Abandoned Gas Station

It is nighttime, dark and cold, the air tinged with the electricity that comes before a storm. It is a small town on the edge of a highway in the middle of a great flat expanse of dry land. The town is a tiny rest spot for travelers and a recurring source of sustenance for the few local inhabitants. There are two open gas stations, each with a corresponding convenience store. There are a few other stores and a car mechanic shop, all closed for the night. Few cars drive by, and even fewer stop. The traffic light flashes red continuously and the pedestrian lights have all been turned off. The tall dry grass on the edge of the road bends backwards with the force of the wind and some leaves float away towards the outer darkness.
In the little gas station on the north side, an old man slumps backwards against an old rickety chair, his head bobbing up and down with the weight of tired drowsiness. A single man fills the tank of his new red car, calmly surveying his surroundings as he leans against the back door. A large truck is parked on the side, its massive bulk forming a temporary barrier against the wind. A small brown cat scurries behind some large dumpsters behind the building.
In the gas station to the south, a fat woman sits waiting for clients. She reads a celebrity news magazine and sips from a plastic cup of coffee. She looks out to the street every so often and then back to her magazine and the dream world of the movie stars. There is a small sedan parked on the side and a large fat man sleeps soundly behind the wheel, little trickles of saliva dripping off the side of his mouth and down his chin.
A block further down, there is a third gas station, dark and abandoned. A light blue pickup truck is parked on the street in front of it, all its wheels are flat and the lights have been broken. The pumps are rusty and their design is from another era. The windows of the building have also been broken and the inside has been completely pillaged. An old cash register and some dirty ripped up newspapers are all that remain.
I sit on the step that leads to the forgotten main register. I am wearing a thick black jacket, the hood pulled back towards my shoulders, black pants and black shoes and a white shirt. Around my neck is a tiny porcelain mushroom, painted in with many colored lines and dangling from an elastic black cord. My back is resting against the wall and my eyes shift slowly back and forth between the dark cold street and the girl that rests in my arms.
She has a small fragile brown body, black hair to her shoulders and a delicate soft face. Her eyes are turned downward as she presses her cheek against my chest. She is wearing a black skirt, a light brown blouse, and flat black shoes. Her body trembles every so often and mine trembles in response. Her breath comes in loud gasps and tiny little sobs. I hold her head with my hand and softly caress her black hair and her forehead. I press her tightly towards me and she responds by pushing into me, as if she wants to sink completely into my heart and find a true hiding place in there, away from the wind and the cold and the loneliness.
Every few minutes, the wind makes a loud sound as it flows through the desolate gas station and the cold rush sends a collective shiver through both our bodies. She looks up at me as if to confirm that I’m still there and I look down and continue to caress her hair. I nod and her cheek returns to my chest.

The Roaring Silence

The room is on the third floor of an office building that is 6 stories tall. It is an office space that is nearly empty and lacking any kind of expected adornments. The floor is covered in a slightly dirty, dark blue carpet. The windows are about 5 feet tall and 4 feet wide. They open by sliding the glass up. They are all open right now. A gentle breeze filters through the room, flowing from one open window to another. The hallway door is open as well and so are the elevator doors beyond, the emergency lights quietly flashing on and off. On one corner there are cut telephone wires hanging out of the wall and the shadows of desks and file cabinets can still be detected on the carpet. There are long fluorescent lamps above us, attached to the white ceiling, all turned on, all throwing off a soft hum that reverberates throughout the space and resonates with the sound of the wind outside.
On the street below there are no cars, nor the distant sound of them. Across from our window, there are other windows, other buildings. All the windows are open, all are silent and welcoming of the breeze that flows in from the street. There are no pedestrians, no sound of people calling or complaining, no children crying, no hint of rush or conflict, no human activity at all. The traffic lights are flashing on and off for nobody. Many little pieces of paper blow all about the city. I can’t make out the text, but they all have the same thing printed on them. A neon sign is crackling just outside the window and the sound of our breathing acts as a calm soft ostinato to its constant electric variation. The sky is bright purple and there are no stars and no sun and no moon. It is too light to be night and too purple to be day.
He sits on a small metal chair across from me. He is about 25 years old, a bit heavy set, with a round friendly face, thick arms laced with muscle and a round belly. He is wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. There are some tattoos on his arms and a scar on his lower neck. His face is overgrown with the beginning of a beard and his hair is cut very short, mostly brown with just a hint of yellow. His eyes are clear and wide open and so is his mouth. He breathes in slowly and with some effort. It takes all the will that he can muster to remain in the chair and stay calm. I can see that the corners of his eyes long to look out the windows once more, to confirm what he has seen, to try to visually come up with some kind of explanation, something that will make it all clear and understandable.
I sit on a small wooden stool and I also breathe very slowly and with some difficulty. I am wearing a white buttoned up shirt, black corduroy pants and black shoes. I have a long scraggly beard and very long black hair, tied up in a pony tail. I wear a circular medallion under my shirt, a metal talisman with a tiny pyramid at its center. My arms are at my sides and my hands rest on my lap. My knees are together and I make recurring efforts to maintain them in place. My eyes are also wide open and staring deeply into my companion’s eyes. We both can sense the delicate nature of the situation, the crawling wave of fear and panic that threatens to break us apart. Neither of us gives in to it.
We both continue to breathe, as deeply and as slowly as possible. The breeze lifts little strands of hair over our faces and tickles at our nose. The hum of the lights seems to hint at a deeper drone, something heavier coming up from deep underneath us, something that is too complete, too final and too powerful to be allowed completely into this room, into this space between us, right now. Each time the drone gets louder, his eyes widen a bit and mine do as well. I nod ever so slightly, we breathe together and the drone descends again, fading into the soft hum of the lights. The breeze blows between us again and we exhale, savoring a tiny moment of relative rest.
The drone, the solitude, the bright purple sky, the roaring silence, the little pieces of paper that constantly fly by the window… all like the very peak of an enormous wave that threatens to overwhelm us and take us with it, along with everything around us, dissolving us into the indistinct void from which we were originally formed. We sit together at the very peak of this awesome force beyond our comprehension and we slowly… ever so slowly and gently… take another breath.

Chariot and Rider

The great black expanse is littered with sparkling diamonds. Stars, they twinkle twinkle like gemstones strewn over a black velvet display. Some give off the faintest bit of color; crimson , yellow, or blue. No doubt if one could reach out and grasp any of these, they would discover that it burns to the touch, that it is far vaster than the hand that would seek to hold it. It would pull that hand to it, just as it pulls all smaller bodies to its bosom, and as the commander of the hand made that direction-less fall into the fire, they would see that the color of a star is vivid beyond imagination when it is swallowing you whole.
Out there, set against that deceptively lovely backdrop, a solitary vessel draws nearer and nearer to a slowly spinning blue green orb. Its rotation is barely perceptible as it beckons the small vessel into its atmosphere. The ship, dwarfed by this long lost child of Tiamat, drifts gently towards the bulging mammoth, its smooth taffy colored surface easing its way into her orbit. It is shaped not vaguely, but specifically like a human phallus.
Like a tick riding a bird, a woman sits straddled on its back where the shaft curves round to form testicles. A space cowgirl, she rides the vessel with poise, smiling as mirthfully as if she were bringing a prize pony round the corner in the tournament of roses parade. With the glittering cosmos as silent witness she commits the sum of her attention to the present in this thrilling moment of entry. Her blond hair, parted in two braids, rest upon her shoulders like a pair of pet serpents.
Clothed in a pair of short red running shorts with a vertical white stripe and a tan buckskin vest, her breasts remain bare, her areolas gazing out over the tip of the rod like a second pair of pink eyes. Before them, on the planet’s surface, brown and green masses of land form distinctive shapes in the blue oceans. Mountains reach out towards the traveler and vessel eagerly. In the highest of these, a pool of crystal clear spring water shimmers under the celestial glow of the yellow star beaming nearby. The sun pulls both the planet and its captivated phallic visitor like a golden stallion drawing chariot and rider.

Two Hundred Feet Above the Earth

On the brightest of sunny days, a flying contraption soars on a current of crisp blue wind. At about two hundred feet above the earth, it coasts, like an oversized time machine on a rogue mission. Its speed is high, and it easily leaves behind the flocks of white birds on their yearly migration.
The pilot is a mystery, whether man or machine, I cannot tell, but the contraption flies well, maintaining its smoothness and speed amongst the aggressive wind. I sit upon a wooden bench at the helm, a rickety old fence post once stolen from a neighbor’s yard. There is no floor, and my legs dangle loosely over the seat, each new gust of air sends them swinging wildly, like the limbs of my companion.
The machine is small and compact, made mostly of copper tubing, sheets of metal and a huge brightly colored air balloon which keeps us afloat. It looks like a lunatic’s invention, created quickly from a doodle using found scrapes and stolen debris. It has traveled far to make this journey, centuries or more, but there is an excitement that permeates the whole of it, blanketing us in newness and innocence. The wind feels like a friend playing upon our skin, the birds wink in our direction. This is a maiden voyage, clean from any past experience. All is new, and from this flight, we will not be returning.
We are directly above a city. A potpourri of structures stretches to the horizon in all directions, a striking mixture of large and small buildings, civic centers, offices, houses, museums, and monuments. This is the eternal civilization- the one that has spawned countless poor imitations. This is Rome as it could have been. This is the city philosophers have spoken of…the ideal city thought only to exist as concept. The edifices shine, scrubbed clean and glowing in every possible glory. Their hues are soft and inviting, only the palest shades of marble have been used in their construction. Under the light of the full sun, everything is immaculate. Stretching to eternity, the avenues are precise and wide, dividing the immense landscape into navigable blocks. They are so clean…so exact. Their possessive symmetry shouts far into the sky and reaches my ears. The best engineers and mathematicians have created these roads and I am breathless in the precision of their art.

A City Corner

It is a noisy, dirty corner in the heart of a large city. The streets that meet here are both wide, full of heavy traffic and constantly covered in groups of pedestrians walking back and forth from one sidewalk to the other. A large truck is double parked on the southeastern side, three men sit on the edge of the bed and a large mechanical dolly sits on the sidewalk, unused. Two men walk from east to west, drinking from bottles covered in paper bags, loudly discussing the events of the day. An older woman, wearing a large blond wig and a tight mini skirt, smokes by the donut shop on the north western corner. A neon sign of a nude woman blinks in and out from the covered front window of a massage parlor that stands next to a freshly painted liquor store on the northeastern corner. A little boy grabs onto his mother’s hand, dragging a plastic bag behind him, gently sobbing away the remains of a heartfelt tantrum.
On the south western corner there is a one story complex. A small adult shop is embraced on both sides by a single dilapidated house that wraps around it. It has two facades, leading to either street, both with a little forgotten porch covered in trash and solid steel gates.
The adult shop has only four faded porno tapes on its window, the lost glories of never quite beautiful women that have long lost their battle for men’s attention and are now forgotten symbols of wasteful dispersal that fail in their weak attempt at temptation. Inside the shop, behind the counter, is an older bearded man wearing a baseball cap and reading the newspaper. A TV screen behind him shows intense intercourse between a black man and a blond girl, the volume turned down while the radio blares out right wing talk radio and old rock and roll songs. The man groans every once in a while and turns the page. Two Latin men stare at a magazine and make whispered comments. An older single man in a black overcoat carefully runs through the many video sections, scanning every title and every so often grabbing a box and putting it under his arm. A sweaty brown skinned man stands by the dark door that leads to the private booths, anxiously staring at each of the men that walk in and out of the store. Another door, dusty and forgotten between rows of video tapes and plastic dildos, leads to the larger residence that surrounds the place.
The house is shaped like a thick L, with each end crowned by an elegant wooden door that leads to the outside. Inside, the light is low and shaded in red and green. At the corner of the "L" there is a long table, covered in a ripped and stained tablecloth, where two women and two men sit on small metal chairs. One woman prepares a crack pipe, wearing only a slip over a pair of tight shorts, while one of the men, a skinny older Caucasian wearing thick glasses and a sleeveless undershirt, anxiously stares and waits. The other two angrily discuss their current situation, always precarious, always on the brink of a complete catastrophe that has already started but never quite comes to an end. The man is a middle aged Latino, wearing jeans and a buttoned up shirt. The woman is older and hints of sadness and deep resignation recurrently wash over her wrinkled face. She wears a black T-shirt and a ripped red skirt.
Behind the table, there is a broken door that leads to a long bathroom. Inside, behind a ripped plastic curtain, there is a stretched out shower stall with three different shower heads, designed so that three or more bodies can bathe simultaneously. The tiled floor is covered in grime and smells of urine and sperm. A young boy sits on the ground, playing with tiny plastic soldiers, making soft explosive sounds with his mouth each time one the little figures gets shot. The only light that seeps into the bathroom comes from a high little window that also brings with it the constant wave of screams, curses and laughter that wash in from the alleyway outside.
In a small very dark room, the light banished with two layers of curtains and a thick old blanket taped to the window, a young Latin girl lies sleeping on a ripped up mattress. She is covered in cold sweat and wears only a thin summer dress. Her breathing is shallow and labored, her face squeezes painfully every few minutes and her dried tears have left a spider web of discolored makeup all over her cheekbones. Hanging on the wall close to her head there is a little wooden crucifix and taped up underneath it, the photograph of an older smiling woman with gray hair.
In one of the hallways that leads to the street, two shirtless teenage boys smoke marijuana and trade jokes and conspiracies amongst themselves. One of them has a large scar across his chest and a fresh bruise around his right eye. The other one has two fingers missing from his left hand and he uses the stumps to scratch his running nose. Using the joints as pointers, they discuss places and possibilities, people and betrayals, histories and legends. In their words, a trail of bubbling life pierces through the scratched up walls and the pungent smell of vomit that seeps in through the outer gates, along with loud horns, angry threats and a crackling radio playing an ancient song of harvest.

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.

The Cinema and The Park

Hunched like a giant amphibian hiding the secrets of underwater life in the shadows beneath its paunch, the movie house rests at the end of the main street. A single story building filled with faded glitz, its carpets are worn down by the thousands of pairs of dress shoes that used to pour through its double doors, used to mill around by the polished mirrors in the lobby, form lines before the kettle roaring with the pop of yellow corn, and file down one of two gently sloping hallways to a dark auditorium.
Now it is empty. The doors stand open allowing the wind to blow in from up the main street. The managers stand together dressed in suits and elegant dresses, passing the time in gossip as only the management can. The kettle is silent. Concessionists stand idle looking longingly out to the street for the absent patrons. Their uniforms are as dignified and shabby as the carpets and worn velvet curtains, white dress shirts, black slacks, midnight hued wing tipped shoes marred by scuffs, maroon vests faded by years of laundering and silky black bow ties frayed at the edges. In the dim atmosphere lit by rows of small artificial bulbs, they stand in the temple of the stars, hands resting on the polished countertops, gazing out at the harsh sunlit street, the freshness of the wind jarring their spirits.
The main street runs from the old movie house to the park in a straight line.Scores of streets cross it, all with names such as "Spruce" and "Pine", all with stop lights dangling over these intersections in merry yellow casings. Vendors adorn the clean side walk along the main drag. A flower cart bursts with the color and fragrance of fresh cut blooms. An old wooden Indian stares intently at nothing outside of a smoke shop where portly bald men in white jackets stand nodding and laughing, and gesturing emphatically with their hands. The window of a bakery gleams brightly displaying pink frosted angel food cakes, golden croissants and tea cookies powdered with sugar. White aprons, clean shirts, bright smiles, pearl necklaces, the pedestrians add a finishing touch to the street, like balloons tied to chairs at a party.
White Volvos with chrome grins, and aqua Chevy convertibles with round headlights, roar up the streets in defiance of the peaceful pedestrians plodding along its side, carrying their white packages tied with ribbons and strings. Stretched out like a lazy green cat, the park greets the street at its end. The grass is short, the trees young lean and tall. They trap the sunlight, turning it in their leaves before sprinkling it down on the lawn in sparkling splotches. Multicolored striped tents shaped like ice cream cones are scattered about the green. People come and go between them. Wearing white robes, blue jeans, fringed vests, beads, tin foil headdresses and bearing sun tanned chests, they walk through the grass, or on the little pathways leading no where in particular. Some sit alone in contemplation in the open mouth of a tent or under a tree. Others talk in groups or conglomerate around tables heaped with books. Yet others sit in pairs staring deeply into each others eyes.

The Tree

Long ago destroyed by war, the ruins of a house sit relatively still. Beneath the rotting walls, a cement cellar rests, partially intact. Half buried beneath the earth, it was once used for storage, but now is the most lively room in the house. At the base of one gray wall is a square window, large enough to be confused with a door. Free from glass, the sweet wind from outside finds its way in, stirring the long settled dust within. Trimmed attentively with one row of red bricks, the window has a sweeping view of the landscape. In the distance, creating a ring around the valley, are hills with a gentle geometric pattern- slightly jagged but soft as well. There are houses of muted colors carved into the hills- pale yellow and green, light blue-most of them are camouflaged by the rocks that cover the hills and valley. Stones of every size, from boulders to tiny grains, are scattered about, evoking the air of a forgotten existence.
Growing from the flattest part of the valley is the largest tree in existence. The trunk is thick and long, rising like a pillar to the cosmos. Its branches, covered in dark green leaves, stretch for miles, diffusing the sun eternally, growing into the hot rays like a warrior with foliage of courage. All around is stillness, it is known that no one, at any point, has ever journeyed beyond the great tree.

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.

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.

Bath

There is a grass equilateral triangle, about 100 feet on each side, surrounded by three buildings, each three stories high. The buildings contain a repeating sequence of small alcoves, each with a door, a glass window and thick curtains. The upper stories have long balconies running along the alcoves with a thin metal railing on the side. There are stairways on both sides and small additional indirect lamps at periodic intervals on the edges of the roof. The walls are a light brown that looks almost yellow in the middle of the night, with only the very soft lights shining on them. The railings have complex adornments and each door has a number engraved in golden letters. It is all very quiet. There is no movement along the balconies and no sound coming from inside the rooms.
The grass is moist with dew, tiny drops of water linger from the slender leaves and throw off a welcoming scent. They are trimmed to perfection, all at the same length, giving the illusion of a flat surface. There are tall, black metal posts, almost as tall as the buildings with little lights at the top, that further illuminate the area. The posts stand on small cement squares, about 4 feet long, and there are three of them, one at each corner of the triangle. From the center of each side, there is a cement path that goes towards the center.
In the middle of the triangle is a metal railing in the shape of a circle. It is black metal as well, but shiny with moisture like the grass, and covered in tiny baroque figures. Where the cement pathways meet it there are small metal doors. Through the thin metal bars of the railing, you can see into its center, past the doors. There, in the middle of the entire configuration, is a pool of hot water. In the dark of the night and the beams of the lamp posts, clouds of steam are visible as they rise from the hot water and disappear into the night sky. The water is a dark shade of blue and it moves only slightly, with little tiny waves that shift back and forth along the surface. It sounds like the subtle echo of a beach as the miniscule waves hit the cement edge and recede. A low electrical hum underscores the gentle sound and an additional light shines up from the depths.
In the center of the pool, two women stand facing each other, waist deep in the water. One is very young, blonde and has a very slight body. Her face is round and child like, her long hair is wet and sticks tightly to her head and shoulders. Her small bare breasts are almost invisible in the midst of the hot steam, only her dark maroon nipples stand out in the midst of her soft, white skin. The other woman is older, her body is thicker and covered in curves. She has short black hair, also wet and pressed against her head and forehead. Her breasts are large, full and they fall towards her stomach. She is taller than the young one and holds her space with a calm severity. Her face is a delicate mix of gentleness and harshness.
They stare into each other’s eyes and very calmly bathe each other, slowly running their hands over each others arms, shoulders, breasts and stomach. The older woman reaches down, holding her hand in the shape of a small cup, brings it back full of water and slowly lets it drip over the younger woman’s body. The blonde barely smiles and repeats the same process, letting the water gently drip down over the brunnette’s chest.
Their eyes vibrate with an intensity that radiates out throughout the inner circle and out onto the grass triangle and the buildings that surround it. The grass, the lamp posts, the walls, the railings, even the numbers on the doors… they all shine in sympathetic resonance and are brought to life. With each breath, the women repeat the process… the slow dripping of the water, the calm response and the rhythmic intensity of their contact. There is no hidden identity, no silent purpose, no mountain to climb, no cliff to jump from… just another handful of water and eyes that burn like hot steam.

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.

City in the Lake

The water is calm and flat, as it extends in all directions. To the north, it ends in great mountains, cold purple behemoths of rock and sand, desolate stretches that stand as magnets to the imagination but hold impenetrable obstacles for the body. To the east, the lake ends in a great water fall, a fall so high that all the tons of water that slide off the cliff disperse into vapor and nothingness halfway down the wall. Of the bottom, little is known. Some will speak of great darkness, of a swamp of spherical rocks and dark obscene creatures that live beneath them. To the south, there is sunlight and commerce, a great port in the lesser waterfall that calmly and steadily descends to the lower lake and many smaller islands bathing in the endless sunlight of the vast unknown above the great white cliffs. To the west, there is only the great darkness of the tall cliffs that extend beyond comprehension, high above the clouds and the reach of a man’s eye.
In the middle stands the city. Clearly delineated by white walls, a clean rectangle in the midst of the calm water, buzzing with activity yet maintaining a perennial tranquility. There are large gates on each side, heavy stone stairways leading down to the clear liquid surface and beneath it. A few piers extend outwards on the side of the gates. Most of the active ones are on the southern side. People run back and forth from the piers to the gates and back again. They carry large packages on their backs and push wooden carts. There are no animals to help with the burden. Small boats are tied to the piers and loaded with clothes, tools, books… the many things that can only be constructed in the heart of the quiet city.
The walls are white but show the many cuts, bruises and scars of the centuries. Men walk above them, holding weapons at the ready. They are dressed in dark silver armor and long flowing black capes. They carry themselves with great discipline, following predetermined paths as they make their way on the top of the walls. On each side of each gate stands a circular tower, where several of the guards converge. They stand around metal cannons that extend upwards, ready to shoot up towards the air. The cannons are kept clean, polished and ready even through they haven’t been used in so long that there is no record of their purpose in any recorded memory. The guards ceremonially stand around them, looking up towards the heavens, their eyes rarely getting distracted by the call of the mountains to the north or the distant roar of the waterfall to the east.
Inside the city, there are elevated streets that run over each other in complex configurations. There are walkways that stretch from high tower to high tower, where men in white robes walk back and forth, discussing the finer aspects of an old philosophical argument, or the implications of a new poem that has just been circulated among them. The tall towers end in open circular terraces that are mostly quiet and empty. Sometimes a man sits alone, thinking and writing. Sometimes a couple drapes themselves in a white sheet and make love beneath the open sky. Sometimes three men stand and chant together, a song of an unknown language lost to recorded time.
At the lowest levels of the city, there are great factories where the raw matter that is brought into the city is transformed into new configurations. Men in dark brown clothes work tirelessly to complete their set goals and hand the new packages to the carriers. Some of these factories are made of several small sweaty rooms, some are large halls full of loud metal noises and bursts of chemical steam. The men inside bend over, their backs almost hunchbacked with the years of tireless work and toil. Their faces are full of marks and their eyes are dark with confused memory.
Towards the north side of the city, there are thicker buildings that are full of little apartments. There the bulk of the city’s families reside. The men are gone for days at a time, so the women find games to play with each other and with their children. They sometimes climb to the tall towers and find the empty circular terraces, they sometimes roam in the northern lake in little boats and hold secret meetings beneath the darkness of the purple mountains. In the basements beneath the buildings, they hold large gatherings where only women are allowed. Here they will tell their secrets and remember their own forgotten chants.
Seen from within it, the city is busy and full of noise and activity. From above, it is as calm and quiet as the lake that surrounds it. Tiny noises of work and happiness, a respite from the dangers and terrors that are told by the travelers from the east. I look at it all from the heights, moving things here and there. Placing a man here, shifting a boat there. Yesterday it was as it is today. Tomorrow it will be the same.

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.

A Place to Rest

It is enormous. Much larger in the inside than it appears from the outside. And it does look large from the outside. It sits next to a forest, or within it. A road leads to it, curving through the trees like an extended thick snake made of dust No city is close by. Some people stand outside, waiting to be go inside, trying to decide what to see, waiting for others to arrive, looking at the schedules, discussing the possibilities. The walls are thick and at least 3 stories tall. They seem ancient yet show no mark of age. Nothing is falling apart. Everything is just in the right place. The whiteness of the walls is pure and shiny. There are 3 entrances, each able to fit 20 people or more at a time. The sides of each entrance are adorned with multiple markings, strange symbols, magical hieroglyphics, mysterious sigils and Soda announcements. There is a constant rumble of echoed noise coming from inside. A vast conversation that never ends.
Inside, the lobby is covered in wall to wall red carpet. If the walls outside seemed three stories tall, inside the ceiling is so high it can’t be seen. There are stairways leading down and up, and to the sides, away from the lobby. The stairways divide and subdivide going to the inner doorways within. There are also transparent elevators that climb up to unsuspected heights and open up to further stairways. People walk back and forth in all directions. They hold things in their hands very tightly: food, brochures, jewelry. The crowds are coming up from the stairways, walking into the elevators, walking out of the elevators, walking down stairways. A long concession stand stands in the middle, selling all kinds of junk food along with strange artifacts. People stand in long lines waiting to buy at the stand. Each one alone or in a very small group. The echo of conversation rings loudly throughout the space, but with it come waves of isolation. Each one, each group, is by itself. Even the staff seems to be alone, lost in a vast complex structure that has no internal hierarchy. The manager, if there ever was one, has long been gone.
The stairways lead to enormous theaters where movies play continuously. The seats are arranged in layers of balconies, which extend so far into the back that the end can’t be seen. There are many empty seats but the place is so huge that it still holds a vast crowd. People are constantly moving, even while the movie plays. They move from seat to seat. They encounter others, then sit somewhere else, then go back out to the lobby. The light coming from the screen lights up their faces. An overweight girl working away at a large bucket of popcorn. A skinny young boy slurping Soda from a straw. Two young lovers caressing each other surreptitiously in the darkness. An old frail man bending over towards the screen, his eyes barely registering any kind of awareness.
It is easy to get lost in here. Everything that came before can be forgotten so quickly. There is a need to sit down and watch the movie. Lay back. Rest. Stop worrying. Let the movie play and be content in the darkness. Nobody will bother you. Everybody stays to themselves and there are plenty of empty seats between the patrons. There is no end to the movies, so there’s no need to worry about going home. No need to remember where or what home was. The movies will play forever. Maybe it’s many movies. Maybe it’s the same one. Every once in a while you may need to visit the concession stand, but even that can be rare. The seats are so comfortable. They fold back and cushion your head. Your eyes can focus on the movie and you can set aside all distractions. In the middle of the vast crowd, you are now finally comfortably alone and without any worry.
People scurry from one hall to another. Never content with their choice of movie. But you can sit easy. Relax. You made it into the theater. Now you can rest.

Theater

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

House of the Witch

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

Moon Glow

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

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.

City Lights

The city lights glow phantom like behind pyramids of glass and steel, forging a luminescent backdrop. Outside the city’s glass walls, the night is cold and dark.
They huddle around a burning steel can, their faces orange in the glow. Their hats and gloves are colorful, mismatched, and grimy. Greasy locks of hair dangle from under the hats. Fingers poke out of the broken ends of gloves. Jagged toothed smiles are lit by the firelight like those of jack o lanterns.
They jest and laugh defiantly, their eyes glittering with the knowledge of the street and the dark and this space beyond civilization. In the distance, a woman is screaming. The sound is strangled out by its companion noise, something unintelligible, similar to snarling.
They hear it. It barely scratches their surface, registering in the eyes as a momentary dulling. They continue to talk and joke and drink from dented tin cups passed round. Out beyond them a sleek train runs over a raised rail, noiseless en route to the dignified citadel. Beneath its trestles the pitch blackness yawns in on itself and the snarling slides back into silence.

Pan in the Twilight

The time is both sunrise and sunset and the light from a sun in transit cloaks the mountainside in shades of yellow.
There is a dark figure hidden among thick woods that blanket the protruding earth.
He stands alone, quiet and still observing the earth below. He is a deep blue silhouette against the golden light. His motives are mysterious.
Both man and deer, his form changes constantly.
Sometimes his horns protrude, in other instances, his legs and hooves are obvious simultaneously.
Everything is motionless, the woods, atmosphere, the entire solar system seem to stand still in this moment, not even the wind touches his fur.

Mutant

The house slouches amid the green grasses and yellowed weeds. The concrete paths roll out from the back yard and side porch into the waiting street. They are cracked with great seismic lines out of which crab grass and yellow flowers spring eager to consume man's plan.
On the little side porch there are two men sitting on wooden chairs. To their left, the backyard glows in predawn light. Fruit has fallen from the pomegranate tree and lies rotting among the brick border that has been pushed into disarray by the tree roots. The grass is tall and mingles with anything else that will grow, some of it alive and some of it dead.
There is a creature chained to the back fence. The fence itself is chain link interlaced with brittle wooden blinds. Vines littered with little purple morning glories cling everywhere to its surface. The beast is fastened to it by the neck with a nickel colored chain. So short is the chain that the creature must keep its face pressed into the vines and may not sit.
It stands upright as a man, dressed in jeans and a faded red flannel, but the face is all wrong. Its head is devoid of hair and ears, and something like a short snouted dog muzzle is filled with fierce spike-like teeth. Its deformities call to mind some transitory phase in lupine development, it is neither man nor animal nor even a fully formed monster.
A young woman in a white dress stands very near to it, singing soothingly. Her flaxen hair flows freely over her shoulders and her feet are bare. Capturing drops of dew from the leaves of the vines in one cup she pours the water from that cup to another in a single fluid motion. Without fear of bestial impulse, she gently pours the water into the creature’s open maw, singing its own song to it.

Whorehouse

The main room of the whorehouse has the decor of a doctor’s office; mostly bare, save some plastic chairs and a bio hazard waste basket.
The walls are pristine and white, devoid of stains. It is cold and germ free- lacking any human touch.
The linoleum floor faintly smells of bleach, it shines in a lacquered brilliance, reflecting the glare of the florescent lights overhead.
Upon the light beige counter tops, next to the large stainless steel sink, are two oversized turkey basters. They sit, on a clean paper towel- full of amphetamines and vaccines. The shots are administered before each paying customer.

Facing the Maelstrom

The sea level has risen catastrophically so that what was once a cliff is now a beach. Dark waves tumble chaotically with mammoth force. Creatures are rising from the deep.

Two gray whales breach, their colossal bodies sending the turbulent surface into even greater paroxysms. Swells climb to mountainous heights as innumerable Orcas surface to defy gravity with their awesome acrobatics. These great warm blooded killers move with speed and grace. Their presence is at once mirthful and predatory.

The building sea threatens to swallow the stormy sky. Only a band of fierce clouds streaked by momentary flashes of lightening remains visible. Huge sleek black bodies weave in and out among the choppy surge, darker even than the water, their white markings staring at the shore like big Egyptian eyes. This procession threatens to over take the remaining stretch of beach.

The waters lap at once unknown shores. A handful of daring human beings are in the water with the whales. Their tiny bodies are in constant danger of being swallowed up in the maelstrom, but like the whales, they are gleeful, eager for this encounter.

Panic in the City

High rise buildings in various somber shades cover the earth- dense in their geometric formations. There is smoke coming from one of the towers, shaped like a tall, thin pyramid, thick plumes of gray escape from its pointed peak, rushing to atmospheric freedom.

Surrounding me is panic, the road is consumed with chaos; cars are turning around, trucks are crossing lanes to exit, some speed towards the large bridge in the distance.
The burning gray figure looms close, the ominous vision that further turmoil is imminent.

Path Through The Hills

The hills are dusty and the color of camel humps. Bare of blade, they are littered instead with jagged rocks which thrust themselves out of the surface of dirt like little pointed teeth. The occasional twist of branch jutting out of the hillside only further illustrates the arid condition atop these sunny mounds. These are low growing shrubs and trees that reach out towards the sun and salty sea.
The path is cut into the hills and runs a course high over the green waves. It is narrow and settled deep between walls of parched dirt and sun warmed sandstone. A burrow passes with ease through most of its course, but occasionally the walls give way and the path rises steeply to a narrow ledge. Here the rider must give up the jouncing ride and lead the animal by tether, a perilous operation.
At times the road is lonely. Often however it is flooded by foot traffic coming from the opposite direction. Noisy conglomerations of tanned humanity, feet shod in simple leather sandals struggle to pass burrow and rider on the narrow highway. Baskets and bundles balanced on heads and under arm, they carry on their conversation without greeting the foreign traveler, their white teeth glinting in the sun as their smiles widen and heads are thrown back in laughter. Then they disappear around the bend leaving behind a haze of trail dust and the echo of their voices.
The distant murmur of the sea will fill the silence pending some future encounter. The road is always more solemn in their wake.

Cherry Trees on a Hillside

There are cherry trees in full bloom.

They stand along the lower edge of an isolated hillside, creating a canopy above the trail up and through the land. Their whitish pink blossoms cover each branch in an explosion of delicacy. The flowering mass is so thick that they filter the harsh sunlight of midday, turning the rays into a diffused light with a cool tempered elegance.
In a fury to pollinate, the grove has dropped thousands of soft pink blooms, causing those that walk though the path to sink knee deep into silky petals. With the intention of making a crown, I reach to snap a blossoming sprig. Covering every curve of the tree, down to the thinnest limb, is thick metal wire, deep orange from years of rain and rust, but still dutifully clinging.

Final Walk

There is a black car parked just beyond the trail, on the shoulder of a forgotten road. The air is crisp with chill and a little damp.

Escaping from pale pink lips is an apparition suggestive of vitality. Breath, or spirit, it flees from those thin parted lips with every exhale. The breasts heave under the crisp blouse and tailored suit jacket, clinging to life as the lungs expand to take in another sacrament of life from the atmosphere, before expelling it again.
The shiny black shoes with their commanding square heels plod awkwardly along the dirt course. Shapely legs move mechanically towards their destiny, their elegant contours hidden by the smart gray skirt.

Their master, bleary eyed with un-cried tears has ceased to plead indignation or innocence. Her fate is certain.

In another setting, in a banquet hall, before a podium, in a marbled office, this elegant blonde creature would be an imposing figure, only those with power would dare to hold her frosty gaze. Here, her glossy hair and fine suit hold no enchantment against the low growing yellow grass and petite white wild flowers. The trappings and tricks of the cunning human animal and its politics fade against the elemental. In this quiet field laced by the outlines of towering trees, they only betray her mortal vulnerability.

With fawn-like submissiveness she tramples onward, the menacing figure at her back driving her along the path, towards the wilderness and oblivion. Calm and sure footed, this other moves with the absolute certainty of triumph. One black gloved hand wields death in the form of a drab 9 mm Luger. A shadow in a wool overcoat, this calculating, patient adversary urges its ward forward.

On she goes, waiting for the tell tale "crack" that will shatter the silence as bullet parts from chamber and slices through the same air that she now labors to breathe. With each progressing step the expectancy grows, but the only sound is that of her own ragged breathing and the crunch of dirt clods under heel.

A far away mist veils the sky muting the sun's seeking rays. It hangs like a white backdrop against which the jagged tree tops are a sinister green-black. They cut into the whiteness like a hungry line of teeth. The trail slopes downward to pass through a barren little valley. Nothing there but the stunted blades of yellowed grass fringed with sparkling frost and the little white flowers drooping with wet and cold.

Desolate Road

There is a car on a desolate road. It is alone, a small speck in a greater landscape of hills and plains. Somewhere, hidden in the valleys are rouge houses and abandoned cars, but now, the car is the solitary mark of the human world. The sun shines, warm and bright, but the air is cool…bringing with it the knowledge that this warmth will change into something else, that nothing is constant. The tar black road creeps at an angle, heading up towards the foothills beyond. Large hills, like rounded walls on both the right and left of the highway block the view of anything else. They are massive in their abruptness, the warm mounds resemble the thighs of a woman, with her legs spread wide apart. Hugging her skin and soil are the dry golden grasses that lay flat, all struggle towards growth has ended, the season has changed and they lay down on their sides, submissive to the great cycles.

Guest House

The house is mammoth and labyrinthine with red wood floors and elegant fixtures. The stairs are wide. There are both large airy halls and luxurious rooms, and cramped quarters and narrow corridors.

Tall and plain with a frank bearing, the owner of the house acts as a gracious host. He and his father built the house from the ground up, and yet he is anything but possessive of it.
Maintained and stewarded by him, the house accommodates many guests. They are drawn here by some thread of destiny, a mysterious call.
Some are more aware of it than others. Here, they wait for something. It is understood that only a few will be together in the end.
One gentle natured guest has hypnotizing blue eyes veined with amber. These veins of color seem to form a sigil of some kind, the shape of which is treelike. He sits upon a red velvet upholstered couch in one of the expansive common rooms. Overhead a golden chandelier emits a hospitable glow.

Night Meeting

A wooden canoe floats on black water. Stolen from its area of storage, it drifts now in a lake, surrounded by 200 ft pine trees and swapmy shores. There is a hint of cooler days to come, but now, the night air is warm and still, not a ripple laps the wooden sides.
A young woman, perhaps 20 years old stands in the vessel, an ivory dress clings to her body. It drapes over her curves, covering her legs and arms completely, just the white of her chest is exposed, her heavy breathing accentuating the smoothness of her skin and roundness of her breasts.
She gazes at the black bearded sorcerer who stands waist deep in the water, just a couple feet from her. Returning her gaze, they are perfectly still. A soft glow of sparkling gold emanates the space around them.
There is no fear of this darkness, the night is theirs alone.

Ancient Trees

Their bodies are gnarled and gray. Spanning out like the fingers of an outstretched hand their branches hold up crowns of fiery orange leaves while their roots, in some instances, surface above ground like breached whales.
The dank earth is obscured by a blanket of titian mirroring the canopy above. The color is startling and vivid, lending life to the ancient trees pocketed with dark cavities like open mouths filled with gauzy spiders webs.
A perfect morning light filters down through the florid plafond, caressing every bough, sparkling off of every arachnid spun thread, conspiring with these elements to perfect beauty, inspire awe, and make hearts peaceful. An assembly of monarch butterflies flutters delicately near a spiders meandering gossamer weave. It is positioned loftily between two high branches, one of which is bent like a crooked elbow. On another gray limb two brown squirrels play, barely visible behind the whitish veil of cobwebs.
The hush about the place in miraculously undisturbed by the creatures dwelling here. Their movements only feed the quiet with their rustle. Everything is drawn in like a stilled breath.

Dragon

There is flutter and fury within the grand stone banquet hall. People in shabby wool clothes anxiously wait, filling the second floor interior balcony- the ledge stretches the entire length of the stone room. On the main floor below, there are peasants holding torches, providing the light and casting dancing shadows upon the massive cold walls. In the center, filling the empty space is a blue dragon. Breathing fire and bearing a cross, he is a mile tall, easily reaching the ceiling, looking at those of us on the balcony at eye level. It is him that is calling the battle, calling the names of people and animals meant to fight- it is a battle for the universe, communicated both subtly and forcefully with his presence and fire.
I am on the balcony, the dragon is before us, he is calm, watching attentively. The carved stone railing that once prevented a fall from such a height has crumbled, nothing stands between us. There is a stainless steel table at the ledge, and upon it, a woman. My hands are gripped tightly around her neck, holding her forcefully to the metal surface. The dragon has made it known she is on the list of the "fighters". The realization comes as a shock, she thought she would be someone’s lover, this, perhaps sparing her from battle. Now, her body rocks and squirms, vibrating with pain while she is injected with powers meant to aid the fight. My hands tighten, gripping as she convulses, becoming bald. Her body soon evaporates, transformed into a flock of five bats, beating their wings furiously, they fly out of the grand room into the reddish black night.

The Outcasts

It is a creature too human-like to be anything but revolting for its differences.
Its saggy, baggy flesh droops from the chest and the area where it should have genitals. Worse, it is hairless but has a hideously long cap of flesh that dangles from the crown of the skull. This is much too long, like a nylon stocking made of skin and it makes me queasy to think of it incidentally flapping against me.
Totally naked, there is an embryonic quality to its presence, as if in an early stage of development its psychic as well as physical formation deviated from what we sapiens would consider completion.
There are others like it here and there. All are shunned by the nicely formed human machines that hurry to shop in the outdoor mall, their high heels clicking, painted faces turned from the abominations among them.
They seem cognizant, but in a way that is grossly different from myself and my kind, especially given the similarities.
They seem incapable of clear movement, and drift like timid bits of kelp on a tide, torn from the forests of the deep.
Making weird cooing noises as if it were imitating the sounds of birds, this one lingers around a fountain.
These sounds are not a language as we know it. It is consciousness riding in pure sound. Quelling my revulsion, I look into its eyes and begin to coo in response.

Theft at the Airport

I am in a crowded airport, in seems to be in an urban area, somewhere in the South. I am at the bottom of five stairwells and there are people, mostly black youth, going in all directions.

It is all very chaotic and I see a young man in a maroon jersey running up the stairs with my computer. I had left it on a podium, thinking my friend's would watch it, but never clearly communicating my need before i had stepped away to use the phone.
I stare helplessly as the boy is climbing to the top of the landing. I yell "stop that guy! he stole my computer!!" Some people reach out to grab him, both mechanically and unenthusiastically, barely slowing him down.
But he's stopped just enough that a small crowd of teenagers is able to descend upon him, slinging punches..they push him into the bathroom and retrieve the computer. When I suddenly find myself in the bathroom, I realize they haven'tbeat him to save my computer or to help me, they have stopped him because they want the computer for themselves. I hold the computer in my arms like a baby while begging them to let me make copies of my data before they take the computer 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.