Indoor Pool

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.”

In a Parked Car

The street is drenched in sunlight. The slight breeze that rolls up the hill is blocked by the surrounding buildings, leaving this particular street to a heavy stillness, a quiet pocket of dusty air covered by a blanket of dense heat. The sidewalk is covered in cracks and forgotten symbols, slight attempts at immortality from sixteen-year-olds in love and little kids in ripped jeans. A driving sign cautions drivers not to turn left, its metal is bent and warped, faded by the sun and brought down from the ideal to the particular by a thousand little defects that now cover its once pristine surface. The grass at the edge of the sidewalk is overgrown, tall weeds extend outwards to the street, finding hope in the noise of infrequent cars and the grainy, dark blue asphalt. A forgotten little toy car has found a resting place in the middle of the tall leaves, alongside a discarded can of beer and a piece of oil stained cloth. The smell of boiling stew seeps out from a window, along with a woman calling a name that can only belong to a little boy. Other voices fade in and out, as if finding secret pathways through the little currents of air that make their way across the heavy blanket of heat.
The building is three stories tall. There’s a stairway leading upstairs at the corner. It is made of stone planks, connected into a sequence by a dark metal skeleton. Facing the street are four sets of windows, each large and dirty. Some clothes can be seen hanging from an upper one, the reflection of a TV can be seen on one of the lower ones. The walls are covered in a discolored maroon and the edges of the windows are bright yellow. The lowest level of the building is an open garage with enough room for four different vehicles. Only one slot is filled with a parked car, two are completely empty and in the fourth there is an old discarded light brown couch, covered in broken plastic wrap. It is covered in marks and holes, some from exposure to the elements, some from mischievous little hands. The couch is propped up on rotting wooden planks. There is a tiny table next to it and a forgotten empty bottle of wine propped up against the wall.
The single parked car is an antique, a large curvaceous monster covered in fins and bright colors. The metal decors are mostly in their original place but the colors show gaps of white and naked metal. The windows are darkened by the angle of the sun and the shadow of the garage roof. Only one window is rolled down and slight noises can be heard coming from inside. The car shifts slightly every once in a while, revealing movement in its darkened interior.
Two women sit inside, looking at each other and talking continuously. One sits in the driver seat and the other one in the passenger seat. They have their arms over the tall front seats and they are so fascinated with the sound of each others’ voices that their surroundings seem to vanish around them. They are both a similar age, around 40 years old, they both show the signs of married life, motherhood and many years of daily struggle. They are both Filipino and both wear a similar kind of faded dress covered by a dirty apron. Their arms are thick and their skin is brown. Every so often, they lean forward to catch a whispered phrase or to deliver a specially conspiratorial secret.
The inside of the car is drenched in their sweat and flowery perfume. They open and close their eyes in a silent sign of trust and secret confidence. The latest news of the woman next door, the last we heard of the nephew, that postcard from the one who left a year ago, the stories of the single man that lives a few doors down… it all slides back and forth. Listening and talking. Talking and listening. A rhythm of whispers and staccato statements of rumored fact and factual rumor, a music of broken phrases and never-ending stories that only pauses when someone walks too close. Then one of them turns, looks at the sidewalk, waits for the intruder to walk away and turns back to her companion. The concerto of intense quiet stories then continues and the electrical currents flow through the sweat and the perfume and the heat… once again.

Little Town

A few streets crossing each other, a few of them scattering off tangentially away from the center, a tiny web in the midst of the forest. There is no sense of planning. Instead it seems that the streets were just added to each other as the need arose, some of them covered in asphalt, some of them still dirt roads. There are little signs on the corners to indicate the names. They are painted in black letters over white metal, each one with little flourishes to indicate a sense of history, of a time that has passed.
There are many small houses. Each is adorned with tiny mementos, little statues, tinkling chimes, a clay gnome permanently smiling at the passers-by. Dogs are barking unseen from some backyard, their sound seeming to mix in with the faded paint of the old houses resonating with each other and lulling you into sleepiness. A cat runs underneath the parked cars, then emerges back onto the street a few cars up the road. The sidewalk is tall, about the height of three steps above the street. There are little cement stairways every once in a while, each one leading to a lonely porch. Most of the doors have metal screens and most of the screens are broken. Behind the doors, there is furniture covered in white sheets and an air of forgetfulness. The only sounds here are the dog in the distance and the dusty wind moving the blinds back and forth.
The longest street that runs through the center of the town is called "Main Street". The one that crosses it is called "Park". There is a cluster of little stores near the center. They sell trinkets from other times, new handicrafts and some art reproductions. There is a coffee shop in a corner. An old hippie sits outside, drinking coffee and striking up conversations with anyone that passes by. Little groups of teenagers walk around, no more than 5 of them at a time. They are all dressed in jeans and tshirts, they make jokes every once in a while but they are mostly quiet. They stare at the stores and the houses, hoping something will happen. But nothing really does. Here and there a lonely adult walks calmly from one place or another, saying hello warmly to whoever walks by them, then dissappearing again.
The streets that lead off, away from the town center, get more and more sparse. There are trees and bushes that flank the road, and sometimes hide the constructions behind them. The houses become larger but less well taken care of. There are broken cars sitting outside, the hoods up, the wheels long gone, a large brick in their place. A car tire swings from a tree, a large black dog on a chain barks constantly and angrily. Someone is banging a hammer on a piece of metal. A woman is calling out a man’s name. Metal tools are spread out on the driveway, next to a deep stain of grease. Loud laughter and angry calls, scattered bits of conversation and the sound of a indignant radio jock, all vibrating together, all flowing into each other through the dry bushes. There is a sense of trapped desperation, of lost hopes and slowly decomposing dreams.
There is a gated community down one the roads, a few miles away from the town center, guarded by people in uniforms. Inside, the houses are all shiny and very well kept. They are crowded into small cul-de-sacs… with 3 or 4 houses to each one. There are at least 3 cars per house, parked outside in the gently curving driveway. The cars are also new and shiny, and they smell of luxury. There are a few chimes here and there, but mostly the houses here are very streamlined, it would be easy to confuse one of them with any other. Dark wood and bright white paint, metal yard furniture and the silence that comes with the absence of dogs.
It is afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and the whole place smells of sweat and dust. In the air itself you can almost see the transparent thick waves of heat as they slide around the town, caressing the wooden walls like forgotten lovers coming back to find their lost object of desire, finding loneliness instead. A car rolls up or down every once in a while, but very rarely. When they do, they drive slowly and carefully. The heat, the dust and the absence of wind gives the whole place an air of stillness, of stagnation, of things that have been like this forever and will remain so, drenched in heavy sunlight and loud silence.

Courtyard

There is a marble courtyard that sprawls in endless directions.
Multiple levels are connected by narrow pathways and carved steps, like a simplified Escher painting.
Below, the ground is a kaleidoscope of soft hues, cream and coral slabs cover the earth in subtle geometric patterns. Stairways of only a couple of steps are soft and unimposing, they gently offer a new direction. The smooth marble of intricately carved handrails lead to wide open chambers.

Above, the sky bestows clear blue light and the warmth of a mid-fall sun gently radiates the courtyard. Only the sound of the wind adds sound, for there are no humans or animals.
The courtyard is empty, it feels as if it has been this way for a very long time, longer than humans can imagine. But, the space is not forgotten, it is still tended while it waits patiently for something new to arrive.