Coffee Shop

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.

Doll Box

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.

Tickets

"Tickets!" the old woman shouts. Her hair is a dull gray mess of tangled curls which bob placidly just above her shoulders. Her bold lipstick contrasts glaringly with her faded sweatshirt and dirty jeans. She winds her way around the aluminum picnic benches, eyeing everyone, aged penny loafers sifting dust up from the dirt floor. "Tickets!", she demands. No one escapes her vulture like gaze, no worm or grub will crawl through this carcass and escape her greedy maw. Once received, she tears them with her withered hands. Maroon polished finger tips separate the serrated edges, breaking through the matte red paper board like beastly talons. Relishing the moment, she hands back the stubs with calculated sloth. Those without tickets scatter from her path and make their way to the ticket counter. It is a tiny shanty built of aluminum paneling, cardboard, and scrap.
A younger woman, hair pulled back in a boorish chestnut pony tale, sells the tickets from within, peering out the window of a door removed from a white pickup truck. The raised bucket seat upon which she sits has also been salvaged from a gutted wreck. She wears no make up and avoids eye contact and chit chat with the patrons. When forced to answer a question her voice conveys an apocalyptic lack of enthusiasm. Her dull blue eyes are like mirrored surveillance glass; she sees right through everything and everyone, but none can see behind their perpetually bored glare.
Beyond the ticketing area, the stage is no more than a generous patch of dirt surrounded by private boxes which resemble chicken coops. Each coop contains a queen sized bed. Huddled upon one, a group of teenage girls chatter and chew gum. Their hair is long, their earrings dangly and fashioned in neon colors. They wear hoodies of gray and black. Some don patches sewn or tacked on with safety pins. Squeezed into tight fitting denim cigarette pants, they giggle and gossip about the occupants of other boxes while painting their fingernails a whitchy shade of metallic purple.
In another box, a man and woman lie on their sides making love half under the sheets. Their down tempo thrusting and wiggling is in plain view. The woman, a waif like blonde, murmurs and moans volubly as her companion slowly presses his erect penis into her glistening slit, then just as slowly pulls it all of the way out again.
Yet another box holds an elderly Asian couple. They sit with impeccably upright posture, glancing furtively over at the passionate lovers. The woman’s hair is cut in a short black bob. The crisp collar of her blouse is visible over the v neck of an apple red sweater. The man’s face is flecked with sun spots folded into his wrinkles. He wears a powder blue fisherman’s cap to conceal his bald head. Both wear white socks under their sandals. They look from the lovers to their own bed with its tacky flowered comforter anxiously, trying to occupy the least amount of space possible, while wondering how often the sheets are washed. They speak to one another occasionally in short hurried snippets of Chinese, affirming their mutual concern and disgust.
Some elders share a box with a bedraggled pack of punks and street kids. The top dog is an older man with a sandy colored beard. He wears tattered blue jeans and a faded red tee shirt to reveal arms adorned with dull green tattoos. A single petite gold hoop hangs from one stretched looking earlobe. He is well recognized by everyone in his box, and among many of the spectators in other boxes. He holds a smoking cigarette in his left hand while gesturing with it towards a red record held in his right hand as he tells a "story of the time when…" with great conviction in its relevance. The younger boys look on with admiration and nod their hooded heads approvingly.
White Christmas lights, strung from coop to coop, provide some scant illumination. The pit at the center of the ring of boxes is lit by a handful of stage lights. Their haunting glow is cast over the dirt and extends into the boxes so that the shabby motel quality beds cast eerie shadows.

Library

I am in the midst of bookshelves, tall ones, little ones, they fold into each other, they cover the many rooms around me in a maze like profusion, they make spirals that end in little alcoves where skinny dry men sit reading large bulky tomes of ancient knowledge and little boys tug at the breaking corners of old comic books. The dry men chew on a white gelatinous substance while they read, every so often looking up to scan the space around then, then diving back into the books. The little boys lick at little black pebbles as they let their greasy hands run over the already damaged pages.
The books on the shelves are of many sizes, many colors, many styles. There are whole shelves full of small paperbacks, with bright colored covers. Women in trouble, half naked, tied down, in the grips of evil. Men running to save them. Guns out. Swords at the ready. Laser guns blasting. A rescue that’s about to happen, but that never comes. There are other shelves covered with magazines. Old, faded magazines full of notices, of summarized stories and unfinished tidbits. New magazines with bright photos on their covers, of unreal, sharply etched young people, shining with the glow of fame and fortune. There are large thick books full of strange diagrams and warnings in many languages. There are books that are flat and wide, full of photographs and paintings, one after another, each page an entire world to discover. There are hardcover textbooks, with their careful lessons and questions at the end, little red notes made by someone long ago, references to homework, to old thoughts and girlfriends. There are handwritten diaries that are falling apart at the seams, the pages losing their sequence, creating new complex chains of cause and effect, death bringing timeless freedom to a forgotten life.
An old man walks among the shelves. He is bald, walks hunched over, his stomach portruding before him, his chest covered by a disheveled white beard. He wears a black overcoat which extends all the ways to his knees. It flies like a cape behind him as he walks. Underneath, he wears loose pajama pants and a white tshirt. His eyes wince and his mouth curls upwards slightly every so often, and every now and then, a loud exhalation leaves his mouth. The exhaled air is heavy and full of the dust that covers the shelves. His hands land on one book and another. Placing one in a different section within its shelf, removing one and taking it to a completely different shelf, sometimes placing a large one on a flat table, opening it to a certain page and leaving it there. He writes little notes and places them inside books, little sticky papers with strange clues waiting to be deciphered, but now lost in the midst of an ocean of other pages full of other writings.
A younger man in dark brown clothing talks loudly. He explains the nature of construction to a man that nods only partly consciously. As he hungrily explains in detail, his hands move back and forth, punctuating his exclamations with invisible shapes in the almost visible clouds of dust that linger over the entire room. In a place that smells like mold, he smells of something alien, a touch of swamp and dying flowers. His voice raises, then comes back down, then rises again, a rhytmic melody that flies around mathematical statements and practical instructions.
The old man walks by him and nods his head in acknowledgement. He has done this a million times and will do it a million times again, and after that door, there will be another room full of shelves and books and skinny dry men and little boys… and a man talking loudly of distinct and detailed knowledge and the old man will change the placement of some books, place some of them out and leave some notes behind and go on to the next. As I sit in this room, I wait for the next old man to walk by.

In A Hotel

The room is a long rectangle, framed by white walls lightly adorned with flowery watercolor paintings. On one end there is a door, a heavy wooden door with metal bindings and an antique lock. On the other end, there is a set of glass doors that faces a balcony that overlooks the beach. There is a large bed, large enough for two people to sleep in. It is closer to the main doorway. Between the bed and the glass doors is a living room area, a couch, a small coffee table, a circular rug and two additional chairs.
It is nighttime. All electrical lights are off and small candles burn in all corners of the room. The warm ocean breeze slips inside in currents of pungent heat mixed with a hint of dead fish and algae. The sound of the waves creates an underlying drone, that holds the space in place, like a larger breath that exhales and inhales us, pulling us toward nothingness and bringing us back here, to this little room.
I sit on the couch, leaning back, my eyes wide open, my breathing slow and steady, in an interlocking beat with the rhythm of the waves and the dancing of the candlelight. My hands rest gently on my knees and my legs are only slightly apart.
My friend sits across from me, on a chair. His eyes are also wide open, as he looks directly into mine. He is wearing white, white pants, white shirt… here he radiates white through his skin. His hands are on the armrests of the chair, his back is straight against its back. He breathes in time with me, his eyes seeming to widen and contract with each exhalation.
The air around us crackles with energy, electrical flashes of light and color dance in and out, just barely visible from the corners of my eyes. As our eyes widen, our attention intensifies and the crackling is audible, an intermittent caress of high frequencies in unrepeatable rhythms, surges of squealing brightness, harsh yet soothing high pitches, and something that sounds like the ancient laughter of little people with extended ears and big bellies, rolling around in dark clouds of pliable protoplasm. As our eyes contract again, our attention slides lower and the sounds become the rustling of the breeze against the curtains, the wooden roof cracking with the tender kiss of the hot ocean night.
I look into his eyes and I see him, but more I see that which is not him, which was him before him, which came and took him and became more through him. I see an old Chinese man of gentle eyes and a long white beard, I see a great journey across open sea. I see a man I recognize, my old teacher, I see him staring intensely, as if finding himself in a place he doesn’t recognize, not knowing how he came to be where he shouldn’t be, where he is not. I see another man, an old Indian of rough skin and pronounced lips, he is not surprised, his eyes take it all in and swallow it, I dive into him and come out inside of me, my eyes still open, my friend still there.
His mouth is open. My mouth is open. Slight sounds come out, unrecognizable, sounds that are not symbols but have meaning, sounds that travel and come back touched with old stories and barely recognizable songs. I see two old lines converging in him, from a long distant past, two stories that become one in him and push forth out towards me. A long thread of changing faces, stretching back though forgotten underground tales and families, a small branch of the lineage of knowledge now stands naked before me, pulsing with Life through the corridors of time, vibrating with music that is ever changing and always new, even as it has already been written and sung. As I see it, it changes. As it changes, I see it. What was, is and as it is, it is free and it is not the same. I open to it and let it flow through me, into my mouth, up into my third eye, down to my solar center, and out again. It shifts me around. What was once me is still there, but my past has changed. I am not what I remembered, but I am what I have always been. It is here with me. For a moment it stands before me, revealing itself as Legion and One.
Come to me. Come through me. I welcome you. I am here with you. You have arrived, back here, safe or as safe as you can be, armed with power and ready to Work.
It is Time.