dilemma of equilibrium that they disdain to join the crowd.
Up above them the distant round moon watches their slow negotiations with the earth’s gravity. Her dark dimples and lines form the outline of the hare, betraying her personal sympathies in regard to the desperate games of the furry creatures scrambling around among the exposed tree roots and stark boulders. The path, inspired by the moon’s attention for exhibitionism, spreads wide in the high flat places so that she can get a good look at its perfect nakedness while the mist jealously keeps its secrets and conducts its private swirling search for its self, hungrily squeezing off little quadrants of earth and engendering darkness in the process.

Artificial Ocean

2010-05-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

Water surrounds me. I am chest deep in a place that is neither a pool, nor the great wide ocean. It is something in between. Wild, gently rippling water encased in cement walls far away, so far as to give the illusion of “nature,” though I sense some calculated design. The water’s surface is mostly flat, rippling like an almost-still lake, it’s water line punctuated only by several dozen people and sparse tall boulders that sprout from the floor of sand. On my face is a plastic snorkel mask, in my mouth is the breathing tube connecting me to the world of mammals.
My face stays below the water’s surface and I survey the world below. The water is almost clear, each handful is clear as glass, but all added together, contained as it is, it has a tinge of blue. I feel the warmth of the sun overhead, a strong yellow sun that seems so close I could grab it. The blue sky weighs on my shoulders like a roof, like something firm and heavy stands just a few feet away, peering over me like a mother’s watchful eye. It is oppressive and near, and I keep my head below the surface, shying away from its presence.
With a full breath in my lungs, I move slowly through the water, moving my arms and legs gently, as slowly as possible, trying my best not to disturb the water and the layer of soft white sand by my feet. As I paddle and move my arms through the liquid, I look down at the wide-faced flowers growing on corkscrew stems from the white sand floor. The flowers are round, the size of large dinner platters with deep centers and three protruding yellow stamens. The petals look like silk in the water, so thin and soft and shimmering slightly. Most of them are a fire engine red, but sprinkled among the thicket are bright yellow blooms.
I move slowly through the water, careful not to disrupt the sandy floor, very aware of my space in the world. Close by are other people in bathing suits. I can hear them squealing in delight as they splash in the water, swimming as though they haven’t seen the white ocean floor or the red and yellow flowers. Their movements create water ripples and send white sand storms below the surface. I wait patiently and watch as the sand floats back to the bottom, calm once again. I watch the flowers until I hear another shriek and another flurry of sand clouds my vision.

Gallery

2010-04-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

The double glass doors sit closed on the front left corner of the building, they face a deserted sidewalk and a few tall pines. On the left wall, just beyond the door, is a long piece of rectangular black fabric hanging from the place where wall and ceiling meet. The fabric is four feet wide and hangs without a wrinkle, attempting to cover the dirty white walls underneath. The left wall is over fifty feet long and besides the one piece of fabric, it is streaked with light brown fingerprints, tiny dots of paint and grease that shine at certain angles. Like the pock-marked traces from a gopher, the walls are covered with black holes from nails used long ago. Surrounding them like tiny moons are the smaller pin pricks from plastic push pins. The ceiling above towers in a plain of darkness, without lamps or dangling bulbs. It is just the long rows of track lights that shine on each wall, pointing to them like spotlights on 2 dimensional actors.
On the back wall, just beside the right corner, is another long rectangular piece of black fabric. It is slightly wrinkled and has accumulated dust at the hem. To the left of it, tacked to a dirty wall, are a series of paper plates that have been taped together, forming a row three feet long. On the center circle of each white plate are colorful drawings in children’s colors: bright green, yellow and red, all etched in long thick strokes with crayons and colored pencil.
The centermost paper plate holds the image of an abstract woman. She sits on the ground, reclining back slightly, the weight of her torso supported by her arms and hands. Her large legs and thick thighs are spread, revealing her femininity in bright color. In black block letters, on the right side of her head, is the word: “PUSSY.”
Besides the fabric, the paper plates are the only things on the long, dirty walls. Along the right side of the room, there is a huge wall of black velvet curtains that hang from the ceiling, cutting the room in two. There is the gentle murmuring of voices coming from just beyond the curtain. A female’s voice punctuates the murmur, using the words: “oil”, “naked”, and “clothes.” The deep bass of a man responds, using the words: “trust” and “issues.”

Discount Store

2010-04-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

A large warehouse space is dimly lit. The overall space is submerged in a grayish hue, though sparse yellow bulbs hang from single black wires clinging to the ceiling every fifteen feet. They hang like the stars, thirty feet from the ground, their light flickering like distant voices from eons past. Gray comes from the high cinderblock walls without windows and the cement floor that breaths a cold, unrelenting truth.
The space is divided into thirty long aisles by twelve-foot tall metal shelves. They shelves are heavy and solid, built for industry and the test of time. Each shelving unit has ten individual shelves packed with old cans of vegetables and beans, fruit cocktail, and dusty sacks of rice and dried lentils. Thirty rows fill the warehouse space, each one thirty feet long.
The discount store is empty of people, though full of old dented goods that await use, to have just one more moment of life. A refrigerated section hums in the far left corner, it alone emitting bright white florescent light, like the opening of a tunnel to another plane of reality. The cold section is stocked with several varieties of packaged tofu, still within their expiration date. There are cartons of milk and large chunks of yellow cheese packaged in cellophane. The light radiates out a few dozen steps from the cold section, illuminating a few hand-made ceramic sinks that sit on the ground beside a tall metal shelf propped against the wall.
In the first aisle from the wall, a magical knife rests on the floor below the first shelf of the unit. It stands out like a giant phallus in the store of mass production, one of only two things made with human hands and careful attention. It is large and mostly flat, curved like a bow, with a long dragon-like head at one point. It is made of silvery-black clay and a small careful sigil is carved into the forehead of the creature. It sits without a speck of dust in the shadow of the tall shelves piled high with cans of black garbanzo beans and peas.
A lone worker stands in the front of the store, behind a row of elevated cash registers, like silent players on a stage. The young man stands ready for a store of empty customers. His black hair manages to shine in the dim yellow light, somehow coming alive despite the gray of the walls and floor and absence of fresh new life. His tan skin pops out of his thin, tight white t-shirt, a testament to sun and melanin and vigor. He is comfortable here in his place, a king in this square castle of old goods and their hidden treasures.

Ruined City

2010-03-25T17:34:00.000-07:00

I sit in the backseat of a car, the deep red plush fabric of the seats are dim in the night. A young woman is in the driver’s seat, her hands gripping tightly on the wheel. Her pale skin, her long light brown hair, they are colors and shapes that dance on the edges of my vision as I lean forward, looking into the night that casts everything in its dark cloak.
I am leaning forward, my body pushing on the firm restraint of a seatbelt, its promise of safety meaningless in the scene before me. Within the car, the pungent smell of adrenaline mixes with the noxious fumes of exhaust, sulfur and fear.
We are alone on this road. Alone in the stillness of this night. I stare through the spotted windshield to a scene of wreckage. My breathing is shallow, and though both car windows are closed, the cold night air finds the skin of my cheeks.
A freeway ramp climbs before us. A gentle incline rises and rises, then curves slightly to the left, headed towards the city that lies beyond the black bay. The two-lane ramp is pock-marked with the craters of dropped bombs, and the raised rings around the small mounds of asphalt continue to crumble. Around each crater are small chunks of tar, tiny pebbles, and fine black dust. The craters dot both lanes liberally, the remains of tiny bombs that fell here some time ago.
Beyond the ramp, rising from the dark city below that casts not one light, is a nearly destroyed building. The intact side still smooth and angular, a remnant of a no-nonsense style of architecture that focused on function and efficiency in a space that was densely populated. But half of the building is gone, a monstrous bite into the hard flesh of its structure. Spikes of rebar and electrical wire spill from the chunks of crumbling gray concrete. What’s left of it is at least twenty stories high, though it seems close to collapsing.
Despite its devastation, there are signs of life in the building, little yellow signals that speak silently into the night. Half a dozen windows in the intact section glow, sending out the message that there are still those that breathe in the forgotten mess.

Living Room

2010-03-13T23:36:00.000-08:00

She lay on a soft couch, its velvety-plush cushions lovingly accepting her weight, like a firm cloud made of tan fabric. She stretched across its length, her arms at her sides, both of them heavy with the push of gravity. Her head rested on the padded arm of the sofa, the firmness of its end protected by a plush blood-red chenille pillow. The pillow held her like an open palm, and her head tilted slightly towards her left shoulder. Pale white afternoon light fell in through the curtain-less windows, coming through clear windows and filtered by a sky covered in thick layers of white clouds. Her eyes opened and closed on the brink of sleep, slowly closing to the darkness that was the shade of her eyelids, then opening to the soft light that filled the living room. The room was painted a faint shade of green, on the wall to the left of the couch were the framed drawings of a child, a cat, a vase of flowers. On the wall to her left was the giant flat-screened tv that nearly covered the wall. Its screen was black and three remotes sat on the narrow table just below it. Coming from the right of the couch, about twenty feet away, was the gentle sound of an acoustic steel guitar. It’s gentle slow-tempo plucking sung to her like a lullaby, pulling her like gossamer threads to another world. It came from the basement, where two computers hummed and scatters of papers littered the wooden floor. The simple notes bounced off of the chrome refrigerator and the long marble countertop of the kitchen which shared the same room as the couch. Towards her left, coming in an out of her consciousness, sprinkled in like a well orchestrated composition, were the sounds of two little boys, shrieking in the grass yard beyond the French doors of the living room. They came like high-pitched birds, exploding in sounds at rapid intervals. There were the demanding commands of one, the higher pitched response of the other. Every now and then was the sharp pop of a plastic gun. It rang against the glass windows and rattled the brass doorknob of the French door. Muted words mixed with soft notes and the gentle light, and her eyelids closed once again.

Southwest

2010-02-24T19:53:00.000-08:00

The late afternoon sunlight is a deep yellow quickly turning into pale orange, like an egg yolk spilling across the sky. The landscape is a wide series of low hillsides that cover the land like soft round breasts in all directions. The earth is covered in dry soil that dances when touched, sending its dust up to speak. There are scattered patches of green grass in various stages of death, yellow and green mingling, and tall cactuses that reach with thorny arms to the missing clouds in the sky. Tumbleweeds roll across the hills every few minutes, each riding and rolling through another warm gust of wind that blows with abandon. Every animal that might live here is hidden. Rodents and insects keep to their burrows, birds remain in their nests, nothing moves on these hills but the grass.
The only sound breaking the silence of the land is the occasional light whistling of the wind and the rhythmic clomping of horse hooves. A pack of five brown horses trots in a tight cluster. Atop each is a cowgirl in a wide brimmed straw hat, golden skin and eyes that survey the horizon. Their hair is wild and curly and swarms like Medusa’s snakes in the wind. Their chests are covered in light cotton shirts with plaid patterns and their legs are protected by old blue jeans and leather chaps. Though they are young, all of them only a few years over thirty, the skin of their hands reveals the battle between elements, between wind and stone, and the lines around their eyes tell of their old tales. The women ride close together, just a few inches apart in a tight pack, horse ribs and cowgirl knees occasionally touching.
Just a few feet behind the women is another tight pack of horses moving at a gentle trot, but this is a group of four men and one young woman. Each is dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts and the men wear baseball hats. The man slightly in front of the pack holds a video camera to his right eye, he is quietly watching the women through his lens. On either side of him are the boom mic operators, each attempting to hold their long microphones a few feet above the cowgirls. Behind the camera man is the sound operator and beside him, the young female assistant who stares intently into a small screen, watching for any equipment that might enter the shot. They all trot slowly, moving through the glow of the afternoon, each with their particular role.

Garage

2010-02-11T16:44:00.000-08:00

A woman sits alone in a dim garage. The overhead florescent light attached to the ceiling and two tall floor lamps are all off. There is a row of frosted glass on the top of the garage door, and through this, the filtered light of a late afternoon finds her form and illuminates the room in a pale bluish hue that grows weak by the walls. She sits on an old wooden stool with three rungs, and her bare feet rest on the lowest one, curling slightly around the smooth bar. The stool has no back, and the woman sits up relatively straight, though her shoulders sag slightly around the straps of her thin tank-top. Below the stool is a rectangular maroon carpet that is frayed on all sides, but clean and bright in the center, a silent reminder of its old glory. Outside, on the sidewalk just beyond the boundary of the wooden garage door, worn and weathered from years of rain, are the clear sounds of passersby. The soft padded step of a man intent on his destination, the click clap of a woman’s heels. A man singing to himself, just a little louder than a whisper, the whistling of a car badly in need of a tune-up. The woman sits. The walls of the garage are covered in posters and framed paintings, but in the low light of the garage, they are barely visible. A long wood work bench sits along the wall shared with the garage door. It is clear but for a few glass jars of paintbrushes that sit close to the wall. The stems of each paintbrush are stained with paint: red, blue, not a single color is absent. Perpendicular to the garage door is a cherry wood desk, its design is slightly curved, a blend of art deco and turn-of-the century style. Each of the six drawers are embellished with delicate lined carvings that bend delicately to create the drawer’s handle. A few scattered papers lay on top of the desk, but behind them and towards the wall is a small metal box holding random papers and magazines. Beside it, a small ceramic cup holds three sharpened pencils, ready for use. The woman on the stool is just a few feet away from both desks. On the wall to her left are three black bookshelves. Each shelf is filled with books, outdated encyclopedias and years worth of magazines, there is not an inch for one more. Every shelf is dusted, each book spine completely clean. Behind the woman is a flight of red wooden stairs that lead to the apartment above the garage, they are also clean, but for a few stands of black hair have gathered on the bottom step. Below the sounds of the street outside is the gentle lull of the neighbor’s washing machine, it seeps in through the thin wall and acts like glue, gathering the scattered noises to build a singular song.

The Pool

2010-01-26T21:40:00.000-08:00

The room is long and nearly white, made from smooth marble that has been cleaned so often it now shines. The stone is complex, not one uniform shade, but with a tendency towards white with flecks of black and gray thrown in. Tiny cracks that look like capillaries and lighting run through the marble, journeying through stillness and stone. There is a dark rectangular doorway on each end of the room, without a door, it promises only blackness. The walls of the marble chamber are completely straight, designed and constructed with perfection. The floor is made from the same pale stone, exuding the same strength and silence as the towering walls. There is a stillness about the room, a hollowed space buried deep, far from noise and movement, quick lights and endless jabber. It is still and solid, lit only by a few large candles flickering from the iron candelabra high overhead.
Mirroring the rectangular shape of the room is a pool. It sits full of cool water in the center of the space, its shape beginning just ten feet from each of the four walls. Within the waters are large slate stepping stones, not quite resting on the bottom of the pool, but hovering halfway below the water’s edge. Thick green plants have grown up from the lowest point, their shiny green stems and thick leaves glisten in the mixture of water and candlelight, competing for space with the steppingstones and reaching forward, towards the surface.
A pale-skinned girl in a small red bikini walks gently from stone to stone. She steps slowly, her toes moving through easy walls of water, her toes finding the hardness of the waiting slate steppingstone as she moves. Her pointed nipples are covered with tiny triangles of bright red fabric, as is the crack of her round white ass. A thin film of water glistens on her like tiny jewels and she moves slowly, feeling each ripple of water move across her bare thighs, stepping carefully from stone to stone in the quiet pool. The gentle lapping of water is the only sound in the room and she looks down, her eyes moving past her pointed breasts and round stomach and towards her shape-shifting legs rippling below the water’s edge, her lower-half brushing past the thick-leafed greenery crawling slowly, endlessly towards the light.

Suspended

2010-01-05T16:45:00.000-08:00

The water of the bay is dark blue with a deep undertone of green that emerges from the caverns below the surface in hints and whispers. Small gasps of green explode on the tips of little water ripples as they rise and fall second after second after second, small moments of watery life and death as it moves over the predominantly calm surface of the bay. There is no tanker or sailboat in sight, just the wide blueness of the bay as it stretches into the horizon.
To the northwest, the San Francisco skyline is ten miles in the distance and I can see the hazy purple silhouette of the tallest buildings as they rise from an obscure mist of pale fog at their base. Behind the buildings, rays of sunlight manage to stream in through hazy white cloud cover. Bright bursts of gold sunlight shines down in long streams of gleaming brightness, filling in the background of the city.
To my left, just a few hundred feet from me, is the long metal bridge that connects the land of San Francisco to the land east of the bay. The bridge is two stories, with eastbound traffic on the lower level and westbound on the top. There is never a break in the flow of cars and the rushing movement of motorized machines gurgles like a river in the distance.
The bridge is so close I could almost jump to it, but I am on another surface. I am on a wooden platform, suspended over the water of the bay by two ropes that hold me and the platform above the water’s surface. On each side of the platform, in the center, is a hole. A yellow fibrous rope has been strung through each of the holes and is held in place with a thick knot below the platform. The ropes rise and rise and are eventually covered by the white layer of clouds. I cannot see what they are attached to, I cannot see what holds me.
Because of my weight and the design of the structure with only two ropes, the platform has tilted to one side and I hold onto the yellow ropes as best as I can to keep from falling into the water. I alternate between looking at the water and looking for the source of the ropes in the clouds. The green and blue ripples of the water rise up and down, like the painted figures on a carousel.

Steeple

2009-12-29T00:29:00.000-08:00

The sun reached its peak hours before and the light that now spills over the city is gold and fleeting. The walls of the many downtown buildings glow in a muted shade of orange and the sky above has turned a shade of pale blue that only holds the promise of darkness to come. There are no clouds, just endless pale blue. The street is wide and made of multiple lanes of traffic going in both directions. The city is a mixture of ancient and new, old edifices and architecture combined with new street lamps and signs. The street itself is covered with a fresh black layer of asphalt, but the sidewalks on the side are old cobblestone, worn to a shiny finish from years of use. Modern buses wait patiently in traffic beside buildings hundreds of years old. The street is exact and completely straight, breaking from its course only when it meets perpendicularly with another wide road at an intersection. Each lane is full of cars. They wait bumper to bumper, occasionally letting out a desperate honk that does nothing to move the cars ahead of them along. Dark exhaust streams from the back of the city buses. They wait as still as the cars and nearly hidden inside them are scores of passengers that stare out from the tinted windows with a mixture of helplessness and resigned desperation, unable to do anything to change their fate. An occasional motorcycle weaves its way through the congestion, finding the small pockets of space within the mess of metal and exhaust and beeping exasperation of horns. It is not just crowded streets, the sidewalks on either side of the traffic are full of pedestrians. Many of them are tourists, clinging to their maps and cameras and staring open-mouthed at the architecture. There are large baroque buildings that take up entire blocks and between them are grand cathedrals on every other corner. The tourists walk in small groups, adorned with hats and water bottles. Locals weave through them like motorcycles, finding the spaces between the gawking groups of picture-happy tourists. One of the oldest buildings in the downtown area is an old church with a long, narrow steeple made of metal. The building itself is constructed from bricks and rises five stories high. On the body of the building, but close to the steeple, are open square windows. Inside the windows, within the church, are the silhouettes of old people. The church building sways softly in the wind, moving slightly to the right and left, then forwards and backwards.

The Lake

2009-12-09T18:32:00.000-08:00

The lake is a flat stretch of blue surrounded by a thicket of tall pines. It is wide and long and shaped like an oversized kidney bean with jagged edges. The shore is made of small pebbles and chunks of broken boulders and little bits of soggy tree bark. The cold water comes so close to the edge of the earth that it laps at the edges of the woods, softening the thick trunks with repetitive licks. The trees are a dark green and piled so close together that the ground below them is almost completely shaded. From a distance, the green of the needles nearly descends into black but for the few rogue boughs lined with the yellowing needles of fall. Despite the bright light and the lack of clouds, the wind has a crisp, cold undertone beneath the heated overtone of the sun. The smell of baked pine and earth waft for miles, overcome every so often by the pungent stench of a skunk spray. In the light of the sun, almost all the animals hide in the shadows. Just the birds perch on the tree tips, singing their songs. The woods spread up and up and melt into the mountains that surround the lake like the walls of a valley. Behind the initial wood-covered wall is a rugged range that lasts for miles. By the lake, not a road leads in or out. Not a house speckles the carpet of the greenery. The water of the lake is dark blue, nearly black like the trees. Floating on the top of the water are small pieces of algae. Some of the little pieces are pale green, others are dark and bright. They swirl with the ripples and move below, filling the inner world of the lake with drifting green confetti. Nothing disturbs the water but ripples of laughter. A group of five, three men and two women, are near the center of the lake. There are no boats or boards, they stay afloat with only the continuous movement of their arms and legs. Each one is smiling, letting out an occasional yelp or ring of laughter. The deepness of the water does not frighten them. Nor does the floating green life or the deep blue water or the massive expanse of sky above. Each one takes a turn diving deep into the lake, paddling with enthusiasm, going as far as their breath will carry them. Each one swims freely, diving deep into the unknown.

Drummer

2009-11-22T12:54:00.000-08:00

The afternoon sun casts its golden light onto the flat grassy field and the tall conifers surrounding it. It is the last of the warm rays, and the promise of a cool night dances at the park’s edge, ready to overtake the fiery warmth with a cold hand. But for the moment, darkness stays abated, and sweet light covers the park, making the tender grass alive with a yellow lens. On the warm greenery is a group of three young men with a bicycle laying upside-down beside them. Two of them look to the ground, to the open newspaper between them. The other man stares into the distance, at a young woman with a camera pointed in his direction. Not far from the group, a middle aged man sits cross-legged while filling a rolling paper with long strands of tobacco. In the far distance, a young man in a red sweatshirt stares at the screen on his cell phone.
The flat field is surrounded by a narrow black asphalt path, which, by its design, has created a large rounded-edge square of the grass. On the other side of the sidewalk is the mound of a small grassy hill. The hill is long, and its shape creates an amphitheater-like viewing of the flat field below. Two men lounge on the grass of the hill, they each lay on their side, just barely looking up at the man in cargo pants standing between them.
Between the men on the hill and the asphalt sidewalk is a long green bench. Its left side is occupied by a muscular black man who is as home on the bench as anywhere else. His beard is trim and completely white. The hair on his eyebrows and arms is also white. His chocolate-colored skin is smooth and taut. He wears a pair of clean blue jeans and a yellow fleece vest over a collared T-shirt. Above his plaid shirt is an ornate silver cross that is a few inches long. There is a black beanie on his head. Both his wrists are adorned with two metal bracelets of braided copper and silver. Beside the bench are his tan leather boots, the socks tucked neatly into the foot-holes. Draped casually over the back of the bench is his extra sweatshirt. Between his legs is a tall red drum. Well-worn hands are in mid beat as his eyes trail, watching the golden-tinged sights before him.

The Artist

2009-11-19T19:48:00.000-08:00

The artist is leaning back, the paintbrush poised delicately between the fingers of an upraised hand. The brush is long and slender, a light wooden wand with blond bristles. Her fingernails are long and surprisingly clean, white tipped. Her smile radiates not only from her parted lips that reveal white teeth and the pink inside of her mouth, but also, more prominently, that smile shines in her glittering black eyes. She wears an apron decorated with pink roses over a black tank top. The table is covered with clean newspapers. There is not a stray splash of paint to be seen. The canvass standing on the table top over the support of a small easel is already halfway covered with paint. The emerging scene is a larger replication of a scene depicted on a small note pad that rests on the table top just below the canvass. Both are representations of little wooden dolls like the one that can barely be seen peeping around the edge of the canvas. Only its round pink cheek and wide almond shaped eye are visible along with the wave of visible hair that frames her face and the white cap that tops it. The eyes of the little doll and of the drawn doll and painted doll are all big eyes, dark in the center like the painter’s shiny black eyes. They are all replicas of the original, with her pink cheek and wave of dark hair crowning her head. The careful reproductions are all copies, a copy of a copy of a copy of a woman. A woman with high arched brows and pink lips and flowers on her clothes. A woman who makes things with her hands and knows the secret of making things and smiles with the knowledge of it. A goddess that has unraveled the secret of creation and does it so carefully, so painstakingly, that not a single line goes stray, that not one petite droplet of color falls wasted on the workspace or smeared on a hand or cheek. Even the brush is clean, as if the painting is being produced with nothing more than a carefully concentrated attention that burns the image upon the canvass at the painter’s will. Another pair of clean brushes can be seen poking out of a can, their bristles pointing upward just above the head of the small wooden doll that remains partially concealed by the canvass. Everything is clean. Every line is in place. And the artist beams with the joy of creation.

The Forest

2009-11-12T16:01:00.000-08:00

A man walks on a dirt path. He is alone, aided only by two tools in each hand. The path meanders gently, the foliage along the edges determines its uneven shape amongst the forest. The narrow bit of uncovered earth carved between the trees and bushes is just wide enough for his feet and the metal walking stick he carries in his left hand. His right hand clutches the handle of a black umbrella to shield him from the miniscule drops of mist that come with the low hanging clouds. The man is dressed for a cool day. He wears a long-sleeved purple rain slicker and dark pants to repel the rolling mist. He smiles contentedly in mid-stride, his hands easily wrapped around his tools. The walking stick is a half a foot away from his feet, continuously scanning for rocks and mud and loose earth. His umbrella is raised a few feet from the crown of his head, as though waiting for a strong wind to carry him away. His smile reveals his ease amid the air of fall, which holds the whispers of rain and the yellowing promise of winter. In the distance are lush green pine trees which reach hundreds of feet into the sky, their long needles sit patently while delicate beads of moisture fall onto them, releasing their scent. Creating a green carpet on the forest floor are low-growing ivy with thick waxy leaves. Their leaves are shiny beneath the thin coating of mist that has found its way through the boughs and leaves of taller trees. A few feet ahead of the man are the immediate signs of a changing season. On his left, a large Japanese Maple has begun to shed, the path is littered in patches of leaves in various states of decay…brown and tan and beige carcasses are each in the slow process of transformation. The branches of the maple are covered in soft six-pointed leaves that are all a uniform shade of banana yellow. On the right side of the path, the long curved branches of a fern are completely dried and brown. It is not the mark of fall, but a breakdown of the plant itself. One lone yellow leaf floats in the air a foot from the fern. It is not the maple leaf, for the singular shape has only five points. It floats down from an unseen bough.

The Plaza

2009-11-07T12:29:00.000-08:00

The early evening light is the palest of blues. It marks closing time, the end of another cycle of light, to be replaced by twelve hours of darkness. The sun has just begun to fall behind the wall of straight buildings. Dozens and dozens of them make the city skyline. There are the large mirrored homes of finance that reach towards the clouds, the more squat government buildings and the high-rise condos marked on each level by balconies. Interspersed among the modern buildings are the few brick constructions that have managed to survive earthquakes and fires. Adorned with the marks of their craftsmen, they contrast with the straight, sleek lines of modern architecture.
Cutting through the clustered marks of men are geometrical streets. Black and marked with yellow lines, the roads sit without the faintest curve, providing only 90 degree angles in evenly divided intervals. The low golden sun shines against the reflected glass of the downtown buildings like light on sequins, calling out for one last acknowledgment before it says goodnight. Ample rectangles and squares shine like electric gold with its last rays.
The downtown streets are bustling. Men in dark tailored suits and women wearing black heels and fitted skirts flow out of the buildings and into the crowded sidewalks. They are like rivers that ebb and flow with the alarm clock’s set intervals.
In the middle of the financial center is a large cement plaza. The periphery of the plaza is a single row of green grass and sparsely planted trees that are thin and tall as some of the shortest buildings. Two sides of the plaza have buildings that create a wall behind it, but the other two connected sides are open and face two streets perpendicular from each other.
One of the open sides has a single doorway with an open wrought iron gate. The doorway is made of stacked rocks and mortar, but the long walls around it have fallen long ago, leaving only the frame of the doorway and the tall gate itself.
The flow of business people walk through the square diagonally, coming from the corner beside the wall and the street and flowing out through the wrought iron gate. Close to the center of the plaza is a young blond woman with a microphone. She is talking and pointing to the moveable statue of a thick man with a trombone held to his mouth. Coming out of the trombone is a large fake tuna fish. A small crowd of business people are gathered around the woman and the statue. They are laughing at each pause in her speech, nearly doubling over with her jokes.

The Wet Mountain

2009-11-03T14:10:00.000-08:00

There is a rocky mountainside, covered halfway up in stones the size of human heads. All the boulders are dark gray and cold and slightly wet. The mountain is wide and tall, but it connects to an even larger mountain range to the north. In the distance, the mountains are brown and barren and covered only in scattered patches of dry grass. The sun is hiding somewhere behind a thick haze of clouds. The light is still very bright, the kind of light that requires squinting. The day seems new, but slightly drained in energy, as though something very intense has just vanished and what remains is slightly diminished. At the base of the mountain range is a receding sea. The water is dark blue and choppy with white caps. It flows out towards the horizon in a hurry, as though something was waiting for it beyond the thin line of sight. The wide mountain is mostly covered in heavy rocks, but as the mound moves closer to a tip, the rocks become smaller and smaller, until they are just small pebbles hidden between blades of dried grass. There is one four foot trail that travels the length of earth from peak to ocean, but there are other scattered trails that are much thinner, only wide enough for one person at a time. Close to the shore is a thicket of trees beside a clearing thirty feet wide. They are as tall and thin as eucalyptus, only they have darker and wider leaves and more full reaching boughs that create a wide canopy. The clearing is smooth and flat and free of all rocks. Because of the trees, it is covered in a nearly green-black shade. The earth here is damp and smells of wet bark. To the left of the clearing and trees is a grouping of dark wood condominiums. The singular structure is angular and modern and would give off a very cold emotion if not for the wood used to construct it. The collection of two-story houses each have double pane windows and wide sliding glass doorways that face the seashore and the thicket of trees. On the lower floor, beside a sliding glass door, is a dead white horse laying on the ground. Its legs are curled close to its body in the fetal position. The glass doors reveal the occupants of the houses. There are people. They are swollen and pale and laying on their backs on the damp linoleum of their kitchens. Their bodies are moist, as are the T-shirts and shorts which clothe their bloated bodies.

Iron Forge

2009-10-27T20:04:00.000-07:00

The snow blankets the enormous conifers and distant peaks and the ground, glittering like quartz. The tents in the area form a vague and uneven circle, leaving wide distances between some and almost none between others. There are two varieties, one that is completely enclosed and shaped like a giant mushroom sewn of tanned hides and another that is a simple canopy open on three sides. Everywhere about the encampment, kegs are stacked in pyramids and clumped together in hasty trios. They vary in size from the very small to the enormous, large enough to make a comfortable room for one of the short bearded men littering the camp. Here and there, a keg has been tapped and an assortment of characters is gathered.
The most predominant figures are the short men with their long braided beards and arms and legs bursting with muscles, but there are others as well, a few men, usually armored warriors with a weathered air about them and women as well, with their red hair pulled back in braids and their eyes shining with a hard cold light used to spying stretches of open road or smoldering battlefields. For now they laugh and toast one another’s health and drink frothy brew from beautifully decorated steins.
A tall creature with pale skin and long pointed ears protruding through the silken threads of her cascading blue hair stands apart from the crowds dancing in the center by herself. She wears a red skirt that hangs about her front and back like a loincloth leaving her long legs and toned thighs exposed. Her top barely conceals her moderate cleavage and leaves her mid drift bare. Warmed with liquor and oblivious to the cold, she dances with the sinewy movements of a serpent.
Another similar creature is inspecting a rather large ram, the mount of one of the stocky little men. The creature with the pointed ears looks into the beast’s eyes, ears, nose and mouth while the small man belches and attempts to explain the appropriate way to handle the ram, swaying all the while and occasionally loosing his train of thought or reaching out to steady himself against the taller creature’s kneecap. Every so often, a rider charges into the encampment and the motley crew cheers a greeting. They find themselves a place near a keg or by a small fire where something roasts on a spit and little men already sit around chewing at roasted meats and loosing gristle in their beards.
The sky overhead is a steely gray and a red sun sinks slowly behind the far off neighboring peaks. Horses waiting for their riders stamp the snow and whine to each other and munch bales of hay alongside with rams, while keeping a wary eye on the camp dogs who chew bones with wolfish grins and turn their pointy ears to listen to the laughter and singing of the men.

Mirror in the Garage

2009-10-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

The interior of an old garage smells faintly of old wood and earth. The air is cool and damp although soft light still filters in from the row of windows on the very top of the garage door. The cement floor is cold. It is a pale gray color which is free of any oil spots or spider carcasses or balls of dust and hair. It is a large square space that is filled only with half a dozen white washing machines and an old couch which is a few feet away from being in the center of the space. The couch is facing one of the walls. There are no shelves of built-in wood cabinets. No boxes, no resting cars. The walls are covered in white drywall. The couch is long enough for three people to sit comfortably. But it is a stern couch that lacks comfort and padding. The sides have a thin layer of stuffing, but it is not fluffy or good for resting a head. It is somber and very straight. It does not invite a nap. The upholstery is tan. It is made of many woven little strings in varying hues of brown, beige and tan fibers that combine to form a tweed fabric. There are two people on the couch. They sit close, revealing their intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies. There is a young woman, she is slender and has shoulder length brown hair that is mostly straight but has a few waves. The man, who has his arm draped around her comfortably, has a black beard and long black hair that is pulled behind him in a pony tail. He has a black hat on with a short wide bill, the kind of hat made popular by leftist-guerillas in the tropics of Central America. He has a t-shirt that is almost hidden by a black jeans jacket, but left-leaning political messages sprout from the semi-visible garment. Both their eyes are fixed on the doorway five feet away from them. The door connects to the neighbor’s house. The door has a mirror attached to it and they see their reflection. Him, with his hat. Her, with her big brown eyes. They look into the mirror, but not only does their reflection greet them, but they see a portly woman. She is in the mirror, she is behind the door which is actually not covered in reflective glass, but tinted glass. She is motionless and staring at them. She has short blond hair and large breasts. Her wide stomach is covered in the fabric of her patterned apron. The couple looks into the glass and see her, they see the living room which stands behind her. She stares at them, at the couple sitting on a couch in a white garage.

Darkness All Around

2009-09-21T13:00:00.001-07:00

Dark, dark night of dewy grass and forgotten lots. A car is parked alongside a misty road, a white four door Sedan with rounded edges. Three doors are open and the overhead light is on, illuminating the interior of tan upholstery and carpet. Moored in a little bay of black asphalt, it glows warmly like a candle in a dark room. Around it the mist roll and curl and obscure dark stretches of road beyond the small empty parking lot and vaster blankets of green grass. It eclipses the yellowed bodies of naked trees whose leaves have blown far away, leaving only a few little golden tokens spread about the bed of grass.
The sky is void of the twinkle of stars huddled behind the invisible cover of clouds. Without street lamps or the light of civilization, the sky above is unfathomable and inky. The headlights of the parked white car shine out a few feet from its nose, casting their beam over the grassy floor and sea of sparse trees being swallowed by the voracious fog.
A tall young man stands in the parking lot embracing a young woman. He is clad in a bright red cape donned over crisp blue jeans and a new polo shirt of a dark navy hue accented by a band of lightly colored stripes that encircle his chest. The red satin horns of a devil are pinned on his head. His face is clean shaven, his short cropped hair is dark, his eyes are gentle and deer-like. He is engaged in pressing the girl enthusiastically to his breast, his cape rippling in the breeze that moves the white fog around them in sheets of mobile moisture.
The woman holds a video camera in one hand and presses her blonde head receptively into his heart. Her clothes are shabby and oversized, faded wide-leg denim coupled with a baggy long sleeved T-shirt.
A milk chocolate skinned black girl with silky rings of curled hair falling around her Egyptian looking face stands apart from the couple, hovering near the car. Her arms are crossed in front of her body and she stands with her weight resting more heavily on one leg than the other, like a crane poised in the banks of the Nile. Her brows are expertly shaped, her lips are glossy. She wears big slim hoop earrings and a white shearling jacket with slim jeans that accent her diminutive physique.

Dirt Parking Lot

2009-09-16T23:52:00.000-07:00

There is a narrow street that comes from a bustling downtown far in the distance. As the road curves, two large white grocery stores are all that is left of motion and commerce. The buildings have no distinguishing features other than being extremely large and brick-like and off-white in color. From the curve in the road, just past the stores, the road descends at a very slight angle and opens up into a large rectangular parking lot. It stretches for a quarter of a mile, then turns once again into a narrow road that leads to suburban neighborhoods far in the distance.
The boundary of the parking lot is defined by tall green-topped pine trees that stand parallel to each other for the length of the lot. There are aging brown needles on the ground right below the trees. The surface of the parking lot is a light brown compact dust. There are a few small gray rocks strewn about the lot and a few large boulders beneath the surface of earth that create slightly raised bumps, but otherwise, the parking lot is a level surface. Just a couple of feet from the base of the pine trunks are parked cars lined up side by side. Just a single row on each side of the parking lot…. red, blue, tan, black and white cars sit silently beneath the trees. The center of the parking lot is a large open space that is free from any metal or rock or bump.
The sun is shining and the needles of the trees shuffle slightly as drops of light-coated raindrops fall from the sky. A young white man with short disheveled hair and white pants is in the center of the lot. His hands are raised and his palms face the sky. He is twirling and spinning, turning around and around. A couple of steps from him is a young, plump woman with a long, flowing skirt and a white spaghetti-strapped tank top. She is balancing one young baby on each of her hips. She is spinning and twirling, gripping the children tightly as she moves. A couple of steps from them is another young, slender woman with brown hair and olive skin, she is spinning and twirling and turning, her hands are raised up, her palms open to the raindrops as they cover her in glistening drops of blue and white light. The three of them form a loose triangle. Beneath the rain and surrounded by empty cars and imposing pine trees, they spin. The rain moves down upon them, soaking them in drops of glistening liquid. The sun is somewhere close, unhidden behind a cloud.

The King's Tent

2009-09-11T12:55:00.000-07:00

There is a barren valley of soft dry earth. Surrounding the flat land are short jagged hillsides covered in dry yellow grass. The sun is out, undisturbed by a single cloud. The light is extremely bright, reflecting off the hillsides with tremendous force and sending up wavering transparent waves from the hot ground. The hillsides are undisturbed by man, not a house or a planted tree rest on its surface. In the valley, a narrow blue river tumbles by, finding its way over small rocks and large boulders.
The singular structure on the flat valley floor is a simple rectangular tent. The temporary structure is 200 feet long and twenty feet wide. The walls, made from a mixture of pale linen and canvas are twenty feet high and meet at a point in the center of the tent, creating a long peak that stretches the length of the tent. The smaller sides of the tent have two open spaces in the shape of an over-sized door. A cool breeze runs between the two ends.
Inside the tent is the warm yellow light of the diffused sun, it is calm and quiet within. Cut from the fabric on the long sides are square holes for windows, there are fifteen on each side of the long structure. The windows are wide open to the elements outside. Along both long walls is a single row of wooden chairs that face each other. The arrangement leaves plenty of room in the center, creating a wide aisle of fine dirt that has been covered in maroon rugs with intricate patterns of blue and yellow.
In the chairs are women and men, most of them under thirty, their skin taut and pale. The women are wearing dresses made of silk and satin. Their skirts are fluffy and their necklines dip deep, revealing cleavage and bare soft necks that are caressed in fallen curls. The men among them wear tailored pants in pale patterns and small form-fitting vests and flowing white shirts with ruffled collars and cuffs.
One third of the way down from the front entrance, a king of the people sits in the simple wooden chair. He is built like a large bear. He is wide and tall and is formidable in his thick dark cloak made of fur and velvet. He sits looking forward and stoic, his left hand is on his knee, the other hand is on the armrest. A young woman to his left repeatedly nudges her long Semitic nose into his chest.
In the distance, by the river, the sound of townspeople creates a murmur. There are the sounds of excited women and men and screeching young children. Only their voices reveal their location. They shout their jeers and insults at no one in particular.

House

2009-08-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

There is a house that sits at the curved tip of a quiet cul de sac. The sun is out and the five street lamps have been turned off. There are no children, no cars, nothing but the gentle rustle of a breeze. The front yard and the length of the entire house is shielded from the street by a wall of dark green bushes that reach 25 feet high with a denseness of three feet from the sidewalk. The foliage stretches from the edge of the property to the opening of the driveway, the only path free of bushes and green that leads to the house. The faded black asphalt has been made bumpy and mountainous from the thick tree roots just below the hardened layer of man, a testament to the patience of nature that will conquer all with time. Both the right and left side of the driveway are surrounded by tall green bushes. There is a single car parked silently in the driveway, a faded green Chevrolet that has sat in the same spot for three decades. The car is long and wide and emits a constant drip of oil that is caught in the metal basin below its hood. Just past the car is a white garage door that no longer opens. It was once pure white, but the paint has fallen off in large strips and the edges of the wooden door reveal gray wood damaged by sun and rain and wind. To the right of the asphalt there is a slender break in the bushes which opens to a slender cement walkway that extends 15 feet and then makes an abrupt left for another five feet, ending at an open white wooden door, the center of which has a grid-like pattern of beveled orange glass.
Between the bushes and the cement walkway is a tended rectangular garden. Although the property itself is angular, a slender strip of plastic fencing has been placed in the shape of a large circle, about thirty feet in diameter. This shape is the heart of the garden, the mandala around which everything revolves, all other plants surround it like ladies in waiting. The perimeter of the circle is made silver by small bunches of fuzzy lamb’s ear. Interspersed among the silver are patches of vibrant blue lobelia. Small ceramic gnomes and cats and porcelain figurines of English ladies dot the landscape. In the center of the circle is a white ceramic fountain, a chubby, naked Roman boy, dancing amid fluttering ribbons in the midst of a non-existent wind. The yard is quiet, a soft breeze just barely moves the leaves of the tall bushes along the sidewalk. Spotted shade and sunlight speckle the yard in the late afternoon sun. The house faces the yard, a row of windows with gauzy curtains reveal nothing of the world inside. Below the windows, in the small space of earth between the house and the cement walkway, tall bushes of red and pink geraniums glow in the speckled sunlight.

Homestead

2009-08-20T22:35:00.000-07:00

The modular unit is suspended on cinder blocks to keep it raised above the dusty earth. Jagged shards of glass remain in the shattered windows like vicious loose teeth. Pieces of shredded black plastic hang from the underside, fluttering spastically in the softly whispering wind like tattered flags in the murk beneath the mobile. The door frame stands unobstructed, the door having been removed from the hinges and lost long ago. Inside, the floor is littered with chipped plaster and dirt. Menacing black holes have been burned into the carpet and streaks of red and black graffiti shout from the barren walls. The doorway opens into an empty living area, one side of which is open to the world. Instead of a wall, some of the clear plastic that sealed it when it was being moved down highways in some far flung past is still intact. It is yellowed and brittle with an age exacerbated by rare but biting rains, ferocious wind and relentless sun . In some places, it is shredded and dangles like ribbons. Clear packing tape has been applied here and there to close some holes and connect severed fragments. The view through its filmy lens is of a dusty lot that slopes downhill and meets bare boulders and a pair of thirsty pepper trees.
Beyond the open living room, a hall connects three bedrooms and a bathroom. The doors are missing from two of the bedrooms and the bathroom. One room still has a door and it is closed. A soiled mattress rests on the floor of one of the back rooms. It almost fills the room. A woman is sleeping under a coarse and dirty blanket. Her brown hair is matted, her fingers and face are blackened with soot or grease. The other open room is empty. A few flannel shirts are scattered on the floor. The murmur of voices locked in discussion rises from behind the closed door. Behind the mobile, the bald hill peaks and looks over the wasteland. There is a gutted car with a roll cage set up on more cinder blocks. Rusting car parts are spread all over the ground. A burnt out oil drum stands in the center of a ring of broken down arm chairs, couch cushions, tires, egg crates, and busted lawn chairs.
Another lonely pepper tree waves its thirsty fern-like fingers in the hot breeze from its post at the crest of the hill. The steep and pebbly drop off below is littered with white boulders and debris. Ancient rusted tin cans, bits of plastic that might once have been potato chip bags, thread worn rags hide among the dry weeds and boulders marred with graffiti. The drop melts into many minor rolls of earth that reach into the distance. Nestled in their far away bosom, a dirt road lays like a long twitching tongue of earth.
A greasy man with a stripe of gray hair hanging from an otherwise bare skull stands on the edge chewing a tiny twig from the pepper tree. His face and hands are smudged with the black grease so that his pink skin only emerges as patches like land masses adrift in an oily sea. A pair of shaded goggles are strapped over his eyes and his faded purple tee shirt is cut off high above his navel. Jean shorts, once black, are almost gray and cut off just above his knees. He watches the road below, chewing the twig and cleaning his teeth with slow thoughtful relish. The hand that presses the twig to his yellow teeth is clad in a black bike glove, the sort that leaves the fingers exposed, covers the palm and is fastened with Velcro at the back of the hand. His boots are cracked and worn so that creases of brown leather are visible amid the splintering black finish like little veins. The socks sticking out of the top are discolored by sweat and grease. Nothing disturbs the distant road. Farther out, there are patches of green and distant purple mountains.

Bedroom

2009-08-14T16:27:00.000-07:00

In the elbow of a curving street is an orange two-story house. Shaped as a box, the house rests on the edge of a steep hill covered in ivy and yellow wild mustard and a small dense grove of eucalyptus. On the first floor, in the back of the house which faces the tall trees, is a small studio apartment. It is a small walled-off part of the downstairs garage. There is a glossy white-walled kitchen with a small white refrigerator. To the right of the fridge is a clean and empty chrome sink with a gray countertop beside it. A white gas burning stove sits perpendicular to the counter. The circular spaces below the iron burners are a little dirty and greasy from meals past. The two back burners are piled high with clean pots and pans which are two big for the tiny cupboards above the stove. Through the open doorway of the kitchen is the bedroom of pale gray walls. The floor space is nearly full with the double bed and a five drawer wooden dresser. Through another open doorway, past the dresser, is the bathroom that has a small window slightly ajar, facing north. Both the kitchen and the bedroom have one large double-paned window, facing west, which looks out onto the concrete backyard, the wooden fence at its border, and the eucalyptus grove just a couple of feet away. The entire studio, from entrance to bathroom, can be crossed in 15 steps. Tan linoleum squares that have diamond-shaped designs in the center cover the entire studio. There is a young woman in the bedroom, she lays curled up on her side facing the light coming in through the window just an inch away. The mattress is soft below her, giving slightly below the weight of her hip. All the florescent overhead lighting is off, the space is lit brightly with the incoming day. The neighbors above are silent. The day is new, just past noon. The light is bright, shielded from any warmth by a thick layer of clouds. The young woman, laying in a man’s pajama top and nothing else, has her eyes closed. Her torso is elevated by two thin pillows covered in thread-bare Disney patterned pillowcases. Her lower torso and legs are covered in two blankets. Just above her skin is a fluffy maroon down comforter, above which is a fuzzy thin blanket of red, blue, orange, and green, colors which form the image of a bright peacock. Three buttons of the pajama top are unbuttoned, exposing her chest to the cool moist air coming through the open bedroom window. Inside, a lingering smell of burnt sage combines with the subtle scent of eucalyptus leaves coming with the wind. Outside, the long, thick leaves rustle in gusts of fog coming from the sea 10 miles east. There are birds chirping outside, undisturbed by the gray weather. Her arms are drawn together towards her chest, her hands just a little above her heart. A couple of houses away, a neighbor is working in his yard, pieces of lumber fall in irregular intervals, each time making a quick sound that quiets the birds down.

Bathroom

2009-08-03T16:59:00.000-07:00

There is a long hallway that comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. On the right side of the hallway is a pale blond door. There is no handle on the door, just a smooth piece of shiny metal on the right side a little bit above where a handle should be. The door opens easily. From the wooden doorway, the room opens up into a triangle, the door being the point of the triangle and the wall six feet ahead is the base of the triangle. This particular triangular base is half-covered in a spotless mirror. There is reflection from the exact place where ceiling meets wall down to three feet from the ground where a two foot shelf extends from the wall. This is a place for handbags and diaper changing and for resting small children. The shelf is made from a very thick black plastic, strong enough to hold many tons.
There is a little girl sitting on the shelf. She is three years old. She has a mixture of white and pink skin and silky blond hair that hangs in small curls around her face. Her older brother is standing just in front of her. The little boy is five and he is putting red lipstick on her already pink lips. There are two women standing near the children. The women are eating out of small sandwich bags. Their hands dip into the clear bags and pull out small snacks and they tip their heads back and drop in the little bits of food. In between chewing and dipping and tilting their heads, the women talk and gossip about people that are outside the blond wooden door.
The room is really only a triangle on one side, the side to the left of the door. The other side of the room is a half-square and has two right angles. In front of this wall are three porcelain sinks. The sinks each stand on one smooth leg that tapers from a wide bowl down to a smaller point at the ground. The sinks are clean and cold and very white, but they are much smaller than many common sinks, and only stand a couple feet off the tiled floor. Perpendicular to the sinks are a row of three toilet stalls. The walls of the stalls are made of navy blue metal that share only a couple pale white scratches between them. The floor is covered in very small square tiles, most of them are white but there are a couple black ones every couple of feet. Hanging from the ceiling is a singular light, a lone bulb that hangs from the center of the room.
There is a girl in one of the toilet stalls. She is quiet, standing close to the narrow space between the metal door and wall, she watches the little boy applying lipstick to his sister and hears the hushed tones of women gossiping.

Gilded Building

2009-07-05T14:49:00.000-07:00

A dark narrow street opens and expands into a large open air plaza. The large square space is covered in smooth pale bricks that approximate the colors of earth and clay and dried grass. The differently hued bricks trade places with each other and create a speckled palette for the eye. There are dozens of tourists and gray pigeons that mingle in the plaza, all of them walking slowly, gazing at the ground, at the buildings, taking in the bright sunny day. In the center of the plaza is a short waterless round fountain that is nearly invisible with the throngs of people surrounding it. Men in shorts and T-shirts have their cameras in front of their eyes, attempting to capture the architecture around them.
To the left of the entrance and on the right side of the plaza is a simple one-story building which has an open, dark hallway cut through the middle of it. It houses the maintenance supply room and a small gift shop. There is an air of stillness and mystery that surrounds the darkened hallway. There is no one moving through it, either into or out of the square. Directly in front of the entrance are two tall rectangular buildings, each covered in white stucco. To the left of the entranceway is a grand and imposing building covered in smooth white stucco. Its bottom resembles a rectangle and in the center is a large arched doorway made of planked wood. Many thin plate-glass windows line the front face of the building, each one is outlined in dark blue trim. The center of the roof is domed and covered in gild. In each of the four corners there are clusters of squat gilded towers of varying heights. The dome and towers gleam in the bright sunlight.
Inside, the domed building is crowded with row after row of long wooden bench tables and back-less wooden benches acting as seats. Upon all the tables are place-settings of tan porcelain and white linen napkins and crystal goblets. The seats are occupied by men and women who sit shoulder to shoulder. The women are in matching maroon dresses that have low horizontal necklines and reveal plump bosoms and lacy camisoles tucked beneath the maroon satin. The bust-lines are tight and synch at the waist, but the skirts are made full with white petticoats. Each woman has her hair held back in a woven hairnet that has pearls embedded in each crossing thread. The men’s suits are made from the same maroon satin. There are matching trousers and blazers and white shirts with ruffles that protrude from the chest and rise to the collar. On their heads are brown brimmed hats adorned with red feathers on the right side.
Each man and woman practices lifting their spoons in perfect unison. The lifting of their hands, the way each expertly holds their spoon, reveals the insignia tattooed on the small piece of skin between their thumbs and index fingers. There is a maestro at the front of the room, a thin woman who has the posture, body, and dress of a man. She holds a thin metal rod to communicate with the group in unison.

Ranch House

2009-06-29T17:09:00.000-07:00

The darkness wraps around the low lying ranch house like blanket. All around it, the vast countryside is quiet and dark, an extension of the shadowy gardens that make up the estate. The warm yellow light of fire spills out of the windows of the house, laced with laughter and faint music. The door is ajar, casting a sliver of illumination onto the porch where an orange plastic bowl adorned with black cats and cartoon ghosts sits filled with individually wrapped sweets. It is a single story home adorned with wrought iron lanterns and wooden shutters and doors; frosted with stucco like a mocha flavored cake topped with a red tile roof. The house rests like a sphinx, stretched out upon the earth, gazing with glowing eyes into the night. The air is damp and filled with the autumn odor of crushed leaves, damp hay, and moist ground cover. A mischievous wind promotes these scents and adds a fresh ionized quality to them as they circulate together, wailing and whispering over fences and through the branches of trees. Many little gardens surround the house. Each unique community of plants is linked by stone lined paths of compacted dirt. In some, there grow little pea plants, broccoli, and other plants which are presently out of season so that their little beds of soil lay dormant. In other gardens, squash grows happily on twining green vines adorned with broad leaves that specialize in soaking up the photovoltaic power of the sun. Other garden patches are for flowers and ornamental shrubs. Little brass wind chimes hang from trellises laden with creepers. Weathered wood and wrought iron benches appear in little coves off of the main pathways. These are usually accompanied by trees. Some are laden with little green apples, others bow under the weight of ripe red pomegranates. Yet others are standing naked upon a blanket of their discarded leaves, ready for a long nap before spring returns to insist that they put on flowers for her. There are stepping stones with designs engraved upon them; butterflies, flowers and the like, positioned to add beauty rather than to serve any functional purpose. Now and again, a bird bath is tucked along some path, but the waters in them are filled with soggy yellow leaves. The little dirt trails wind their way through the gardens in search of the buildings that make up the estate; wooden barns that house workshop space instead of livestock, a cottage or two for guests or servants and sheds for gardening tools. They make up their own little village set in the vast nothingness, adrift in a sea of field grass and old oak trees that sprawl out into the blackness of night. A dirt road passes the east side of the ranch house, a main road that must lead to other lonesome estates, and farther off it must at some point connect to one of the black roads of civilization. Here, however, it sleeps silently under the moon whose white fullness is obscured by black clouds that assume phantasmal shapes. They drift across that glowing patch of sky, absorbing the illumination and keeping it to themselves, using it as a backdrop to showcase their eerie forms. The road trails off at the crest of a hill in the north. Crowning the hill on the west side of the road is a gnarled old oak that bends over like a an elderly giant with a crooked back. The grasses sway and shake when the winds icy hand rumples them like a brother mussing up the hair of a younger sister. The grass protests with a low hiss and the wind howls with delight.

Pool

2009-06-22T13:43:00.000-07:00

The sky is huge, an enormous canvas of blue that seems both far away and close enough to grab the couple of white puffy clouds that decorate its blueness. For miles and miles, there are rolling hillsides covered in yellow and brown grass. Twisted oak trees and small mounds of low growing green shrubs populate the hillsides. The landscape is empty, no powerlines, no cows, no houses, just the soft contours of earth and green speckles of umbrage. Tucked in the contours of the hills, on a naturally level space, is a kidney shaped pool. Carved into the lawn of cultivated green grass, the pool is outlined with walls of cement and filled with crystal clear blue water. The water sparkles with diamonds of light as sun meets with wind-induced ripples. It is completely clean, except for the fact that all the leaves of the nearby maple, the tree that hangs over the pool like a green umbrella, have been swept into the pool. All the dead leaves are in a single line in the center, they vibrate slightly with a touch of wind, but they stay clumped together in linear formation. On the lawn, there are a dozen people spread out in groups of two and three. They lounge and sun on top of colorful beach towels, their skin is golden in the light. The women wear designer white bikinis and large-lensed sunglasses. The men, with firm chests and hard stomachs, recline on their sides, turning themselves to the women they address. Twenty steps from the pool is a ramshackle house. The roof, made of wooden shingles that have turned black, is slightly concave, heavy with an accumulation of old rain water and rotten leaves. A wooden porch by the old front door has long ago been lost to termites, only a thick banister covered in small holes remains. There is a black hole in one of the walls to the right of the decimated porch, the hole is just large enough for a human head to peer through. Inside and directly behind the hole, is an old bathroom. The white tiles that cover the floor and the walls are dusty and covered in a fine black soot. There is a hose attached to the wall and a couple old metal knobs that used to serve as a shower. Beyond the bathroom, not separated by any wall, is an old kitchen. It too, is very dusty. The cabinets are off white, nearly brown. The fixtures on the drawers and the sink are covered in orange rust. There are white and blue tiles that decorate the countertop. Cobwebs hang in every corner. Pale light filters in through dirty windows which face the north, the sun beats through the weathered grime and settles into the room.

Quiet Field

2009-06-08T21:48:00.000-07:00

The sky is a midnight blue verging on purple. Tiny stars sparkle dimly in the far distance, small and scattered glistening white points of light. In comparison, the moon is a swollen white orb dangling in the night sky. Against the darker hues, its whiteness is dazzling. Beneath its dewy gaze the grass is visible in hues of green verging on blue drenched in the nighttime atmosphere. The individual blades are thick, but soft and moist. A sweet odor comes up from of it, mingling with the mustier smell of the soil beneath its mane. The air is warm enough to accommodate bare skin while still managing to be refreshingly cool. Small creatures of the night move gently under the silver light. A rabbit with chestnut colored fur tests the night air with a small pink nose and slips in and out of its little hole, down the cool long tunnel and out upon the springy carpet of grass. Something flies silently over the landscape, a shadow that is visible for only a moment before blending into the dark skies.
The grasses ride a casually sloping hill to the crest and reach out to the east as far as the eye can see, disappearing beneath the curtain blanket of night. In the west, they are interrupted by a simple concrete porch and the dirty white stucco of a large Spanish style house. Its walls rise two stories. The first floor is void of windows, save for the sliding glass doors that open out onto the porch. The second is composed of a balcony lined with wooden rails painted to match the chocolate brown trim of the house, which looks almost black without the sun. The house is dark and silent, capped like a mushroom by a red tile roof whose color, like that of the grass, is altered by the evening’s disposition.
To the south, there is an out flow channel that extends like a concrete riverbed from the base of the mountains that loom behind the house. Empty of water, it stands as a barrier behind a fence of linked chain. The presence of moisture in the air comes without its complements. The east opens out upon itself as a grassy wilderness. In the distance, just barely visible, two barren trees stand guard and beyond them a dirt path leads to strange roads hidden from view by the border of a forest. The tall conifers seal the field, protecting it from the world beyond.
In the patch of land between the house and this forest wall, the grass is overcome by wild oats. Overgrown, they constitute a waist deep sea of crackly yellow stalks upon which praying mantis’ and crickets perch. The later chirp tenderly into the night, rubbing their little legs together with languor, taking breaks between sets. While the crickets play their lazy songs, the Mantis’ stalk their prey, smaller bugs that hide under the dainty sheaths of oats. Beneath this brittle canopy of wild grains, field mice scurry on the errands of busy little mammals, grateful to be out of the sight of the shadows which pass overhead, wings beating softly against the delicious evening air. Disappearing into the east, and running along the chain link flanked wash, stands a row of somber olive trees, as dutiful as Roman soldiers. Their leaves are dark and glossy. The unripe olives hanging among the branches are purple, although under the moonlight they are almost the color of coal.

Shopping Center

2009-06-05T20:47:00.000-07:00

The streets are populated with shiny cars in the bright rainbow colors of fruit flavored candy. They are red and bright yellow and dark blue. Some are black or silver or gold. All glisten in the sun like brand new toys. The streets are a velvety gray, smooth with clean crisp painted lines. They are new fairways not yet tainted with tire marks and oil slicks. Circling and winding from one tall stop light to the next, they snake their way around the clean shopping centers and chain restaurants. The whole place is clean and bright. The walls of the box stores are anonymous and painted in warm cream colors, the store names are written in brand appropriate fonts across the front of the building faces in blue or white or yellow. They are un-chipped, void of any stray marks. So new that weather hasn’t been able to take its toll and vandals are still rubbing their eyes in astonishment, licking their lips and rubbing their palms together in anticipation of the day when security diminishes, but those days are yet to come. For now security carts patrol the parking lots like mother hens looking over nests of eggs. The planter boxes are filled with neatly trimmed shrubbery. Little trees that look like toothpicks with gumdrops set upon their points stand as proud as tin soldiers in the cement boxes outside of the glass store fronts. Grass rolls out in a fine green carpet alongside the walkways that lead to the smoky colored glass doors of the box restaurants. Lanky irises yawn up out of little islands set in the parking lots accompanied by skinny little maples that dream of making shade some day. Meanwhile, the shiny cars nose up to them, resting in tidy rows reserved by clean white lines. The traffic lights hang over the intersections that join dining establishments to malls to movie theaters like gawky tall young ladies. Their three bright eyes blink green to yellow to red under their steel black bonnets, holding lines of eager cars at bay with their crimson blush. Pedestrians, mostly teens, flow through the clearly delineated crosswalks guided by the electronic chirp chirp and flashing blue symbol that barely resembles them with their styled hair and skinny jeans, hoop earrings and music T-shirts, skateboards and chunky hand bags tucked under their arms. They mill about in front of the cinema gazing up at the white marquee board with its bold black letters announcing titles, show times, and ratings. More people file in and out of the box stores and main mall entrances, chatting on cell phones or rattling keys, or both at once, carrying boxes and bags, pushing carts with whinny toddlers strapped into the front like the dragon masts of Viking ships. Satisfied diners pick at their teeth with toothpicks and jingle change in their slack pockets in front of the restaurants. They hurry back to their shiny metal hosts to rouse them from their restful slumber, like parents rousing babies in a nursery to claim them and take them home. Only these babies roar and speed along over the posted limit. They are directed along those clean new stretches of road by the gangly traffic lights that hope to imitate rainbows with their perfectly arched spines. These babies puff out little invisible clouds of exhaust, filling the causeway with their chemical breath. They bleat like lambs when they fear they will bump noses with one another, or if the one in line ahead of the others is being too timid or law abiding, they may all join in a chorus of bleated complaints. With no lanes for bicycles or scooters, these must make their way amid the metal monster babes at their own risk, like puppies hopping to avoid their tails getting crushed.

Mural of Ships

2009-06-03T18:25:00.001-07:00

The sun beats down on the roof of the car, not a cloud disrupts the clear line from the fiery orb to the thin metal plate. The heat is not blocked by the overhead covering, but is instead filtered and absorbed by the car, making both the interior and exterior painful to the touch. The hot red car is in the single lane, behind it five lanes of cars are attempting to merge into the single lane, but no one is moving. There is a young woman in the passenger seat, both her feet are in the driver’s foot area, ready to accelerate or brake when necessary. A twelve year old girl is sitting in the driver’s seat. She is slightly portly, wearing glasses that make her eyes look glassy and magnified and slightly disfigured. The fabric covered backseat is empty of possessions or people, it is slightly more shaded than the front and a degree cooler. Waves of exhaust shimmy from the asphalt and rise above the vibrating back fenders of the idling cars. The motors of many cars are purring, but the surroundings are silent. There are no impatient horns, no children on the side of the road selling candy or sliced fruit. Just the lanes of cars, waiting patiently to reach the unknown that lays ahead. There are buildings on either side of the car. Some are short and made of wood, others tall and made of metal and glass, some are covered in stucco, some have crumbling sides. There is not a space in between then, they all share a wall. No matter how high or how low they rise, the buildings on the left side of the car are covered in a continuous mural. The oversized picture, spanning miles and raised thirty feet off the ground, depicts large wooden ships. They ride the waves, one after the other, clustered like an army of marching soldiers. The ships are pointed in the same direction as the waiting cars. Some ships have pink hulls and magenta ropes hanging from their masts, an intangible wind catches sails of pink and white lace. There are other ships painted in blue and green, others are black. One ship after another sails, painted in solemn colors or bright as rainbows. The ships are crowded together, ocean waves poke out occasionally from the massed hulls, but mostly, the ocean blue is buried beneath their weight and color. On the right side of the car, the buildings remain in their unadorned gray state.

Santa Cruz Theatre

2009-05-31T20:56:00.000-07:00

A small rectangular room is tucked just a couple feet from the sidewalk. The walkway in front of the room is covered in semi-shiny squares of tiles, marking the space as uniquely different from the dull pedestrian sidewalk a couple steps away. The lower part of the wall is decorated in the same shiny tiles, the upper walls of the room are made of Plexiglas, their opaqueness reveals the three uniformed attendants inside the space. They wear matching black pants and pristine white collared shirts. Above the shirt is a maroon polyester vest and at the collar line is a shiny black bowtie. They are sitting in a row a foot away from the glass wall, a small blue tiled ledge in front of them acts as a table. Each person sits on a black padded chair, spaced in precise intervals. A small bendable microphone on a metal chord is connected to the glass in front of them and the microphone extends from the clear wall to their mouths and stops just an inch away from their lips. Before each uniformed attendant is a large computer monitor and beyond the glass wall are three lines of people that extend to the pedestrian sidewalk.
On either side of the glass room are two double glass doors, on the left are the exit doors, on the right is the entrance. A uniformed gatekeeper stands behind a blue tiled podium just a foot behind the open door. He is a big man and wears the same outfit as the people in the glass room. Resting on the podium’s flat surface is a list of the nine cinemas and the times that each movie will be playing. Past the gatekeeper is a flat surface of shiny tiles that stretches four feet and then abruptly ends at the flight of stairs.
They are smooth, shiny stairs, made of the same tiles that decorate the outer plaza and the gatekeeper’s podium. There are at least 100 stairs and they reach from wall to wall, at least fifty feet across, and rise to the upper level. Directly in the middle, breaking the lines of the continuous smooth stairs is a softly humming escalator which has one rotating flight of metal stairs going up and another beside it, going down.
At the crest of the stairs is a smooth, wide open floor covered in maroon carpet. The soft flooring is accented in squiggly lines of royal blue and yellow and punctuated by fluffy kernels of dropped popcorn. The upper level is shaped like a square donut, the wide open area of the stairs resembling the square donut’s middle. Except for the opening to the escalators and stairs, a four foot Plexiglas wall rings the large open hole. There are four leather benches placed against the Plexiglas railing on each of its three sides and people sit there, popping kernels of popcorn into their mouths while staring at the advertisements that line the walls.
The overall lighting is dim, there are carefully placed spot lights around the periphery of the large room that shine on the cardboard cutouts of an upcoming feature, and there is some wandering light from the neon signs of the concession stand, but there are no large chandeliers or grand lamps, it is just slightly brighter than the subdued cinemas themselves.
At the far end of the wall and directly in front of the stairs, is the long concession stand. Neon lights advertise popcorn and soda. There are eight different lines with a couple of people in each, each line ends at a thick Formica countertop, a tan cash register and a uniformed teenager. The wall behind the attendants is covered in glass and in front of the wall are 3 Plexiglas cases of yellow popcorn, made brighter with the accented yellow spotlights that shine upon them. Soda machines spurt and wizz in carbonation and a hotdog wheel spins endlessly on the far right side of the counter.

Tour Ship

2009-05-09T21:03:00.000-07:00

The ship is very large and composed of a string of connected cabins. There is little space out on deck, just a narrow walkway around the cabins. The plank boards are a dingy sandy blonde with stark white rails to keep them company and prevent passengers from falling overboard. The white paint is chipped and flaking off of the metal. Little wooden gangways lead from the dock onto the ship and crowds of people are streaming up and into the series of cabins.
Inside, a loud voice booms to the crowd already milling within the ships secretive insides. It is carried over a loud speaker and supplies concise little packets of trivial fact, directing the crowd’s attention to one or another aquarium, or that wall, or offering a historic or scientific anecdote.
The people are mostly older, anywhere from their late thirties to mid fifties. The men and women tend to be dressed alike, each wearing brightly colored polo shirts and khaki shorts or pleated slacks. The main difference is that the men are balding at the crest and their hair is white or gray while the women sport short haircuts full of unnatural curl and color. The women also wear bright lipstick and pearls or gold chains to add a touch of wasted femininity to their masculine couture. Both sexes tend to wear sun visors or other hats and carry little brochures and maps in their wrinkling, sun spotted hands.
They look where the voice tells them to look, nodding their heads and murmuring enthusiastically to one another. Many of them talk quite loudly, carrying on unrelated conversations about hotels, restaurants, or family members between moments of placing their attention where directed. Their feet shuffle along, carrying them where the voice suggests as if they were being moved along on a conveyor belt while their heads look at this and that and each other.
The various aquariums emit an eerie glow. The waving shimmer of light reflected off of the water dances upon the white walls of the cabin. There is otherwise nothing to be seen, except the occasional life saver mounted to a white wall. Nonetheless, the voice directs them to look, telling them what is in here and what is in there and where it came from and who discovered it and how long it lives and how it reproduces and who the captain of the ship was between the years of… and where it has traveled, and how it was named, and who has graced its decks with their shoe polish and so on. All the while, the crowd is responding to what they are told that they see. They snake their way from one room to the next to gaze into empty picture frames and exclaim things like,
“Oh Ralph, Nadia should have come! She would have liked this don’t you think? Maybe we can pick something up for her in the gift shop.”
Among the crowd, there are a few unruly children, also dressed in the classic polo shirts and khakis. They fight and play with their siblings and are ushered through the ship, one with the moving mass of humanity without taking notice of it or otherwise heeding their surroundings. There is an exit that allows a steady stream of homogeneous people to flow out of the string of cabins and across a second gangway. Just before crossing the threshold out of the cabin and onto the deck, they make their way through turn stiles with gleaming silver arms that let each patron push their tummy against a bar and get popped out on the deck as the following bar clicks into place behind them. They are especially merry as they emerge into the sunshine on the deck, smiling with satisfaction as the turnstiles count their passing.

Studio

2009-05-04T20:59:00.000-07:00

In an old apartment building, eleven stories high, the clear canvases of windows are painted black by the night. Not a star shines through in the darkness, not one light from another building breaks through the thick color. The black windows are the only color on the white walls, walls which have taken a yellow glow from the single overhead lamp, illuminating every corner of the large square living room. The space has the empty power of a dance studio, bare, yet so empty as to be of complete service to anything that enters and moves within it. The room is devoid of clutter, no leather couches, no wooden end tables or entertainment stands littered with DVDs, just a dark wooden piano that leans against the wall closest to the front door. The floor of the room is wooden and old, the blond planks have streaks and scratches that have accumulated for decades, but in the yellow light, a sheen still exudes as though they were just installed.
At the far end of the room is a kitchen illuminated by bright white florescent bulbs, gleaming light dances off shiny tiles and chrome fixtures and creates an aura of sterilization. There is a hip-high wall that separates the kitchen from the living room and with the absence of a barrier, the bright white of the kitchen mixes with the subdued yellow glow from the living room. There is a woman in the kitchen who wears a black evening dress from the late 50s, her hair matches the dress in color and sophistication. She has a small cocktail glass in her hand and stares out expressionless into the living room.
In the bare room, a large circle of people sit on the floor, each one holding a musical instrument. At the far end of the circle, closest to the kitchen, a young woman sits on a plastic chair holding a violin. She plays a well practiced solo, her blond hair tilting to the side as she bends her chin towards the instrument. I am sitting cross-legged on the ground within the ring. On the floor in front of me is a guitar. The woman in the chair plays loudly and I bang on the body of the guitar in intervals. My two friends compose pieces of the human circle, they are separated from me by a stranger on my left. We all play with quiet anticipation, holding the moment that is building quietly and thoughtfully, like a well tended fire.

Stalker

2009-04-27T15:58:00.000-07:00

Beneath a boundless blue sky, there is a small pond in the center of a large grassy field. The yellowed grass is the color and height of mature wheat on an open plane. The tops of the blades sway and ripple in the wind, moving in a thousand directions at once; their constant rustling creates a murmur that adds to the stillness of the land. There is a small tree by the pond, its trunk is thin and its branches are easily bendable in the wind, and although its still young, its canopy is broad enough to provide shade from the relentless sunlight. The pond is shallow and dark blue. At the bottom, the soft earth has turned to a silky soft mud that leaves trails of its black sediment across the feet that step on it. Small bits of algae dot the surface of the water and nearly translucent guppies skip along just below the surface. Small ripples from the wind scatter the waters towards the shoreline, a boundary which is lined with long thin reeds and tiny sprouts of green grass.
There are two sisters wading in the pond. One is tall and lean, her long blond hair blows like the tall grasses around her, her firm breasts are covered by a thin red tube top. Her sister is nearly identical, but just slightly smaller; shorter legs, smaller breasts, tinier waist. The girls are in the center of the pond, their long white legs bare except for their jeans shorts. The water line tickles the skin on their calves. They move their feet up and down like marching soldiers, squeezing the mud between their toes. They are silent, their attention engrossed in the dark water below. They stare at the water and at their buried feet.
There is a man in the distance, he is by the side of a two lane highway a short distance away from the grassy field. He sits upon the hood of his small, beat-up red car. He looks towards the girls in the field through squinted eyes. In his hand is a snapshot of the blond young woman. The highway is deserted, the sun sends heat waves cascading above the asphalt. The man is wearing long blue jeans and an old stained T-shirt. In the sun, the lines of his thirty year old face are just beginning to show. His eyes squint in the bright sunlight. He stares at the girls who are oblivious to his presence. The wind rattles through the air, like a muted siren among the grass.

A House and Three Couples

2009-03-21T12:43:00.000-07:00

The house is tall and white with yawning arches and Spanish trim. With its triangular roof composed of orange tile it resembles an elegant giant milk carton. The driveway is long and steep, leading deep beyond the front porch. This porch is accessible where a concrete walk splits away from the main current of the drive forming little pools of its own with three stairs of the same followed by another open expanse of concrete that flows under the two grand archways and meets, at last, with the main stair. There are fifteen of these that lead up to the front door, each one carpeted in sparkling green artificial grass. It glitters magically, winking back at the sparkle emitted by mounds of petite glistening ice plant in the front yard. The tiny blossoms of violet beam their radiance back up to the sun as if they were smaller solar entities themselves, regal lords subject only to that greater more effervescent King. The door itself is of a solid wood adorned with beautiful carved panels that display the shapes of large four petaled flowers and broad jagged edged leaves.
The windows of the house are closed tight, the blinds looking blindly outward like eyes without pupils, sealed from behind by insulated curtains. Within the house all is dark. The floor is composed of many polished honey blond wood panels. In the darkness the color is lost, but the sheen is apparent so that it seems almost like the face of a mirror but less lustrous. To the left of the front entry way, a carpeted hallway leads to the three bedrooms and a bathroom that waits at the very end of its track. The thermostat, a little square box with a metallic surface, juts from the wall of the hallway, opposite of a closet meant to accept the hats, coats and shoes of those entering the abode. To the right rests the living room hidden behind those tightly closed front windows. Beyond it, separated only by further yawning arches, waits a dinning room with sliding glass doors that open onto a patio as well as a tiny kitchen that occupies the least space of all these three grand rooms, nestled in the corner as an afterthought. Its floor is covered with yellow laminate designed to look like sunny Spanish tiles. There are more windows in the wall behind the dining table but they too are hermetically sealed, complete with blinds and long drapes whose color is that of rusty anchors. The living room and the dining room share the same wood flooring, but in the living room, an enormous Persian rug featuring predominately the colors of deep red and gold, covers most of the surface. There is a clock hung on the little bit of wall between the arches that separate the two rooms. It reads 6 o’clock. There is also a television set on an imposing entertainment center that stands beside the stone fireplace at the end of the rectangular space. It casts the only illumination in ghostly electric blue hues that spill so far out as to dance upon the dark surface of the wood floor before the front entrance.
Tucked into a makeshift bed of sleeping bags and pillows, a young couple lies sleeping oblivious to the images flashing before them. The woman’s hair is long and blond. The man’s hair is similarly toned and while it is shorter than hers, his is also long. On his neck there is a tattoo of a blue rose. Slightly behind them, closer to the front entrance, there are two rust colored arm chairs in which two elderly people sit in their pajamas and robes: an old woman with hair like the younger woman upon the floor but streaked with gray and an old man with short but unruly hair the color of brushed steel. These two watch the images flashing upon the screen with mute fascination. The scene is unfolding in a bedroom amid strewn bed clothes and candlelight, where a woman in a satin negligee is making love to a partner whose face is veiled by the shadows.

The Hidden Room

2009-03-04T12:42:00.000-08:00

The exterior of the imposing apartment building looks just like an oversized cinder block. It is large and sterile and bleak, its façade devoid of any feature or embellishment. It is clean and gray and practical, a building to live in, nothing more. No craftsmanship to admire, nothing added besides the necessities; the angles of the apartment building are sharp and hard, 90 degrees protrude with the practicality of an iron fist. It’s bare bones architecture, humorless and without emotion. It simply is a block, a square implanted within the soil and erected on the stretch of cold land without nostalgia or sentimentality. On each of the seven floors, there are simple square windows every 10 feet.
On ground level, there is a single metal door that leads in and out…either outside to the silent streets of a gray midmorning, or inside, in to the dark, cold palace of practicality.
Within the building is the hidden unpractical, the one great flourish of the architect who screamed silently into his plans and burst forth with a glimmer of possibility. It is the hidden room, the room of quiet existence, masked from observation on the ground floor by a wall that hides its entrance. Behind the thin façade of cinderblock is a large, two level room built halfway above the earth and partly within the cold soil. Spanning the entire length of the room, from end to end, is a narrow flight of stairs made from a shiny blend of cement and crushed rock. Upstairs, (the level above ground) is a single twin sized bed and a red velvet loveseat with curved wooden arm rests beside it. Twenty feet from the bed is a single wooden desk with a single wooden straight backed chair pushed into it. Upon the desk is a wrought iron lamp without a lampshade or light bulb and a single piece of clean white paper and a pencil laying beside it.
Downstairs, the part of the room submerged within the earth, there are six wooden dressers filled with clothes clustered in the center of the room. Within the dressers are men’s slacks and button up black shirts, there are clothes for little girls, pink party dresses and small white socks. There is a sequined evening gown and a stained apron and an entire drawer of silk lingerie and lacy brassieres. There is no division or organization within the drawers or dressers between sex or age, all the clothes are mixed up and wrinkled…socks next to shirts next to fur coats. Scattered next to the dressers and piled in heaps upon the cement floor are more clothes. Polo shirts and Batman underpants and silk pajamas and cotton T-shirts. All the clothes are clean, but wrinkled. On the second floor of the room (the ground floor of the apartment building), there are two windows that open directly to the gray sidewalk above.
A single daisy pokes its yellow from the space in between two large slabs of cement, the flower stands like a survivor of color in the square frame of the window. The light in the room comes solely from the two windows which casts the space in a bluish hue that is accentuated by the cement flooring.

Wait and Rest Room

2009-02-25T14:50:00.000-08:00

Plush maroon carpeting spreads over the floors like the spilled and drying blood of some regal jungle animal. Neither too red nor to brown, its shade is deep and warm, and creates the illusion that one might be standing within the soft heart of an enormous elephant. The walls are paneled with sheesham veneer, a rich chocolate brown wood swirled with even darker lines. They disappear into anonymity behind the array of fine art hung over their deep complexion like multicolored veils over the faces of exotic but somber women. Many of the frames are gilded with 24 karat gold.
The art itself is so exquisite in detail as to appear more vivid than life. Creamy skinned women stand with blue skinned lovers at the mouth of roaring seas or lay in the arms of furry white beasts playing wind instruments upon stony cliffs or dance in groups upon mossy embankments overlooking misty water falls. They seem as if they might step out of the frames at any moment, or as if perhaps theirs is the real world and the room with maroon carpet is only a crude painting. Antique lamps of fine polished brass, some adorned with tiffany lampshades and dripping with glittering lead crystals emit a warm glow. Scattered throughout the room, they stand upon sleek end tables fashioned of polished dark cherry. These rest near couches, divans, and love seats like faithful dogs at the feet of their masters.
The couches themselves are upholstered in darkest brown suede and some in pomegranate hued velvet adorned with gold embellishments in the baroque style. Many of these are planted so that their occupants might face each other and engage in intimate conversations. All are equipped to function as toilets as well as seats. The soft sued or velvet cushions need only be lifted to reveal the gleaming white porcelain of a toilet seat and bowl. Dainty little handles for flushing rest nestled among the at the back. Some have been neatly worked into the baroque embellishments. The din of idle chat fills the room like the bubbling of hot soup in a black kettle. The mob of individuals crowd together on the love seats, women sitting in men's laps and youths with tousled hair perched upon the arms of the couches. The scent of perfume mingles with that of after shave and the baser smell of hot human breath and urine. The laughter of the women rings out shriller than the baritone he-haws of the men. The smoke of a cigarette drifts along the ceiling, among the crystals of a chandelier and on past the mist seas of a painting. Coughing and nose blowing accent the general hum of unending conversation.
The men wear tuxedos, many have taken off the jackets and have loosen the bow ties and dab at their perspiring brows with embroidered handkerchiefs. The women don tight fitting evening gowns to reveal their bosoms and wear glistening earrings, and pearl necklaces. They grip satin and bejeweled clutches in their delicate and neatly manicured hands. A few fan themselves, the spaghetti straps of their skimpy gowns hanging off of their freckled shoulders. One woman in a clinging blue dress is using one of the toilets while the others around her continue to talk. Perched as she is, she endeavors to keep herself covered with the skirt of the gown, but it is too form fitting to accommodate her much, and her pale thighs and dark curly pubic hairs are apparent to all, while she wriggles like pate trying to go back into its shorn wrapper.

Casino

2009-02-18T11:33:00.000-08:00

Brick-like pieces of luggage roll smoothly over the marble flooring of the lobby. A low rumbling echoes dimly against the walls as the plastic wheels roll over tiny lines of grout where each slab of marble comes together to meet another. There is a steady stream of people in the lobby. Couples walk in through the doors and towards the registration desk, men in their fifties walk quickly from the elevators towards the revolving doors that lead to the waiting taxis. A gray haired man in a long black coat reads the newspaper in one of the lobby’s blue upholstered armchairs, women in high heels click and clack on the hard floor. Beyond the marble boundary of the lobby, the green carpet begins. Down four steps and past two gold handrails is the large open casino. A variety of sounds comes from the dozen rows of slot machines on the right of the room. Their lights blink and flash, white, orange, and red. A group of large, white haired ladies in matching kacki pants and white collared shirts sit in a line on the padded stools of the slot machines. They hold small plastic cups, their hands reach in, almost in unison, grabbing quarter after quarter and feeding it into the machine. The casino is covered in a carpet of green that is accented by a busy pattern of yellow lines and blue dots, but the chaos of the pattern is held together by the dark green background of the thin carpet. It is a well worn carpet, made even thinner by the constant high heels of the waitresses in short black skirts that hardly cover their rear and the shined black shoes of the blackjack dealers that stand stoically upon it. A mirror covers the wall at the far end of the room. The mirror and the track lighting above reflects the thousands of bottles that sit on clear shelves just an inch from the mirror. Each bottle holds a varying shade of yellow tequila and each bottle is a different color, red, blue, buffed white glass. Waitresses swarm around the bar, behind it, in front of it…the women in tightly fitting nylons and black-strapped high heels hold small circular trays. Some hold trays with small glasses filled to the brim in clear alcohol, some hold trays that only have the melted remains of ice cubes and small slices of limes and crumpled napkins. Mounted on the wall, just perpendicular to the mirror, is a flat screen TV. A football game is on the screen, the images flash and change every second, but the sounds are muted and the importance of the game is lost amidst the sounds of slot machines and dealers and waitresses taking orders and the jingling of a dozen quarters spilling into plastic cups. A cluster of 6 blackjack tables are positioned close to the bar. The oak tables are taller than average and around it are extra tall metal stools with padded leather seat cushions. Three people sit at the table, the dealer stands like an idol before them, holding the cards that will determine their future. A blond woman in her thirties holds four cards in her hand. She looks at them with boredom etched along the sides of her red-painted mouth. She looks at the cards, she looks at the dealer, she takes a sip of her drink. All along the sides of the casino are metal bleachers like the kind found in a sports stadium, only despite their size, there are only five rows. They are dotted with the young children of gamblers, left to anxiously observe the proceedings as powerless spectators.

Shoe Shine Station

2009-01-20T14:31:00.000-08:00

The foyer of the hotel is large and airy. There is the warm diffused lighting of opulence and old money. The ceiling above the front desk is adorned with a fresco in muted colors and it towers two stories above the few people in the lobby below. The floor is made of smooth gray marble, it shines in the warmth of the lighting and echoes as women in high heel shoes take small dainty steps across its surface. In the center of the foyer, an overabundant bouquet of rainbow colored flowers soak up water in a glass vase upon a circular wooden table.
Off to the side of the lobby, in the corner and somewhat hidden by the diffused lighting and shadows is a shoe shining station. There are no walls separating it from the larger lobby, but there are some green trees in large blue glazed pots that are lined up in a row parallel to the beige wall of the hotel. The trees create a small living divide from the main foyer and also provide a hint of privacy. On one side of the small space is a cluster of fabric covered chairs, the kind popular in a doctor’s office. No one fills the seats. No one flips through the magazines that lay on the end table. The station is empty and quiet. The hunter’s green carpet that covers the small space is clean and the parallel lines of a vacuum cleaner are still visible across its uniform surface. In the center of the square shoe shining area is a pit, a large hallowed out space in the smooth shape of a bowl. The edges slope down gently from the edges of the carpet. The inner surface of the bowl matches the color of the hotel wall in the same beige shade. The sculpted hole has light streaks of black and brown, remains from the many shoes that have been shined upon its surface. Standing at full attention just a centimeter from the wall, is a woman wearing a gleaming white shirt covered in a crisp black vest and ironed black pants. She looks like a blackjack dealer. She is waiting, her hands are clasped together behind her back, there is no smile on her face, she stares ahead calm and serene, waiting for the next customer to sign in on the small registration sheet and step into the hallowed pit for a thorough shining. Another woman stands a couple feet away from the shoe shiner, also wearing the same black and white uniform. Neither of them talk, they stare straight ahead, their legs slightly apart, their light brown skin glowing softly in the diffused light .

Maneuvering Over The Wreckage

2008-12-29T12:42:00.000-08:00

My body rests in the soft contours of a plush Oldsmobile seat. I am in the driver’s seat, in front of a clear windshield and a long cream colored hood, a hood so long I can barely see where it ends. In the rear is a long bench seat covered in maroon fabric that resembles velvet, but is not. Behind the back seat is a slightly tinted rear window and the long tail of the car that also curves beyond the horizon of my sight. The front seat is also a singular bench wide enough for three people, but in the car, there is only me and a 10 year old Korean boy who sits close to the passenger window, the right side of his body leaning into the car door. A fabric seat belt clings to him, stretching diagonally from the far end of the passenger door to the shiny buckle on his left side. The front seat is upholstered in the same faux velvet material, but its color is different than the back. Along the edges is an outline in maroon, but in the center, covering the middle of both the backrest and the seat, is a mixture of silver and brown threads that have been knitted together. Both my hands on the thin plastic wheel, slightly above center. We are in a wealthy suburban neighborhood on a very bright day. Although there are no clouds in the sky, the sky is not blue; it’s almost like the sunlight has taken over everything, turning every color into a yellow hue that’s so bright it borders on white. It is the brilliance of a candle flame, so bright it hurts to look at it. The light has colored each house into the shade of bleached sand. Each home in the neighborhood is large and spacious, they are mostly two story homes with wide steps that lead up to an impressive oak door. Each house is set apart from its neighbor by ample space and also slightly away from the street. The land between the street and houses is barren, there are no trees, no flowers, no cars or signs of life. The road that cuts through the neighborhood is wide, large enough for 6 lanes of traffic, but there are no other cars. Along with the black asphalt, all the traffic lines have disappeared beneath a thick layer of trash. Most of the debris is industrial, white plastic tubing, sharp pieces of chrome and aluminum in a thousand different sizes. Bricks add their color to the heavy chunks of cement and balls of wire. There are tires torn to shreds and pieces of paper that float slightly above the litter whenever a breeze picks up. Scattered every couple of feet are huge upright refrigerators made of tarnished metal, the kind used in commercial kitchens and bakeries. They are scattered along the road like orange cones without intent, without any uniformity or clear indication of purpose. As I drive, I swerve through them, sometimes needing to veer to the right to avoid hitting one, then needing to move back quickly to the left to avoid hitting another one that stands in our path. My foot is barely touching the gas pedal and the car crawls over the junk like a tortoise. My eyes are completely fixed on the road and I make every effort to avoid the corners of sharp objects, but I feel anxious, I’m afraid the tires will pop at any moment, I’m afraid we’ll hit a refrigerator. There are dings and dents in their sides, scars from other cars. Some of them have doors that hang by a single bolt. The little boy beside me takes no notice of the wreckage, he stares out the window in a posture of slight boredom and familiarity. This bumpy ride is nothing new to him, he has traveled the obstacle course of his neighborhood many times, staring through the window without any interest in the sights beyond.

Amusement Ride

2008-12-22T13:37:00.000-08:00

I am in the bowels of a very long and thin ship, a modern recreation of a Viking ship made from black painted wood, metal and plastic. There is no water below the planks, but rather, hard pebbly land interspersed with blades of new grass, nearly invisible in the shadow of night. The boat is suspended in the air, held at least forty feet from the ground by enormous steel support beams on each side. The beams are buried far in the soil and extend vertically into the night sky, topped by a horizontal metal beam that joins them together. Welded to the center of the middle beam is another long metal pole that reaches from the underside of the air-born ship through the darkness of the bowels, up through the center of the deck and to the exact center the pole.
Within the ship, there are no windows, no portholes. It’s almost completely dark except for the cracks in the plank-wood roof which seep in short rays of yellow moonlight. The ship is a popular amusement park ride, but there are only three riders. Up, down, and up again…we swing from one point to the other with violent force, rocking mechanically between the metal beams, attempting to mimic the rolling of ocean waves, only, we cut through the air seamlessly with the force of Eric the Red.
I’m strapped to my seat by the plastic chest plate that comes with most modern roller coasters. The ship swings up high and fast, going up, then down with brutal force and speed. With each swing, my body registers panic. My stomach lurches as we trace another crescent moon with the pointed tip of the ship, then, nearly vertical, we descend, tracing another half smile. My hands are wrapped around the plastic safety belt and, with the beginning of each ascent, I take a long and deep breath. With the beginning of each descent, I release my breath in an extended exhale through pursed fish-lips.
My sister is sitting in the seat in front of me, just a couple feet away. Her long curly red hair moves with the motion of the ship. She is not anxious about the intense rocking, rather, she is preoccupied with the single piece of long plastic tubing that extends down from the ceiling between us. The tubing is thin and bendable, like the extra-long balloons that clowns turn into poodles at birthday parties, only a little thicker and stronger.
With each swing of the ship, the plastic tubing knocks me slightly on my forehead, in the exact center. My sister stares at the sight with an open mouth. She stares at the tube, watching it land on me with a light thump, over and over with each turn of the ship, neither in worry or sympathy, but dumfounded with disbelief.
Five seats away, on my sister’s right side, is my mother. She is clearly anxious. Her knuckles are white, gripping the plastic safety harness on her chest. Her face is covered in lines of fear and paralysis. Her lips are thin and her head hangs slightly forward, like a woman finally dominated by circumstances. She looks over at me and I can see within her eyes, through the blackness that nearly surrounds us, that she would cut the plastic tubing if she could, releasing me from the endless tapping on my forehead.
But she is strapped, we are all strapped, going up and down, tracing and retracing our path in endless mechanical repetition. As we travel the same route, we are nearly silent. I can only hear the light squeaking of metal beams as they glide past each other and the slight hissing of my breath through pursed lips as I struggle to remain calm. The ship is captain-less, not even a carnie graces the decks. We are alone. Below us, on the pebbly soil, is my father.

Curiosity and Recoil

2008-12-09T12:06:00.000-08:00

There is a full grown white stallion beneath a blue sky made pale by a thin layer of smooth clouds. The horse has a mane of thick and long white hair that hangs over the right side of his neck and a tail to match that journeys halfway down his long legs before tapering off into a thin point. All the bristly hair that should be covering the bulk of his body is gone, just a thin layer of grayish peach fuzz coats his meaty torso and accentuates the very small black and red dots that punctuate its pale pink skin. There is no pattern to the dots, but they cover him extensively, from the skin above his hoofs to the underside of his soft belly, there are dots the size of pinpricks left to bleed. Despite his skin, he is a healthy animal, there are no protruding ribs and his footing seems steady on the compacted soil.
There are houses and a busy street not too far away and the sounds of tires on asphalt can be heard in the distance, but there is still a quietness in the landscape and in the surrounding hills and the feeling that no one is around despite the signs of their proximity. There are houses in four directions surrounding the horse, but they are far removed ranch houses that do not impede so much on the raw landscape, on the sense of open exploration that abounds in a world without roofs and walls.
From where the horse stands, there are four wide paths made clear by the blades of a small tractor; each dirt path eventually leads to a house in the distance. There is not a stray patch of clover or a rogue yellow dandelion on the paths. They are well traveled and maintained. But, along the edges, not too far from the horse, there are large patches of young grass. Each blade is only half an inch tall and they are the brightest of greens, the burst of chlorophyll containing the raw life wish of the soil and seeds. It is the first exploding note of a song, loud and clear as bells floating over hillsides. It is the color of birth and crying, the baby in the arms of mother soil.
Also in the intersection between paths, only a couple steps from the horse, is an old woman in a stainless steel wheelchair. She is thick from lethargy and lack of exercise. Her bulk fills up the entire space of the vinyl seat and spills over the tops of the arm rests like dough left far too long to rise. Her feet rest upon the small metal foot rests of the wheelchair and, covering her withered legs, is a heavy black afghan quilt decorated in a grid of small colorful squares. Above, covering her wide trunk from the cool air, is a man’s flannel shirt that is just one size too large. Her hair is bright white and short, cut straight just above her ears like a flapper dancer from the 20s. She is covering her mouth with a thin white paper tissue which she holds on her left hand.
The woman and stallion are engaged in a cycle of retreat and curiosity. The woman’s head is cocked slightly to the left side of her body and her right hand is outstretched to the horse. The horse retreats when she raises her hand to it and when she sees its recoil, she puts her hand back in her lap…then, the horse steps forward in curiosity. As the woman reaches up to touch its nose, the stallion retreats slightly once again. She places her hand in her lap and the horse nudges closer once again.

Underground

2008-12-06T09:51:00.000-08:00

The chamber is small, just a roughly cut square, six feet long on each side, just spacious enough for a handful of people. The floor is cut from inner earth and nothing disguises its raw nature. There are no rugs or tiles upon it, it is just cool, compacted earth that has the faint smell of decomposing leaves upon a forest floor. The contoured floor is a very deep brown, almost black and somewhat shiny in spots towards the center and more dusty and matte along the perimeter where the ground becomes the wall without any hard angles. There is nothing smooth about it, it moves like a soft miniature landscape with subtle differences in the height of each corner, between walls there are slight valleys and mountains, each one barely perceptible on first glance. Traces of footprints are visible in the dust around the edges and indentations of hard metal tools mingle among them, disguising their origin. The floor is cool at any given moment, made cold by the depths within the earth, hidden from sunlight and the touch of air and wind and light. The walls of the room are carved from the earth as well and they remain gritty, sloping in spots, protruding in others without any thought of geometry.
The space is almost completely dark, illuminated only by a very small fire that burns in the center of the earthen floor. Little bits of coal and small scrapes of wood crackle and cast elongated shapes onto the walls. The colors on the walls dance in shades of black that quickly jump into the realm of pale orange and then quickly move back towards the dark. In the flickering shadows that lick the walls, a couple of tapestries decorate the creased walls. They are semi-large rectangular pieces of geometric art made of colorful thick wool. In the firelight, it is hard to make out any of the colors, but the shapes do not divulge any mythic images, there are no distinct figures or representations, just hard geometric shapes: triangles, lines, squares, rectangles, circles. The shapes overlap and reach outwards, as if trying to be the one closest to the surface of the tapestry. The result is a fusion of lines that has no definitive subject. The triangles and squares and long lines are in sharp contrast to the imperfect square-ness of the floor and walls of the chamber.
In the center of the chamber, the little fire, barely larger than a dinner plate, is contained. Broken pieces of coal and thin logs burn and crackle, sending their smoke up in a long, thin current that voyages up into a ceiling that is completely black with smoke from previous fires. From the soft edges of the walls, the ceiling tapers up into a blackened peak with a thin hole at the very top which ushers the smoke from the room.
There is a vague shadow in the room, a thin man who moves quietly and softly around the perimeter of the chamber. His footsteps make no noise, his movements cast only the faintest glimmer of shadows upon the walls. His gait resides somewhere between anxious pacing and mindful, controlled movement. He is alert and attentive, aware of everything in the small space and watching it like a quiet guardian, waiting for a threat like an outdoor cat on the boundary of its land.
Beside the fire, standing only inches from its grasping flames is a short brown skinned woman. Her thin ankles and skinny legs lead to a very round stomach which has the shape of a large tree stump, lacking any curve. Hiding her legs is a skirt made from thick black wool that still smells of sheep and has little bits of leaves and small branches the size of toothpicks woven within the cloth. She has wrapped the long material around her lower half like thread around a spool and holding it all up is a large colorful sash that is tied around her stomach, in multiple knots.
In the firelight, the color of her skin is like black coffee mixed with milk. Below her beautifully embroidered neckline, her large breasts protrude from her thick white linen shirt like autonomous mothers ready to feed any and all creatures that would hover at her feet. Her thick, chubby shoulders lead to very thin, delicate wrists and to her hands that are clutching each other in a loose embrace as she stares with a fixed gaze into the small fire.
There are scattered gray ashes along the periphery of the fire, but the porous black coals burn bright in the center of the room. Sitting directly upon the burning wood and coals is a medium sized brass bowl which is about a foot high. Its mouth is wide and small flat indentations from a hammer grace the sides of the vessel. Inside the bowl, is a pile of fine gray ashes that fill it halfway. The woman’s smooth face is relaxed, her mouth is slightly open and curved in a small, almost undetectable smile. Her dark eyes, which are lined at the sides with thick crow’s feet are soft and hazy. Her eyelids are slightly drooping. The woman holds her gaze upon the bowl. The man in the shadows roams the periphery of the dark chamber in perpetual vigilance.

Cafeteria

2008-11-20T13:02:00.000-08:00

The carpet is cut pile Berber of a hue that calls to mind the rough and dark skins of old growth trees in a shady wood, cacao brown with deep black cracks. Despite its already short fibers, it lays close to the ground. The wear and fray of its tiny olefin hairs is noticeable only to the ant that has found its way from the lush green jungles of the wide world to this synthetic prairie. He tipety claws gingerly upon his six dainty legs, stepping from one cut loop to the next, mandibles at the ready, antennae twitching eagerly as they guide him in his quest. Towering high above him is the flat black acrylic coated bottom of a folding picnic bench. The tops of the table and attached benches are covered with a faux wood veneer. Lined up from one end of the cavernous assembly hall, where a stage hides behind a velveteen goldenrod curtain, to the other where the Berber gives way to the textured laminate of the cafeteria kitchen, the picnic benches wait patiently like headless prehistoric beasts. Children sit upon the benches like birds perched upon the backs of rhinos, swinging their legs while digging into their brown paper bags to retrieve foil wrapped ding dongs.
Just beyond the edge of the Berber forest, twelve feet into the speckled laminate plains, a wall separates the kitchen from the auditorium. A rectangular window with a 20 foot perimeter reveals the faces of stainless steel appliances and the bodies of two plump women wearing paper hair nets, white cotton coats, and aprons. Moving hurriedly about, the women resemble nurses in their sterile bleached uniforms. Their skin in ruddy, their movements swift and mechanical. One removes industrial sized cookie sheets smothered in tatter tots from the opened mouth of the gargantuan oven while the other places poly-carbon trays on the sill of the serving window. The trays have 4 uniquely sized compartments and come in either the subdued aqua hue of toothpaste or in a pastel yellow. One compartment features the meat patty on a bun, another houses the crispy golden tatter tots, a third is home to a one fourth cup serving of slippery fruit cocktail, and yet a fourth compartment awaits the one quart carton of chocolate milk that rests with the less desirable cartons of white milk in a free standing refrigerated corral. This apparatus, near the border that parts cafeteria from assembly room, stands open like a cooler laced with sparkling frost.
A pair of tinted glass doors propped open with little rubber wedge shaped stoppers allows a steady stream of children to flow into the building where they lift a tray from the sill and troop to the cooler and select the chocolate milk before joining the brown baggers. Another matching pair of doors set in the same wall positioned at the opposite end of the building to allow access to the auditorium, stands shut. Outside the rain slaps the asphalt mercilessly, turning it an oily black color. It drums on abandoned aluminum picnic benches. Helpless to defend themselves against the eager droplets of water, the ribbed benches remain still as always, completely resigned to the unjust punishment being bestowed upon them by the pure force of nature. Hugging the wall of the building, the children stand in a long line under the awning. They talk loudly, laugh and jump in place. They pull their arms inside their sweaters to warm their hands and occasionally dart out into the rain to wash their rubber boots in a particularly irresistible puddle before funneling through the open doors into the warmth of the auditorium.

Dune Labyrinth

2008-11-14T10:58:00.000-08:00

On a bed of short, drying grass, there are three large boulders in a tight cluster, spaced only a couple feet apart. They are all approximately 5 feet tall and round. Each is made of solid, rough stone, the color of deep, warm earth and an undertone of red, like the rich red sand of the Nevada desert. They are almost the same size in mass, but each is unique in shape and details. One is more oblong than squat. It sits like a reddening egg with a pointed peak, fully erect and noble. Another boulder is thicker that the other two, its shape is slightly more condensed and round. Its top is a soft dome, lacking a point. it also sits fully upright, although not as tall as the other. The third is a combination of the other two, it is a little taller than the fatter stone and a little more squat than the egg shaped stone. This stone does not sit fully upright, rather it rests at a slight angle on its side, as though it was reclining against some invisible easy chair.
Their contours are rough and chiseled by the elements. In each, there are pockets and grooves, lines on their hard surfaces. The three boulders are part of the heart of an ancient circular labyrinth which spirals from the center, out, the ends of which cannot be seen. Entrance and exit are a mystery, a myth, known, yet not seen. Surrounding the stones is a small expanse of open space, there are no trees or flowers, just an earth the color of mixed copper and sand and drying grass below the stones.
Twenty feet away from the stones are the innermost walls of the labyrinth. They are at least thirty feet tall and shaped like a continuous line of sand dunes. The dunes are wide and gentle and slope up to their peak at a 45 degree angle. They are made of reddish tan sand and begin on either side of the path and build into tall peaks that are warm beneath the exposed sun. Billows of red sand blow up when the wind passes over the peaks, after drifting with the wind for a while, they scatter and settle back into the great mass of sandy walls. The paths between the dunes is somewhat narrow, three or four feet at the most. The small pass is made of more compact and hard earth, it is solid and a very light tan. There is not a mark of footprints, it is clean despite the mountains of sand that surround it on either side. The sky above is blue, yet there seems to be a golden filter that colors everything in a yellow haze.

Descending Escalators

2008-11-10T11:42:00.000-08:00

There are two long escalators side by side. The slates of the revolving stairs are shiny on top and black and gritty in the grooves. They are relics, having once been known as a technological marvel, now, they are well worn and barely maintained. The plastic handrails are scratched and dingy, the once shiny black plastic is now on the verge of being called gray. They are long, a couple hundred feet spans the distance from the sun drenched street to the dark lower level. Both escalators are bringing people down, bringing people from the bright, noisy street into the cool depths of the underground rail system. The tunneled opening to the subway is spacious; the graying ceiling is hundreds of feet above and lends an air of grandiosity; as though the riders are on path to a new, darkened kingdom. Halfway down, I can still feel the bright light from the street above which is saturated in the sound of screeching buses and the smell of overripe fruit. But the sounds of the city pale in strength to the thick silence of the inner earth. There are no sounds that compete for attention here. It is only the continuous mechanical drone of the revolving escalator gears that fills the space with sound. The crowd on the escalators is quiet, each rider stands silent and erect, looking straight ahead, like soldiers at attention, emotionless and still. The ceiling of the tunnel is spotted with the yellowed dim glare of old fluorescent lights. The subdued lighting adds to the quiet. On either side of the conjoined escalators are wide stairs of dark red bricks, made glossy by the countless shoes that have walked upon them. Covering the walls are billboard after billboard, each one colorful and shiny; like windows to another world, they flaunt the latest in technological innovation. My old friend is riding on the escalator to my left. His hair is a cushion of long fluffy curls, like the well-worn wig of a Halloween costume. He is wearing his favorite plastic sunglasses. The lenses are black and adorned in turquoise trim. I call out to him, well above the pitch of the escalator gears. He is only a couple feet from me, but he does not turn around. He is smiling, almost undetectably, with only the smallest corner of his mouth in a slight upturn. I call his name over and over, but he simply stands still, waiting to reach the bottom of the escalator but never fulfilling his goal. As much as I call, he never turns around, the escalator never stops moving, and the crowd never leaves.

Inner Jungle

2008-10-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

It is a moonless dark night and the streets of the city are empty and covered in a misty sheen. There are no cars or buses casting their beams, no late night lovers on a clandestine stroll. Only a couple of the iron street lamps are working and the air is thick with abandonment and fog. Dozens of old apartment buildings line both sides of the street. They stand like tall soldiers, side by side, sharing conjoined walls and not a bit of breathing room between. Each 3 tiered building is made from bricks, marble and a slightly different hue of cement, although in the dark night, they all have taken on the same grayish color. Each building has a set of marble stairs leading up from the street, the steps are long and narrow and end in the darkened caves of the unlit landings. They are mostly apartment buildings and an occasional office space, occupied by singles and families, but at this hour, there is no living human presence. Only the buildings themselves and the paved streets and the subtle embellishments of the long-dead carpenters that have left their marks over the doorways and around the windows provide any proof of life or creativity. Inside one of these nearly identical buildings is a flight of stairs. They begin in the center of the building, close to the roof and lead down, eventually passing the basement and journeying further into the earth. There are no windows or doors in the center of the building, only the narrow decline of a never ending staircase which contains itself, taking very little space despite its sheer length. Architecturally, the steps are laid in sets of eight, after which follows an even landing of hardwood which is a small square of 3x3 ft, and then another set of eight steps continue, beginning at a 90 degree angle to the left of the landing. Each floor is the same, the same color, the same sight, the same odorless smell. There are no lamps or light bulbs to be seen, but everything is washed in a bright yellow light, like late afternoon light cast through a florescent filter, but its source is hidden. Each individual step of the staircase is made of a medium colored wood. They are well worn, but still somewhat shiny. There is a wooden banister that follows the descending flight of stairs, like a geometric snake that coils in exact increments; it’s supported in spacious intervals by carved vertical beams that connect the stairs to the horizontal banister. There are slight embellishments along the vertical beams, deep grooves that were carved with a steady hand, simple wooden flowers and leaves designed to almost be invisible among the rich grain of the wood, yet it adds a slight hint of elegance to the internal staircase. The top of the banister is smooth and shiny and slightly cold to the touch. Continuously and without the interruption of doors, windows, picture frames or decoration, is the clean eggshell white walls on the right. Despite the measured sophistication and clutter free interior, another life form adds its chaotic breath. Sprouting with abandon, poking out from the walls like weeds and dripping from an invisible source above is a thicket of psychedelic foliage. Their density is a jungle of colored vegetation, only there is no moistness in the air and the space is devoid of bird cries. Thick, dinner platter sized leaves in shades of red, orange and yellow fill the narrow staircase, their lushness leaving only a 2ft x2ft clear tunnel in the center, three feet from the floor and a couple from the walls and banister. Thick vines swoop from above and connect from wall to lower wall, mocking the straight edges of the banister with their sweeping lines and cascading shoots.

The Gifts of Clouds

2008-09-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

Thunderous rain has begun to spill from deep red clouds. They gather like over-stuffed pillows, releasing their unending desire at a torrential pace. The fairylands of the lower clouds have been decimated, the rainbows that hide during the day have fled for brighter skies in the north. The little people have drowned, the ones that cover themselves in blue markings, like permanent childhood etches upon their pale white flesh. Their floating bodies have added layers of blue texture in the rising waters. Lifeless, but moving, they are one with the element they worship above all others. Towards the outer edges of the world, there are murmurings and questions posed to the clouds that gather and produce each day, then vanish as the light begins to fade. The questions are never revealed to a listening ear, there will never be an audible answer. They do as they wish, answering to none. Even the winds remain silenced by the force of their watery pulses. There are some who sit in treetops, in the upper branches of towering eucalyptuses. The long silvery leaves are fragrant in the elemental mix of water and air.
Naked and pierced, a slender girl holds onto the thickest branch with her strong thighs. Her legs drawn tightly around the smooth limb that seems to return her affection. Her hands are free, they sway, moving without rhythm to the constant tap of raindrops. Her petite head, covered in long tendrils of wet brown hair is turned up to meet the rain with an open mouth. Small beads roll down her pink tongue, leaving miniscule trails of their descent. Small pools have collected in the space of her closed eyes and each new addition sends a quiver from her heart to her toes. Raindrops fall upon her by the hundreds and she feels each one. Each, like a unique kiss sent by one with no mouth.
A kiss lands on her small toe, another on her right breast, another on her cheek. They land en masse, they land as one. Like a sponge for their attention, she keeps herself open to their language. Each ting a small communication, touched by the roaring clouds above. The forest of eucalyptus is massive and dark. There are other girls like her, somewhere within the vast stretch of fragrant forest, but the night is dark and her eyes are closed to all except the tiny spheres of water. With each taste that finds itself in her mouth, she feels a new emotion. Like lightning mixed with sweetness. Like rage filtered through a soft touch, like candy dipped in the excited delight of flesh on flesh. Her thighs, wrapped tightly around the smooth branch shudder with each arriving drop.

The Hills

2008-08-31T12:35:00.000-07:00

The early morning air is crystal clear. Overhead the sky is stretched smooth, a cloudless robin’s egg blue. Underfoot the earth is a patchwork of dirt and wild grass; in some places it is soft and springy like short green shag carpet, in other places it is long and brittle like tufts of wily yellow hair. Little wild flowers poke up here and there; dainty white blossoms no bigger than a pinky finger nail speckle the green grass, tall gangly sunflowers thrive near the yellow grass and occasionally jut from patches of parched dust. With sunny yellow petals and centers the color of freshly ground coffee, they flaunt their resilience and the freedom it grants them by growing almost anywhere, even among the clusters of slate boulders that build the hillside.
Upon the hills crest, near the chaotic configurations of stones, a ram grazes on the tender blades of green that have managed to thrust up among the rocks. Its hair hangs like a silver drape obscuring its short stout legs. With horns spiraling low and near its head, everything about its physique seems to pull it closer to the earth.
Brief valleys separate this hill from its siblings. The colors of these mammoth mounds leap forth with startling vividness. The clay top soil of one is a deep warm red, almost too ruddy to be believable. Its surface is littered with the charred remains of burnt oaks and chaparral. They stand out like black runes etched upon the red background. It is almost as if they could be read, their shapes and configurations seem wrought with a hidden meaning which seeks to burst forth. The right eyes could divine their secret message.
Similarly, another hill, mostly swathed in the green of grass, is ornamented by winding dirt paths and mounds. At a glance these seem to be Neolithic glyphs, painstakingly carved out upon the hills face. A second look suggest that they are but roads, and yet a third will seem to affirm that they are yet both, as if roads and the signs of common human habitation have been carefully traced directly on top of something older, deeper, and subtler. They form shapes riddled with mythological richness.
The noises of small birds can be heard coming from the underbrush; the rustle of leaves as a limb bows ever so slightly under the small feathered body that has just lighted upon it, an almost insect like trilling punctuated by a chirp. Now and then they can be glimpsed, a blur of movement that leaves an empty branch quivering, or a yellow and black head, slightly cocked so that beady eyes may glisten inquisitively from behind a thicket of waxy green leaves.
Butterflies disturb the stillness of the air with the gentle flittering of paper thin wings. As a population, they are predominately bluebell blue, but occasionally a painted lady passes through, orange wings palpitating through the ethers, looking for all the world like a beating heart floating adrift in an invisible sea. Those of the blue variety congregate sociably upon the clusters of wild flowers. A well trained ear might be able make out the whispering of their wings and glean some significance. Their dance through the sky, their configurations upon the flora may be read like the tea leaves at the bottom of a bone china cup. The context of their message shifts with each dying moment, so that in one breath it is profound and in the next it is vulgar.

Halfway Submerged

2008-08-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

I am submerged to my belly in the clear blue water of a tropical sea. The water is warm, ever inviting, yet cool enough to offer refreshment from the humid air. Further out to sea, close to the horizon, the ocean is an angry, tumultuous black. The sun is absent, and the blue sky above is nearly covered in patches of bubbling gray and white clouds which are outlined in a deeper shade of black. The stillness of a tropical storm about to break is all around, pervading every sense and enveloping my skin and being with its presence. The air is still, sticky, sweet…and I stand, half in water, half in air, waiting in stillness as the looming presence of a greater force draws closer.
Below my feet is a watery floor made of countless rocks. Their culmination is a bed of speckled colors that move in an endless kaleidoscopic rearrangement within the continuous churning of eternal waves. There are small rocks mixed with others that are four times their size. At first glance, most are ordinary in shape and color, but on closer scrutiny, I see the variance in their details.
I see coral colored oval shaped rocks with black swirls, large circular stones with streaks of orange running through them. Small white ones with musical notes painted across the surface. There is a large grayish blue stone that has a small rectangular patch colored in the cubist designs of a Picasso painting. I stand, only a little ways from the shore which is made only of yellow sand. There, there are white plastic chairs that nearly cover the beach, some chairs are decorated with the red and yellow motif of the local beer. Tourists move like shadowed ants in the covered cafes that line the beach. They sip cold sodas and warm beer, they snack on chips and fried fish. There are old ladies that sit in the chairs closest to the sea, they rest with thick legs spread wide beneath their long skirts, watching the waves, quite content to sit silently and watch the stirring ocean.
Halfway submerged in water, I stand atop the rocks. The waves pull the stones up from their resting place and push them ferociously past my thighs and legs. After a short break of stillness, after all the stones have settled into their new place, another wave breaks ashore, pulling the stones out to sea again. After a short moment of newfound stillness, a wave pushes another batch of rocks past me towards the sand. I feel the pressure of their form as they brush past, but I feel neither pleasure or pain, just the simple weight of them as they tumble across my skin.

Doll Box

2008-08-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

The building is shaped like a pyramid that never quite comes to a point. The walls slope inward and upward closing in on themselves. As high as the eye can see, covering the faces of all four walls, are the dirty plastic and porcelain visages of dolls. Some are just heads, others wear ragged dresses, sailor suits, or overalls to cover their little bodies. Some are missing an eye, from others an arm or a leg is absent, or even the hair which should adorn a head. In some cases the hair has been cut down to reveal the little round pin holes through which silky synthetic hairs once cascaded generously. Now only short outcroppings protrude like thirsty weeds from un-watered earth. They are bathed in shadows from which they peer out at each other timidly.
The smudges of dirt and dust upon their apple shaped cheeks blend inconspicuously with the general gloom. The only light to trouble the inanimate inhabitants of this space comes from a small round window positioned somewhere up high. It is dirt streaked and lets in just a touch of light, enough to make the occupants of the room visible. If the mass of dolls, with their dirtied lace petticoats and moth eaten pink bloomers could be lifted from the walls, only faded gray planks of wood would be revealed with splintered edges by their absence. The floor too is of the same wood planks looking ashen under a film of dust. This film is completely undisturbed, like a blanket of new snow, it is spread snugly over the floorboards.
In one corner, a spider is walking along, leaving behind pin prick arachnid footprints. His body is very round, his legs are not too long compared to other spiders. To the dolls he looks black, especially as positioned over the dust. To another spider he would appear to be more of a dark grayish brown.
He ambles along under an unfinished pine rocking chair. It too is subject to the powdering of dust. Its great curved sled feet rise up from the floor, the tips pointing toward a ceiling invisible in the murk.
There is no apparent doorway leading in or out. Along the wall on one side of the room a dark counter top with a few drawers juts like a fat lip from under the dangling legs of dolls. A few lengths of wire lay out across its surface, gathering ashen particles so that they have come to look fuzzy. They hang over the edge and just reach to the floor. On one corner of the counter sits a glass jar. Several bushy brushes, like those made for applying make up, cross lengths with a more petite variety, like those used for painting some fine detail. Hidden among their stems at the bottom of the jar, one blue eye rests unblinking, perhaps lost from the face of some poor citizen hanging high above.
There is a faded yellow paper laying out, also coated with the velvety dust. Upon it, faint graphite markings are approaching invisibility, now too faded to make anything of their original design out. From the outside the building looks like a chimney stack covered in shingles, all painted a robin’s egg blue. The panes crossing the round window are painted goldenrod, as is the lattice around the superfluous eaves at the building’s crest. A large black crow sits perched on the western lip of the roof, looking silently at the steely blue storm clouds as they drift out into the distance.

Nuclear Medicine

2008-07-15T20:37:00.000-07:00

The elevator doors close unsteadily. Cables squeal and grind with effort. The yellow rectangular light panels buzz feebly overhead. The inhabitants of the elevator glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes. One is male, the other female. The male is lean with sunken eyes and bony cheekbones. He wears slacks of brown polyester held up with a belt under which a black and blue checkered shirt is tucked and buttoned up to the collar. The woman is short but ample and wears her hair closely shorn. She wears slacks and sandals with a white tunic blouse. They stand silently with a healthy distance between them. The carpet underfoot is stained and torn. The woman tries not to let the tips of her toes come off the edge of her sandals lest they come into contact with its contaminated fibers.
The doors shudder open into the gray mustiness of what used to be a bomb shelter. All surfaces are concrete. Doors are the exception. They are dull metal.
There are flickering florescent tubes leading the way from where they are bolted high above, and yellow arrows painted on the concrete point the way from below. The corridor twists and turns. There are no people, just doors marked RADIATION. DO NOT ENTER. With small nervous movements and wide eyes the two individuals shuffle along following the yellow arrows.
A cubicle with a yellow light shining out through the panes of glass houses a solitary human being. He is a fat young man seated behind a desk, his nightly snack of Snickers Bars and two cans of Coke Classic stacked beside his appointment book. He’s a little sweaty, but manages a smile. ..
He directs the woman to continue alone, further down the gray hall with the yellow arrows. There, a tall man in a white coat and blue paper shoe covers awaits and ushers the woman into a very large room with a large white torpedo in the middle. There is nothing else in the room. Absolutely nothing. The tiles on the floor have been buffed until they are almost invisible.
The man is very businesslike as he hands the woman a flimsy cotton hospital gown that opens down the back. She undresses awkwardly. With her back to him, trying not to allow her clothes to fall to the floor she simultaneously attempts to cover herself with the disposable garment. It is creased so that she is swathed in white paper squares. Tersely the man instructs her to put earplugs in as well. A narrow bed slides out of the mouth of the torpedo like a curved tongue. Nothing supports it. It doesn’t appear very sturdy. It’s plastic. The woman crawls onto it but is forced to lie down with her arms over her head. The tunnel is too narrow to let them dangle naturally alongside her torso. The man in the white coat warns his patient to keep her eyes closed and places a heavy, weighted belt over her abdomen. A smaller version is placed over her knees. A still smaller version is placed over her ankles.
She is unable to move. Or see. Or hear.

Restaurant

2008-07-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

The air outside the building is heavy with the smell of cooking meat. It is smoky and gray and long wafts of smoke protrude from the chimney sixteen hours a day. The sweet smell of barbecue sauce lingers on the wind. It too, presses down on the air, keeping the wind full of thick charcoal gusts. But the heaviness does not invade the building, it just hovers on the outside, waiting just beyond the closed doors and windows, a tangible promise of what waits within.
Inside, the smell of smoke does not penetrate. The walls, both solid concrete and glass, are thick and insulated. Inside, there is the feel of military order. Everything has its place. The trash cans are bolted securely to the wall, framed pictures of men playing golf decorate the walls above. The tables are lined up in rows that vary just enough to give off a slightly human touch.
This is a tightly controlled environment and only specific smells, sounds, and tastes can exist here. There are two walls adjacent to each other. They are almost entirely made of plexi glass except for the bottom two feet, which are standard wall material but covered in brown tiles. The glass walls are covered in huge pictures of burgers that are 6 ft by 4 ft. One after the other line the glass walls, with a small 4 inch gap separating each poster from the other. Images of juicy hamburgers are printed on all the posters. Double patties with oozing ketchup and mustard. A picture of a creamy Oreo milkshake, bigger than life. The images are stark, there is no hiding the leering attempt at physical seduction…a hamburger, a picture of a cartoon of French fries. BAM.
The floor is composed of smooth brown bricks laid in a lattice/geometric pattern. There is a family of Latin descent. An overweight mother, a slightly overweight father, a boy twelve years old, a little girl wearing a gold paper crown. They sit in silence, at their square table, each facing in, reaching for the French fries in the middle of the table. White circular fans whirl lazily above. Against the wall dividing the two glass side walls are more faded prints of golf courses. There are three, each at exactly the same height and held together by a white wooden picture frame.
Directly across from the solid wall, about 30 feet away, is the central hub. A teenage girl stands behind the register. She is slightly disheveled, long wisps of her thick, dirty hair have fallen from the confines of her blue visor, the same hat which some health advisor devised to prevent hair from mixing with food. She mumbles something unrecognizable into a thin, bendable chrome microphone that is attached to the register. Her command is lost in the dull murmur that vibrates and holds like the thick smoke outside.
There are beeps that go off every minute, different sounds for different meanings. They signal cars approaching, perfectly cooked meat patties, heating times accomplished. A small crew of uniformed workers, all looking like they came from the south pacific, busy themselves behind the wall dividing the registers from the kitchen. One is at the grill, flipping meat patties amid lapping yellow flames. She squints her eyes against the barrage of smoke. Another small man to her right prepares the buns with condiments, mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, lettuce, he piles them on the little buns.
The glow from the heat lamps, directly above the French fryer, emits a beam of yellow light. The sound of a door creaking and closing keeps disrupting the space. The light sound of music is just barely recognizable. A young Samoan woman sings along to the lyrics, she gazes at her 1 year old daughter as she sings. She is curvy, wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt, her long thick hair is piled high atop her head with a rubber band. The baby girl is wearing a gold paper crown, it barely fits on her little head. There are three generations of Samoan woman, each with big slightly slanted eyes and big brown lips and golden skin. They sit at the booth sharing a pile of French fries. Each has a paper cup full of a sugary liquid. They laugh and talk, delighting in the simple closeness of family. The baby stares, she stares directly at me, looking as if she knows.

Hospital

2008-06-27T12:22:00.000-07:00

The ocean sparkles a deep turquoise to the left of the highway. The tall white building rises into the empty blue sky to its right.
It appears to be a resort hotel. Poised with dignity and elegance it offers an awe striking view of the surrounding natural beauty. One jarring inconsistency. Instead of "Valet Parking", the red sign reads EMERGENCY SERVICES.
The cars in the parking lot are arranged neatly in their spaces. Little metal soldiers of red, yellow, blue, black, silver, and white, waiting for orders. The sparkling sun gleams off of their glossy frames and warms the clean black asphalt with its white painted lines. Little concrete lined islands are brimming with orange birds of paradise, red hibiscus, and squatty palms, their fronds spread out like green hands with long pointy tipped fingers.
The glass entrance doors slide open with a hiss. Red upholstered chairs, magazines on rectangular glass table tops with beveled edges, an empty half moon shaped reception desk. A sign over the wall mounted container of hand sanitizer reads: "For Your Convenience". No germs in this hospital.
No signs of life. No nurse. No doctor. No receptionist. Not even germs. Who owns the cars in their spaces?
Further down, beyond the abandoned reception area, a hall under construction. Yellow caution tape. Hand made arrows on children’s craft paper directing the detours. A solitary man in blue scrubs is buffing the dusty floor. His face is turned down to his work showcasing the bald crown of his head encircled by a ring of sparse black hair. A family, faces contorted by concern and bewilderment, moves hesitantly along the corridor. Trying to get to their dying loved one, they pause to look up at the incomprehensible overhead signs, lost in the echoing halls.
An elevator with steel doors. Passersby avoid getting into that elevator. Not now. Not here. It will not take them anywhere they would want to go.

Stained Woman

2008-06-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

She lays upon a stretcher within the cozy confines of a white ambulance. The thin hospital mattress is covered in a white fitted sheet, its unfitted match covers her below the torso, hiding her spread legs and swollen belly. The emergency vehicle is parked in an abandoned parking lot in an equally desolate section of town. There are no sirens, no speed or haste. The back double doors are open, allowing the quiet breeze to enter the small rectangle. Her torso is uncovered by the sheet, but she wears two blue cotton T-shirts layered upon each other. Over the T-shirts, she has on a blue hooded sweatshirt and a green feather down vest on top of that. Her clothes indicate the cold, but outside, the sky is an unclouded blue and the sun continues to beat upon the black asphalt surrounding the vehicle. Inside the light is dim, illuminated only by the residual light of the day streaming in. A soft breeze enters and lingers, gently touching her face.
The blinking lights from the dashboard continue to flash red and blue and green. Every now and then, a bit of static comes through the radio, kkkkkchhhh….it lasts for a couple of seconds then stops as suddenly as it began. The pillow beneath her head is packed to the seams with fluff, being unrelenting in girth, her head as fallen almost completely off the pillow. Her torso and head lean at a diagonal angle to the left. She moans with pain, unable to control her neck and the heaviness of her head. Her forehead drips with beads of sweat, tiny glistening drops roll from her hairline, down her cheeks, collecting at the tip of her nose teetering on the brink of collapse. Her eyes are open just slightly, giving the faintest indication of consciousness. The eyelids flicker occasionally, but mostly, they remain still and just barely open. Her hair is straight, cut in a strawberry blond bob that reaches just above her shoulders. Her hair is tousled and tangled in the back and because of the drooping angle of her head off the pillow, strands from the right side of her face have streamed over her face to the left, creating diagonal wet lines of hair upon her pale white face. A sprinkling of tan freckles and sunspots dot her nose.
She stares at nothing, consumed by pain but unable to move or scream. Within the silence of the vehicle, she whimpers. After a moment of silence, she moans. There is a red blood stain across her lips. The blood is fresh and wet, still glistening bright in the reflecting light of the windshield. Her mouth is covered in a red gagged puddle of thin liquid, it reaches her upper lip and has stained her chin. She whimpers.

Hanged Man

2008-06-24T12:38:00.000-07:00

There is a roaring blue ocean that churns and roars like a thousand caged lions. Small waves peak and fall. Blue is everywhere, deep and dark, yet smooth as glass. Wind whips the waves like a sadistic lover, shaping cries of frothy white mist and gurgles of surging turquoise foam. Long tails of slick green seaweed undulate like thin dancers just below the surface. The smell on the wind is strong, the scent of moss covered mermaids and Neptunian life is heavy and thick, drifting for miles up the coast.
Sunlight beats down on the essential element, but despite its best efforts, the water remains cold. The shore is a thin strip of land 30 feet wide. It’s covered in small gray and black pebbles and an occasional black seashell. Seagulls rest on the warm rocks and every once in a while, a gull cry is heard. The rocky land ends at a dramatic cliff wall that rises from the sand at a 90 degree angle. Mostly made of sandstone, it glitters in the bright light and small flecks of coral colored sand sparkles.
The bluff above is covered in tall grasses. Long stalks of green, yellow and the various shades between them mingle on the unused land. The wind whips them as well, blowing them left, right…then pressing the blades hard against the earth. They dance endlessly in the constant display of wind power. From the sea, the land rises at a gentle slope towards the west. For each mile, the earth tilts another degree. Up and up it grows, the land remains a constant blanket of two-hued grass. Twenty miles from the water, the land comes to a peak. It is a soft hill, resembling the peak of a woman’s hipbone covered in soft flesh.
Upon the round hill is a structure. It is not a building exactly, there are no distinct walls, doors, or windows. There are levels, distinct floors created with the main building material, metal rods fashioned into large triangles. Each floor is made of 12 upside-down triangular pieces that create the structural base. It is wide, about a hundred feet in length and it continues beyond the limits of sight into the sky.
From the lowest level, a man hangs upside down by one bare foot. His toes are curled over the metallic rod that creates the base of the triangle. The toes of his right leg clutch the rod as the rest of his leg extends straight towards the earth. His left leg is bent and the knee and the bottom of his foot is pressed against his left inner right thigh. The palms of his hands are pressed together, over his heart. On his right wrist, is a black plastic bracelet. His arms are tan and the hairs adorning them have been bleached by the sun. He is young, perhaps twenty four at the most. Dirty blond dreadlocks are wrapped in a high bun atop his head. His feet are bare and tan, his toes dirty from his shoeless lifestyle. Threadbare tan pants are rolled up to his calves.
He hangs… quiet, alone. Above him, the structure looms with power. It appears transparent and empty, without walls or people. But that is only the surface image. The tower is teeming with hidden tunnels, living quarters and life.

Bookstore

2008-06-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

There is the sound of a shoe heel making contact with a wooden floorboard. After a couple seconds, there is another distinct sound. A subdued orchestra of shoe heels moves through the large high-ceilinged room. Without any obvious beat or rhythm, they come in scattered intervals, filling the otherwise quiet space. Dozens of people are milling about slowly, their attention turned exclusively to the many shelves of books. No one is talking, each is lost in their own world of words and paper. Just the sound of slow footsteps and the soft turning of a book page is audible. The soft gold-tinged light of late afternoon filters in through the overhead skylights, the sweet light electrifies the colored book spines and they glow from their resting spots like dilated animal eyes, aglow with possibility. Like the reading room of kings, the walls are completely covered in dark wooden bookshelves. The periphery of the room is a colored spectrum of rectangular book spines that stand neatly upright on their deep shelves. The walls reach at least twenty feet high, and the shelves, crowded with books, reach to the place where wall and ceiling converge. There is not a trace of wall in this house of books, where it not for gravity, the ceiling space would be in use as well. Rolling ladders have been installed to the upper-most wooden shelf lip to facilitate the browsing of books closer to the heavens. This is a well-ordered bookstore, where books of the same genre are grouped together and books are alphabetized by author.
Every stone’s throw, there are plush, high backed armchairs against the bookcases/walls. Each well-worn mauve velvet chair is occupied with a reading patron, and other customers sit with their legs crossed on the floor, browsing through potential purchases. Within the center of the room are islands of wooden tables. The tables are spaced far enough apart so customers can walk and flow around them, checking out the literature from all sides of the table. The tables are old and heavy, with thick sculpted legs and beautiful honey colored wood tops. Just a sliver of tabletop is visible beneath the well organized stacks of books. Each table is devoted to a specific genre. Children’s literature, new releases, mythology…the I Ching is on the corner of a table. A woman in her twenties, with tan skin and long dark hair browses the table with intensity, looking for something specific. There is a small two-shelf black rolling cart, the kind usually found in libraries. A handful of red paperback books has fallen from the cart. The books lay in a scattered pile upon the floor.

Thirsty Sea Demon

2008-06-18T13:46:00.000-07:00

Beyond the sliding glass doors, a rickety dock extends into the water like a wooden tongue thrust from the mouth of the little modular home to probe the briny blue. The rectangular frame of the house and its petite stature make it seem to be hardly more than a box of animal crackers perched precariously at the lip of a swimming pool made to churn by riotous children. Its paneling is light tan, the trim around the sliding glass door is white. The flat roof supplies a scant awning from which a few potted ferns and a spider plant dangle.
There is something of a small porch here, barely wide enough to accommodate a lawn chair composed of yellow and blue plaid vinyl lattice. Four wooden steps drop down from the porch and connect the house to the dock. The dock itself is dark with moisture, its many thick round barnacle covered legs reach down into the hidden green depths. Each plank is wide and riddled with Swiss cheese holes flanked by rusted iron bolt heads. The wood is interrupted by weathered lengths of thick double braided rope interlacing the planks. Along one side, an ancient mariner’s net hangs rotting like the veil of some gargantuan maritime witch. The wind whips wildly about, agitating the surf and setting a wind chime hung near the spider plant into an ecstatic frenzy of jangling.
The waves rock the old dock violently. Above their dark blue orgiastic rampage, high cloud cover darkens and creeps from horizon to shore at a snails pace, driving them increasingly into greater excitement. They grab at the little dock and rock it like the eager and ungovernable hands of a giant.
Out at the end of its length, a woman is balanced with her long legs poised in a wide sprawl. It is the caricatured stance of a cowboy in a standoff. The muscles of her calves, legs, and thighs work to keep her braced atop the dock. The white shorts she wears encapsulate and just barley conceal her tensed buttocks. Her canary colored open necked sweatshirt hangs from one shoulder, revealing the lines of the white racer tank top worn underneath.
In one hand, she holds a dark green corked bottle, raised outward as she shouts commandingly into the wind and at the wall of waves. With the free hand she gestures to six or seven terra cotta pots arranged in a semi circle around her at the docks end. Some of the pots are empty, while others contain only black soil and the withered remains of some long dead plant.
A few are home to sickly pale twists of Jade, made unhappy by their exposure to salty sea spray. They are of various shapes and sizes. Some are in perfect condition. Others are stained and chipped and bear painful long cracks in their sides. Her long blond hair ripples on the wily wind currents, hovering around her head like a flame atop a candle’s wick.
Before her, the waves are suspended, looming over her comparably delicate body and the rickety deck. They have almost assumed the shape of a body, trembling with agitation. With aqueous creature mouths they seem to grin maniacally, then grimace, pointed ears of water flattened back like the ears of an angry cat, while the rest of the surrounding sea continues to froth and churn violently. It wriggles in animated swirls of surf, cerulean laced with white foam, directed upward and held together by supernatural force. In this awkward state of suspended animation, it listens intently to the woman’s shouting, and thus restrained, it watches with anticipation, the whole of its attention captivated by the green bottle of wine and the definitive gesturing.

Paradise

2008-06-14T09:46:00.000-07:00

The gate blends almost seamlessly with the fence. Fashioned of some inexpensive wood, it is dark and splintery, unpainted, and unvarnished. It bears many dark grooves, like rough wrinkles in an old man’s face, weather beaten over the countless years since its erection. It is held closed by a small zinc latch secured with a bit of blackened wire. Within its unassuming embrace a garden is tended by nature’s caretakers. Big furry bumblebees, striped with bright bands of yellow and black, busy themselves over the whip-like tendrils of a lavender bush. True to the name, the blossoms are of varying hues of soft and deep lavender, while the stems and leaves of the bush are a frosty green under the coat of fine velvety hairs.
Butterflies with wings of orange and black lace flit lazily about, visiting first one flower, then another. Delicate black legs hold them poised upon branch or bloom as they gingerly extend a long glistening tongue into the secret bed of a flower and draw from it the sweet elixir of life. Tangled vines of musty smelling nasturtiums spill out over stone borders, creep up on faded green cacti and purple tipped succulents, run their long fingers through the dark beds of lavender and unruly humps of catnip. A fuzzy black caterpillar inches its way over the parched bark of a juniper shrub, its body undulating with the motion. In the shallow bowl of a plastic birdbath, a small, dark-eyed winged creature shakes and shivers its tail feathers. Tall elm trees drop clusters of black pods upon a multicolored assortment of natural river rock. They huddle together on the western side of the garden, excluding the sun from their private affair with the stones below.
In the center, concrete stepping stones are pieced together to form a square pathway. Each one bears an impression of a man in a sombrero resting in the shade of a saguaro. Tucked within its perfect perimeters, a vast patch of green grass gazes emptily upward at the blue sky way. Its starkness is marred only by a low-cut stump, the remnants of a once vibrant willow that fell prey to some disease. Now the plot of grass inadvertently serves as a memorial commemorating the life of a tree, its emptiness a nagging reminder of lost fullness.
Adjacent to the garden is a covered porch carpeted with sparkling clean AstroTurf. On one wall, there is a window which looks in through sheer draperies upon a dim master bedroom. On the other wall, a sliding glass door opens into a living room. Big daisy stickers adorn the glass. On a narrow sliver of wall between the glass door and the corner where the two walls join, six decorative flower pots are arranged on a shelf with six individual outcroppings for each pot. The pots themselves are empty, save for a thick layer of dust. Inside the living room, a silver haired old man and a much shorter white haired old woman are waiting. The man stands near the glass door. He is tall and his silver hair is dashingly curly. He wears a pair of overall shorts, in the style of an over grown boy. The buttons which connect the straps to the breast are over sized and fashioned of wood. The creases in his face are deep but soft. His skin is smooth, free of whiskers or stubble. The woman sits upon a chair, she wears a white sweater vest over a brightly colored moo moo. The carpet is a shag rug of a burnt orange color to match the butterfly’s wings.

Four Ways

2008-06-11T23:07:00.000-07:00

The alley is clean of debris. A pale gray isle of concrete is flanked on either side by corrugated steel panels. They are free of graffiti and grime, only a faint chalky layer of undisturbed dust has settled on their matte surface. Here and there the corrugated panel give way to a stretch of chain link fence, revealing an urban expanse of concrete. These glimpses are ghostly, void of any movement, or even signs of life. No streets or sky scrapers may be detected; they are not there. Only a desert of abstract concrete plazas and occasional smatterings of chain link cloistered around empty yards of asphalt. The alley opens into such a plaza. It is covered by a large Constantinoplan dome which hangs over a concrete gazebo with yawning arches on four sides.
Where the alley meets one of these archways, a vendor is positioned with a box of round lollipops hanging from his neck. His hands are gloved with fingers exposed in black and purple striped stockings, which are just visible from under the cuffs of his dirty coat. He wears a dingy straw cap from the striped band of which dangles a silk flower, it’s yellow color blotted out behind darks smudges of grease and soot. A wrinkled red scarf is tied around his throat. A visible layer of soot is cast all over him. His toes poke from holes in his sock out of holes in the tips of his shoes. The brown tops separate from the soles like yawning hippos when he moves on his feet.
As people stream by out of the hall, he presses lollipops into their hands as if they are VIP passes. The trickle of individuals tends to clot were he stands dispensing the brightly colored confections with an air of importance.
Inside the plaza, barkers announce the attractions to be found beyond the other archways. One wears a black silk top hat and a worn red jacket coupled with dirty white leggings and high black boots. The jacket hangs open to reveal a dirty striped T-shirt worn over a roll of belly fat. It all hangs from him like a weathered second skin. He stands before a great wooden sign with white lettering inviting and beckoning the folks milling about in the plaza to pass through his archway.
There are other grubby looking vendors peddling their wares. Some hang back in the shadows, other linger in the center arresting the attention of all of those who pass their way. They sell all manner of oddities, silver spoons and old ties, empty cookie tins, and birds houses. Cigars and peanuts and candy are also to be had; there is even a glass walled popcorn cart with its polished silver kettle popping loudly behind the glass and red and gold lettering.
One archway leads to yet another tattered gentlemen pushing lollipops. Beyond him an auditorium with stadium seating is filling up with an assortment of people, young and old. Many are clustered together in groups; a pair here, a trio there, a quintet up front... Some seem to be families, others are packs of friends. A few are seated alone. Projected upon a screen at the front of the auditorium, a spy movie plays out. Much of its appeal lies in that it is a color remake of an older black and white film. Most of the viewers are engrossed in the well known story. Some move from one seat to another, unable to find the perfect spot. In the dim room, the furnishings are still very distinguishable. The carpet is goldenrod in color, clean but worn. The folding seats are all fashioned with faux wood laminate.
A lean man in a crisp dark suit, white shirt and tie, stands near the projector at the back of the room. The image from the screen dances as a reflection upon the lenses of his silver rimmed eye glasses. His posture is erect, his hair neatly trimmed. In his hand he holds note cards with facts about the movie, its plot, political implications, details about the performers, the director, the writer, and the producers.

Ladder

2008-05-31T10:12:00.000-07:00

The room is far from completion, in fact, the entire construction of the house is long past the estimated time once given by the construction company. The exterior gives the image of completion, horizontal wood panels, painted a cheery robin’s egg blue cloak the exterior walls. From an outsider’s eye, the 2 story house blends in perfectly in this suburban neighborhood; like the dreams of schoolgirls and sentimental architects, this is a house designed to raise a family in. A window with blue shutters adorns the second story, its steepled roof completes the picture. Gardeners have already planted grass and fruit trees in the front yard. The white picket fence will soon be built. But inside, there is no family eating pancakes. The basic structure of the home is laid out, the rooms are divided and the stairs leading to the second story is built, but everywhere wood beams are exposed, awaiting the covering of sheet rock. The floors are covered in plywood and the air is heavy with the smell of sawdust and sweat. There are crumpled newspapers on the ground and remnants of a fast food lunch.
A carpenter in starchy white denim stands in the center of what will be the dining room. The last golden light of a warm afternoon streaks in through the open window-holes, bathing him in a renaissance glow. His forearms are large and tan and covered in sun bleached hair. His thick and sturdy shoulders seem even more capable in the dingy orange t-shirt he wears. In the heat of a fading summer afternoon, dark wet spots adorn his armpits. Most of his shoulder length hair is held back in a rubber band, although some stray curly black hairs, not quite long enough to conform with the others have escaped and stick to his sweaty face. The overalls are worn and brown around the cuffs and small spots of mutli-colored paint make sporadic appearances all over, although the largest concentration of paint dwells on the material that covers his sculpted thick thighs. His habit of constant hand wiping has created a rainbow pool on each leg, not a speck of the white denim can be seen. His right foot, sheathed in a size 12 tan leather boot stands firmly on the ground which is littered with the pencil markings and doodles of construction workers. His left foot is on the lowest rung of an aluminum ladder, his weight providing the extra stability and balance. His arms grip either side of the ladder edges, his forearm muscles bulge with his effort, steadying his partner who stands on the topmost rung.

Immortal Store

2008-05-18T15:02:00.000-07:00

It is a tiny and historic little cove of storefronts, a post office, a locksmith, a few empty buildings. Each one is petite, nestled in with its neighbors like the residents of a home for the elderly snuggled together on one faded couch. Plaster has chipped away from the walls revealing red bricks, dust has gathered thickly in window corners, paint is wrinkling and peeling from doorways. Each one has its own distinct character. A few have aged better than others. Well cared for, they smile with cheerful dignity and the wisdom of their age, wearing newer coats of paint on the architecture of bygone eras.
At the very center of this horseshoe gathering, at the end of the cove, one building seems imbued with the enchantments of immortality. Its white columns set it apart in style from its cronies, lending it a classical elegance. Its front door is hidden just five or six little accordion steps below street level, like the pouty lips of a sophisticated woman veiled by a fan. Delicate lace curtains hang like down turned eye lashes in the tall lean rectangular windows that flank the door. Inside, shelves are littered with an array of antiques and ruffled niceties. Crystal platters lay among potpourri sachets tied with bronze colored satin ribbons. Fluted flower vases display little pink rosebuds with thread frayed edges and sprays of tiny acrylic pearls. Most prevalent however are the crowded rows of fine china dolls, forced together like schoolgirls for a class picture. They are lined up together on shelves high and low. Shiny little ringlets of amber, gold, and chestnut hang out from under sailors caps and bonnets and around smiling cherub faces. Red lips, pink lips, peach lips, perfect little noses, and dimpled cheeks, creamy unmarred complexions, all of these features complement their merrily sparkling glass eyes. Blue, green, brown, and even violet, they look out from under thick dark eyelashes, unblinking and unperturbed, frozen in an eternal moment of mirth.
Many clean little dresses hang from racks upon the walls. They are of various sizes and styles, all handmade of satin, crepe, lace, and cotton, accented with little satin rosebuds and bows. A small counter built of panels of white wood plays hostess to a cash register set on top of an over sized crochet doily. The dolls wait expectantly along the walls throughout the store, but those behind the register seem especially demanding of adoration. They are piled upon tiers of shelving behind the little white counter, legs dangling from under luxurious little petticoats.
There are boxes on the floor filled with older dolls of less refinement and worth. Cabbage patch dolls with rubber faces and hair of yellow or orange yarn lie face down among an endless supply of grinning Troll dolls with their tanned pot bellies and tufts of neon hair. An old broken rocking horse is hidden in one corner, lost among the new white wicker carriages designed for carrying elegant dolls. A rusty blue and yellow aluminum top keeps it company, as well as an old tin lunch box turned so that its face can’t be seen. The space itself is very narrow and all of the antiques and toys, seem almost invisible crowded as they are, each stealing the others thunder. The overall effect is an atmosphere of clutter. Only the china dolls behind the register can contend with the silent clamor, drawing attention to themselves through their sameness and unity of perfection.
A powder blue door leads into a small back room another two steps down. In here there are more boxes filled with things that wouldn’t fit or fetch a high price. The majority of the space is occupied by a large, neatly made brass bed attended by an armoire and a petite dresser with an oval mirror. There is a window behind the bed with a sheer white curtain hung over it. Light breathes in through the gossamer fabric, and the shadows of greenery on the other side can be seen pressing upon the glass. Another door opens into a bathroom no bigger than a closet. Within, the porcelain is white and clean and the golden fixtures are polished to gleaming brightness. The floor however, reveals its age in the form of cracked tiles and yellowed grout.