Cul-de-sac

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.

Show

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.

Confectionery

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!”

Drummer

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.

Studio

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.

Party

It is a huge plaza, surrounded by large gray buildings. On the west side, there is a silver dome outlined by golden ridges, on top of a rectangle of concrete punctured by curved little windows. On the north there is a tall solid box of glass, crisscrossed by gleaming metal columns. On the east, two are two large, white complex structures, of many corners and curves, like mazes that have been pulled inside out. On the south, there is a flat long box of black metal and polarized glass. In the middle, there is grass crisscrossed by concrete pathways and some small structures. There are tall poles and some small signs. On the top of one pole, a big flag waves.
The entire place is full of people, noise and music. The streets that separate the middle area from the buildings are covered in dancers and large trucks, covered in symbols, adornments and puppets. Each truck has a set of large speakers pumping out loud techno. Each truck is playing something different, different key, different tempo, different feel. As you walk around the space you create your own music mix, you can step back into something you left before, move forward into something unknown, or stay with a deep trance beat that signals the end of times with corrugated chords and earth moving bass lines. Around each truck many have chosen to stay… and they dance, move, dance, touch, dance, smile, jump, dance, kiss, grind…dance.
A skinny Asian girl wearing a light blue polka dot dress dances atop one truck, her arms up in the air, her eyes covered by sunglasses. Next to her a girl in a jean miniskirt and a light brown vest shifts her hips back and forth, sometimes looking at her, sometimes looking at the crowd that bubbles shapelessly on the street below her, like an enormous amoeba made of tiny painted heads. The truck has black metal horns and a white skull painted on its cabin, an invocation of a older violent task that is now rejected. An older man in black leather pants and no shirt dances to the right of the two girls. His eyes are looking inwards, his movements are more daring, less about what will be seen and more about what is travelling through him.
Another truck is covered by blue Styrofoam structures that simulate some kind of underwater creature. It has many eyes, and many tentacles that extend from all sides of its face. On top of that truck, a couple dances with sexual abandon. A girl in tight black pants grinds her hips against a boy in shiny spandex, wearing a vest and a yellow hat. The girl leans all the way into her partner, allowing all her energy to flow through the repeated movement of her hips… back and forth and around. Her partner pushes hard against her, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her closer. They both hide their eyes behind dark glasses and a veneer of nonchalance.
There is an old school bus, drowned in people, inside and out. Through the little windows you can see movement inside, people running back and forth, a shoulder, a back, a head suddenly sticking out then pulling back in. On top of the bus there are more people. A quartet, two women and two men, looking down at the crowd, smiling, waving and swaying their hips to the booming beat. On top of the yellow cabin, a man sits cross legged. He wears a long white robe and a very long white beard, which extends all the way to his stomach. His eyes are closed but he is very much present in the space and with the music. His shoulders roll back and forth ever so slightly, in time with the beat.
Among the crowd,a gray haired hippie sits on a lawn chair, his left hand on a beer bottle which he drinks from every now and then, his right hand on a white dog that squats beside him. The dancers roll past him and around him. Both his eyes and the dog’s follow each little group, each lonely straggler, each loving couple, each group of tough young boys, each pair of sweating girls… as they dance and walk and run and sway and grind right past him. He nods his head, pets his companion and smiles. Only he is aware that this party has been going on forever.

Recording Their Passing

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