Endless School

The hallways extend in all directions, connected by stairways and ramps. Each hallway is lined with doors that lead to classrooms. There is a constant noise that swarms through the place, bouncing off the walls, seeping through little holes, taking sharp turns around corners. The walls are of different colors, some white, some blue, some bright red. The stairways are all metallic silver. No area is the same as another. The colors and turns intersect in unpredictable ways and form new structures in every direction. Most of the doors are closed, each with a number and a bulletin board to the right, most of them empty. There is a sense of a crowd but no sign of it, loose words and laughter flash through the noise here and there but nobody can be seen walking through the halls, up the stairways or into the rooms.
The building complex sits on top of a large grassy hill and continues inside of it. The structure extends under the earth and pokes out from gaps here and there, along the slopes of grass and between little patches of tall ancient trees. A wide concrete stairway cuts the hill in two and leads to a center plaza, a round space covered in concrete with a tall single sculpture at its center. The sculpture is a very abstract representation of a man with arms extended upwards. It towers over the plaza impressively, at least 30 feet tall. At its base there is a large bronze metal plaque that says "above" in a vast number of languages and alphabets. From afar the surface of the sculpture seems to be light gray, up close, it has a slightly green color.
The large central stairway leads to a secondary building complex at the bottom. Its first level is lined with glass doors, all of them closed and dark. Its second level is twice the height of the first one and it is made of a single large window that acts as a huge mirror, reflecting the buildings above it. There are further stairways on either side that continue moving downward. Inside the main building there is large lobby, with couches and tables. There are newspapers still open and scribbled post it notes scattered over the tables. Wooden doors to the south lead to a small movie theater. The main screen is blank but the projector is on, spilling pure light onto the white surface. There is a book open on the podium and a stack of papers on a small table to the right.
To the left of the screen, there is a small doorway. It leads to a dark staircase going downward. It ends in an even darker hallway, where the walls are painted black and the only light comes from small lights that are over 50 feet apart from each other. Beside each light is a door, unmarked and locked. The hallways extends back into the depths of the hill. As it reaches deeper, the air becomes more oppressive and the walls are covered in moisture. The sound of the crowd above is deafening, almost making the ceiling shake, and it is contrasted with tiny drops of water that echo with a bright crystalline clarity.
At the very bottom of the hill, the hallway opens up into a circular room. There are three other long hallways extending away from this room. In the very center, there is small pool. Above the pool, the ceiling is open and it extends upwards as a smooth concrete cylinder. In the center of the pool, there is a small concrete pedestal and on top of it, a golden chalice full of blood. On its side there is a large bronze metal plaque that says "below" in a vast number of languages and alphabets. The noise that extends through the whole underground seems to be loudest in this place, resonating through the cement cylinder that extends up towards the plaza and the tall sculpture above.

Powder Room

An archway leads from the main chamber to the bath and powder room. Just beyond its semi elliptical frown, the mirror shimmers, reflecting the world it can see, perfectly inverted. Around its edges, titian and cream colored seashells are arranged, framing the view. A large starfish adorns the counter, flanked on both sides by more ruffled seashells. Its top is void of cosmetics. Only a silver handled comb and hair brush lie waiting, attended by a row of empty perfume bottles fashioned of crystal and Egyptian glass. A velvet upholstered antique stool adds it’s own flourish to the baroque powder room. It is invitingly large, it’s fawn colored cushion, rectangular in shape, suggests that more than one lady could sit here if necessary. The cast iron legs bow flamboyantly, looking as if they wish to clearly demonstrate that they have held the weight of elegant women for at least the last hundred years. The bath is beside the powder room, through another open doorway. There is a Roman air about it, not only because it is larger than necessary for a solitary bather, but also because of the manner in which it is set in the floor, in the center of the room. The tiles are all white with blue designs like Dutch delftware. There are steps built inside the bath, like the steps of a swimming pool. They extend around the entire perimeter of the bath, which, like the stool and mirror in the powder room, is rectangular. The entire space seems to be designed for lounging both in and out of the bath. Tile settees are positioned with the walls as backings. Fresh towels and white terry cloth robes hang plentifully from ornate hooks on the walls. An additional surplus is folded and stacked on one of the four settees. They have been carefully laundered so that they are soft and springy to the touch and smell of unscented detergent. In the main chamber, the carpet is a pearly mocha shag which extends into the powder room. There are a pair of complimentary dressers, one tall and one short, both simple and unassuming in appearance. Fashioned of a dark stained wood they rest against their respective walls hugging their empty drawers and looking important. The short one is wider and supports a mirror. Strings of glass beads hang from the mirrors corners, (it too is rectangular). Both dressers are home to doilies, books of pressed flowers, and decoratively placed pearls. An antique crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling catching the light and transforming it into glittering butterflies. It’s lead crystals are amber hued. The bed is big and well dressed in a subtle paisley and tone-on-tone diamond jacquard comforter peeled back to reveal Egyptian cotton sheets. The thread count is high enough that they shine like ivory satin. In their tangled midst, nestled among the strewn pillows, two figures negotiate their positions in relation to one another. The man is both muscular and pudgy with the strength of a wrestler. His sandy colored hair has been buzz cut so that the rolls of flesh at the nape of his neck are visible when he moves his head. His buttocks appear to be a little flat and a long lions tale extends from above the crack. Completely nude, he alters his position as coerced by the woman who motivates him by rubbing between his legs until she can hold his erect penis in her hand and stroke it. The long blond hair cascading over her shoulders teases his skin. The bright red lipstick painted on her supple lips contrasts with the lavender corset and thong that squeezes her breasts to attention while leaving her soft rear exposed. Their negotiations are difficult and quarrelsome. A steel sword rests against the bedside, it’s point sinking into the shag.

Red Light

The bright light of early afternoon has blanketed the one-way city street. There are an assortment of semi- tall buildings and skyscrapers, some are sleek and new, their mirrored windows reflecting the perfect blue sky. Other are smaller, only ten stories high, remnants from an early period of architecture and city planning, the building faces are decorated with colorful tile work, geometric brick patterns, and wrought iron gates. The street is composed of three lanes, and I sit idling in the center lane, waiting at a red light. My hands are resting on the top of my steering wheel, gripping it out of habit. Within the small cab of my black truck, I feel the heat of the day amplified by the windshield. I am wearing a low cut T-shirt, and the exposed skin on my chest is warm and red from the sunlight. To my right is a man in a silver car, his hairy arm hangs out the window, his pudgy hand holds a burning cigarette. The smell surrounding me is a mix of smoke, car exhaust, and asphalt.
To my left is a liquor store, a black man in a black beanie emerges from the store with a poorly disguised vodka bottle in a paper sack. A short white man wearing a gray sweatshirt stands outside the entrance, smoking a cigarette. He looks up and down the street often, squinting his eyes with each inhalation. On the other side of the street is a small office supply store and an abandoned-feeling real estate office. Men in business suits move quickly on the sidewalks, a woman in a knee length brown skirt pushes a baby carriage toward the city center, and delivery men come and go with carts full of perishables.
My car window is open, and the sounds of accelerating cars and muffled ranchero music enters the space. There is a man pressed against my car. He is leaning in my window, his hands holding onto the steering wheel. As our eyes lock, he alternates between a human form, with distinguishable features and then, into a shadowy body with no face. He wears all dark clothes, black pants and a black hooded sweatshirt, and atop his bald head is a black hat. I smell his clothes, dirty and reeking of staleness. His face alternates from one of blackness without any shape to one of olive skin and a vague, stubbly beard. When he has eyes, they are dark brown and piercing, his eyebrows are thick with many long stray hairs turning away from any clear formation. He holds the wheel firmly with no intention of letting go.

Two Islands

It is the light of early morning. Free of any trace of dawn, a crystalline brightness is in place. It is as if dawn had never been, and dusk will never be, and the overbearing presence of noonday sun is but a myth. The sky is an unimposing blue reflected perfectly in the water which holds two sandy isles interminably apart from any other land mass and teasingly separate from one another. They are so close that they are almost one, but the sea finds its way between them as the waves lap at their shores. As each group of waves rolls out to make way for the next, a narrow band of wet sand is exposed, the link between the twin islands. It is as if they hold hands under the water, keeping their bond in discretion. The water comes and goes between them. They accept its constant demand for attention, the way it tickles their extremities and holds them apparently apart. The sea water sparkles like liquid silver kissing their shores and flowing into little eddies. Its motion is gentle. Water creeps to shore in elliptical arms of foam and scattered sand and slips away again without commotion. It is quiet, making hardly a sound as it makes its rounds. Like a gentle breath it whispers in and out.
Ivory columns rise from the soft mounds of sand, the remains of a forgotten civilization. They look as smooth and creamy colored as if time and the elements have never touched them. There is no sign of weathering and yet walls are missing, blocks lay scattered in configurations that dance between the realms of chaos and symmetry, and columns lay in peaceful repose.
On the larger isle the ruins are mainly intact. Open aired temples slope slightly, as if one half of their structures are slowly sinking, being swallowed by the fawn colored grains of sand. Their floors are absent under those same hungry kernels. Nowhere is there a symbol, or sign, or statue to betray an origin. They stand plain and silent, void of explanation, free of personality. From the centermost structure every shore of the island is in plain view, no more than 30 feet away in any direction.
The smaller island is even more diminutive, hardly a sliver. It is placid host to a few fallen walls and two natural rock formations which lay sprawled like creatures from the deep come to lounge upon its scant surface. Dark gray and cool to the touch, these boulders have been shaped by the sea. They hold its precious deposits, tiny white shells embedded in their surfaces.
Silver foamed surf laps gingerly at a little pool that has collected near one of these inert bodies. The pool is filled with stones, each perfectly rounded by an eternal affair with sand and water. Some are of an earthy yellow hue, others as clear as glass. Polished by nature’s invisible hand, they are smooth and shiny. By some means, they have come to be stacked in the pool so that they form a lazy pyramid, sparkling under the water’s surface. The eye is drawn to them, the hand will yearn to touch. Their rarity and unassuming beauty lends them a value that far out reaches currency. Nothing is comparable. Like everything else here, there is nothing that they may be measured against, no sign of time or trend to define them.
The two islands cling to one another, without a past or future, holding their ageless ward; the alabaster ruins and its natural treasures, just above water level.

Ash World

There are stairs which climb and bend endlessly. Formed of concrete and carbon steel rebar, they produce a hallow twang with every footfall. The sound lonesomely echoes within the cavernous structure. The concrete of the stairs is flecked with miniscule tan and gray pebbles. This adornment is absent in the flat corridors which branch off from them. Tree house style walkways and halls run along empty walls and plain faced doors. These doors bear no numbers nor any other sign to betray what secret places hide behind their blank gaze. A sickening shade of pasty gray, they do little to stand out against the similarly white hued walls. It gives the impression that everything is bathed in ash.
Even the occasional humanoid figure clipping distractedly along a walkway seems to be this color. They tend to be dressed in the attire of medical professionals, in the sexless pajama like garb donned by dental technicians, nurses, and surgeons. Looking down as they exit a steel door elevator or disappearing down a dark hallway, they move without grace or life, marching purposefully and bitterly in predetermined directions. Their authoritatively passive aggressive auras hang over them as tangibly as a bad smell.
The halls veer off of the exposed walkways feeding into enclosed networks given to a multitude of labyrinthine turns. These halls are long and their ends are never clear, the view ahead is consistently bathed in darkness. Shadow reaches out from every crevice and corner. Without windows or noticeable light fixtures, what sterile illumination there is, emanates meekly from an undetermined source. Around some turns, a dead end awaits in the shape of an empty gray culvert. There are no potted plants, no skylights or windows, no paintings, and no directories. It seems as if the charmless hallways and skeletal stairways may go on endlessly in every direction, an inescapable and well contained world.
Here and there an opening may be encountered, a pseudo door made of sheets of opaque colorless plastic hanging from overhead. They shimmy a little, disturbed by a draft from behind. With their unsettling appearance comes expectations of a quarantine center, or a room undergoing structural repair. This uninviting prospect gives them a sinister presence. The air blowing out from behind them is cold and stale. A faint synthetic odor prevails over the entire labyrinthine tableau. It smells something like rubber or paint, but is insidiously subtle. Like fluoride in drinking water, it links arms with what precious breathable oxygen is available, and by being discrete it slips in with every inhalation, undeterred.
Along with that inescapable scent an eerie quiet inhabits the stairways, and corridors. Elevator doors slide open with a hushed whisper. The rare echoing thump, twang of footsteps stabs at the soul. Beneath it all is a barely perceptible hum, tempered perhaps with an even less perceptible ring, like the noise generated by fluorescent lights. It vibrates from every tangible pore of concrete and steel, droning inexplicably and so subtly it can pass itself off as a trick of a tainted mind. Like a corkscrew, the stairs spiral nauseatingly upward. Into the deepening gray, they rise and descend to open upon further floors of claustrophobic halls, tree house walkways, and row upon row of impersonal gray doors. Many of these doors are locked, or may be opened to reveal a clean slab of impenetrable wall. These decoys are numerous. Like the empty chambers in a pistol engaged in a harrowing game of Russian roulette, every closed door is ominous, because the very air and every dark corner of this place says that something sinister must lie in wait, somewhere within the quiet halls, the endless walls and the silent elevators.

Field

There is a flat field covered in long stalks of dry yellow grass. Sometimes used as a breeding ground for pumpkins, the harvest is long over, and the brittle blades have submitted months ago to the sun and ever changing weather. They have laid down and created a soft bed upon the land, although not a soul treads upon the land. The field is not square or rectangular, nor does it resemble any shape cut or devised by man. A rough semi-circle that stretches to eternity, there is no indication of what lays beyond the horizon…ocean, land…it is impossible to tell…just dry land covered in fallen weeds. The western boundary of the field is naturally created by the jagged cliffs of narrow mountains. They are relatively small and short mountains, the detailed landscapes of their tops are visible from the field, but they cannot be called hills. Their energy is too strong…they are old, they are mountains carved and shaped by the forces of nature, old and strong, deep and silent.
The shades of fall have bathed the field and the mountains. The sky is gray in hue and thin wisps of smoke-like clouds struggle over the high peaks and slowly descend, like white lava spilling over the rocks and treetops. Curving and curling, the clouds snake through barren oak branches, they diverge and move elegantly around solid matter in their path. The northern and southern boundaries are created by rows of enormous oak trees and their leaf-less boughs jut in every direction, looking stark and imposing in the landscape.
Everything…the shrubs, trees, grass, rocks…everything is covered with the muted colors of fall. There are no brilliant colored leaves or glistening hues in the environment, everything is awash in the pale matte shades of orange, yellow, brown and green. The tree trunks are orange, the grasses brown, the rocks yellow, the soil green.
There are two women on a floating bench. They circulate a small perimeter within the field. They stare solemnly, their heads pointed only forward, never moving to the sides or towards each other. Without a hint of smile or passion, they are carried around and around by an invisible force. Their skin is the same yellow as the rocks, their hair the same green as the soil, their clothes match the orange color of the tree trunks; they sit like statues upon their moving bench, an expression of muted apathy frozen upon their skin.

Western Saloon

There is a modern drinking saloon, somewhere in the middle of the southwestern North American desert. Outside the premises is a barren wasteland, there are no houses, schools or people. The only sign of human society in this environment is the deserted saloon. Inside, there are signs of years of use. The wooden floors, made of a light blond wood are well worn from boot heels and dropped beer bottles. The walls still reverberate with sounds, yet a silence has begun to creep in, as if all the dwellers of this space left very quickly.
There are two rooms, although they are only separated by two protruding 2 foot walls, extending from both the southern and northern walls. The small dividers merely give the slight illusion of separate rooms. The smaller space that one walks into from the desert is the bar room. The southern and western walls, nearly thirty feet tall are made only of glass. The heat of the day pours in. The small rectangular room is empty, save for a wooden bar and the five matching wooden stools topped with red leather seat cushions that line it. Behind the bar is a wooden stairway and carved banister. They lead to a small loft space, where the barkeeper would sleep when the last of the unruly customers would saunter home at 4 in the morning.
To the right of the bar room is the gathering room. The room is arranged with clusters of four or five high- backed wooden chairs clustered around a knee high wooden table. There are dozens of seating arrangements in the large window-less room. The only light comes from the windows in the bar room, and the light in the gathering room is cool and diffused, creating a darker stillness within the space. Along the northern wall is a row of dark brown leather booths. Decorating the northern wall, from the top of the thirty ft wall down to the booths are a series of mirrors.
There are seven rows, each row consisting of seven equally sized rectangular mirrors. The mirrors have a dark wood border/frame. Each mirror is 3 and a half feet tall and 2 and a half feet wide. In the center of each mirror is a large image of different men on horseback. This is a commemorative series depicting the men who led and won the battles for the west. The men all glare directly into the eyes of the observer, delivering such an intensity that it appears as if the horse and rider could burst into the room at any moment, bringing the smell of leather, dust, and horse sweat with them. They are all dressed in the style of the times, except the rogue two who wear leather cowboy jackets. Despite these the two wild ones, they all have large moustaches, dark military uniforms, and the posture of one who believes absolutely in manifest destiny.
In some subtle way, the mirrors are also advertising cheap American beer, although there is no overt name or signage. The advertising and message seem to ooze from the mirrors, psychically communicating their campaign without any need for direct linguistic transmission.

Out of the 36 mirrors, there is one…on the last row from the top and the last one on the right. He is an Indian man. He rides a chocolate brown horse and he is also wearing a cowboy jacket although he is practically naked besides this and his loin cloth. His hair is black and long, blowing wildly in the breeze. He stares solemnly out, knowing what is to come. He is only 39, but looks battle worn and hard, his cool black eyes defeat any attempt at subversion. This is the warrior who led his people to battle, defeating the invading white army only once before annihilation.

Construction Zone

On the corner of the bustling shopping center, already known and frequented by the local community, an ambitious construction project is underway. A flimsy chain link fence surrounds the dusty site, the worn woven metal providing little more than a psychological barrier between the concrete shopping center and this budding new project. There is a big gap in the fence, making it easy for the workers to enter and exit, but also leaving it accessible to any member of the public to enter the restricted zone. The enclosed area is large, big enough to contain the planned 5000 square foot store that will sit here in the near future. The ground is made of dirt and the 12 inch boot imprints of construction workers poke the dusty surface. A small handful of construction workers are present, each looking identical in their uniform of blue jeans, white sweatshirts, tan boots and white hardhats. Construction has just recently begun, only a dozen metal beams have been put in place to create the foundation of the building, and three steel beams, almost four hundred feet tall stand vertically. Despite the size of the proposed project, there is a quiet calm within the construction site, like the relaxed mood of a warm Sunday afternoon. The small group of men work efficiently with the instilled knowledge of their craft. They move confidently and smoothly, knowing all the necessary steps needed to complete the project. Hardly a sound moves through the construction zone, communication is exchanged psychically or through eye contact when needed, but this is rare; every man knows his role and performs each small task with an effortless ease. Four of them are working on raising a metal frame, the dark metallic frame looks purple in the sunlight and the huge square piece of welded steel rises vertically into the air, forming the skeleton of the new building. With only a couple men, they manage to lift a thousand tone of metal, there are no cranes or mechanized machines in sight. A construction worker every so often descends from the top of the highest metal beam. His toes are tucked into a groove in the small metal beam and he slides down to the earth slowly, like Dracula with his arms crossed at his chest and still wearing a hardhat.

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.