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.

Transient Contact

I am houseguest in a new mansion. It has the feel of a colonial track home, made to look authentic but you can tell it's an imitation, the old time feeling is just not captured.
This is my temporary home. I don’t know where I came from or where I am going, but there is a room with many beds, for transients like myself, and I am calling this home for the time being.
There has been an outdoor barbeque in the shade across the street from the house and I am the last person cleaning up and gathering the small amount of trash that remains.
There is the relaxed atmosphere of a summer party coming to a close, the air is still warm and there is no need to hurry. A small white pickup truck drives by me, I make eye contact with the young white man in the driver’s seat, his skin is tan from working or playing outdoors. We lock eyes and I smile as the car moves past me.
He is stunned by my smile, wanting to feel the emotion again, he stops the car and backs up, repeating the scenario, I smile again.
The realization hits me: I need to end contact with this man, we cannot take this flirtation any further. I turn my head and walk away to find the trash can, feeling his eyes follow me.

Father Talks

An arrangement of family members are crowded into a stark little room. Many are gathered seated around a folding table.
There are no pictures on the walls, and the only other furniture consists of a handful of folding chairs. There is an air of disposability to the space.
Despite this fact everyone is behaving as if they are in a cozy dining room. It seems to be a family reunion.
My cousin is a dashing young man with a head of shiny blond hair. He reminds me of a male version of myself, or a younger replication of my father. I feel very fond of him.
My father is trying to make a point and begins to relate his experience as a cast member of A Chorus Line. I had no idea my father had ever been involved in theater.
This comes as a shock and I am awed by the humility exemplified by my father in divulging this to us. He speaks uncertainly, struggling to tell us something real but locked into his habitual approach to communication.
My cousin is angered by the approach my father is taking, his need to make a point and the supposition that everyone should share his point of view. He completely misses what is really coming through because he reacts to the delivery.

Open and Exposed

My legs are spread wide open as I lay naked on a table.
I am docile, unsure how i got there or when i may leave.
There are two people crouching, kneeling close to my legs, they are peering inside. I recognize the dark haired woman, but the man at her side is a stranger to me.
A handful of small white stones that resemble pearls have just fallen out of my vagina. They bounce slighty and roll away. The couple have noticed the stones and are curious. With their eyes and body language, they communicate with each other: What were those little white things? Will she produce any more? They move even closer to my vagina and look, stopping just short of touching me.

Little Dorothy

I still want to tell him about my dream, but we leave the stone courtyard with the bench and its withered occupant: the eavesdropping old man.

My companion leads the way to the street. His black hair is blowing in the brisk breeze. I insist that I have more to tell him but he says he doesn’t want to hear anymore. The sky is overcast, the atmosphere cool and moist suggesting that we are near the sea. There are people out on the street busy with their own affairs. The have an idyllic old world look to them. It seems possible that they are Dutch. They wear funny shoes, white aprons and hats. My companion is walking quickly and it is difficult for me to catch up. He isn’t waiting for me and takes no notice when I fall behind. Frustrated I stop. He hurries along oblivious to my absence. I watch him for a moment, my own straw colored hair lashing my cheeks in the wind. Resigned I let go of my open umbrella and it tumbles down the street, blown in the same direction as my companion. I turn my back on them and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

Suddenly I hear tires screeching in the road behind me. I turn and see a little girl in a blue dress and white apron crumpled in the street. She lies unmoving at the nose of a big black automobile, a classic car with a shiny chrome bumper. A woman cries out,"It’s Dorothy! She’s dead!"The girl, blonde braids spilled about her crown, is indeed dead, but the woman must be mistaken.
I am Dorothy.

The Times They Are A'changing

I have been on a beach for years, spending the days playing soccer in a bikini. Each day bleeds into the next with the same activity. The light is both dark and light at the same time, existing someplace out of the normal day and night categories.
There has been a small tribe of hippies living on this beach, pursing happiness. Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A' Changin' starts playing over a loud speaker, and I kneel down, crying. In the middle of my tears, l look up and notice that one of the hippy girls has taken off her worn bikini and changed into some stylish black clothes, she is looking at me through a plate glass window, sorrowfully waving goodbye.
I continue to cry, knowing that one day I will do the same thing, I will leave, with hardly any words to the people who knew and loved me.

Never Fast Enough

There are people everywhere enjoying themselves. The tables are all covered with white or pink table cloths. I am removing the dirty white dishes that constantly pile upon the table tops. The crowd is feasting. Caterers in white dress shirts, black vests and bow ties bring out the elegant looking plates of food.
I , in uniform as well, clear away the unwanted remains. There is music and laughter, the tinkle of clinked stemware and the scrip scrape of knifes scratching plates. Little ribbon and pearl centerpieces adorn the tables. Round men in tuxedos bare toothy grins. Women in satin and taffeta don tight hair buns and white gloves.
I scramble to keep up with the pile up of dirty dinner ware. I carry a toppling stack back into a kitchen. Here I meet with an obstacle: an insurmountable mountain of plastic folding chairs bars me from the great stainless steal sink. I try to climb it balancing my unstable tower of dishes. I become stuck partway up, physically unable to cross the distance.
The dishwasher is a middle aged man wearing a huge white chefs hat, white pants, shirt, and apron. He has a clean looking mustache and glowers down on me while complaining boisterously about my incompetent handling of the situation. I know that in the dining room the situation must be getting out of hand.

Exposed Sensuality

I am in a small square pool in an Arabian courtyard. The robe I have used so often to cover myself is all wet.
I notice an old man with a white beard look at me. He is in the pool, and he looks with both disapproval and lust when my robe accidentally drifts above my ankle.
The garden walls and grass around us have melted and only a blanket of water exists, I see dozens of women in the distance. They are all wet, bathing in their robes. Most of the women are sitting upon a large stone, close to the surface of the water, all of them have their robes pulled over their ankles, almost covering their toes.
But there is another woman, up to her knees in the water and surrounded by bright golden light. She is youthful and her blond hair has been tied in two braids. She is unconcerned with her veil, although two of her friends are trying to adjust her headscarf and cover her exposed arms and neck before she is punished for her sensuality and sexuality. She smiles slightly, loving the sensual pleasure of water and sun.

Predators

The houses are solemn, the street is empty and quiet. I strike out towards the beach, my feet thudding rhythmically upon the black asphalt of the avenue until I reach the sidewalk stretching along the camel colored sands. The sky is overcast and I am struck by so much gray, the hazy heavens above, the concrete below and a steely chain link fence bordering the walkway.

At the first post of the fence, where the street meets the sidewalk, I pass a woman with long dark hair and a similarly featured little girl. I look into the woman’s eyes as I pass.

There is a predatorial, reptilian quality to the way they size me up, dilated pupils and green irises fixed on my passage.

As I walk, I realize the little girl has stepped onto the sidewalk and is trailing behind me. She is just a little girl, I tell myself, but I feel fearful, I am being stalked. I walk faster and in return her pace is hastened. I break into a run, part from the walkway to plod through the sand. It slows me down, absorbs the shock of my footfall as the grain shift around my bare toes and heels. The girl pursues me, her mother lingering in the distance, keeping track of the hunt. The dark and white crested surf licks at the shore with a constant murmur, reaching out from a black horizon. I veer towards it, an escape plan working it’s way into muscular action.

Ancient Dance

Everything is black except the dancing bodies illuminated by firelight.

I sense that we are on the edge of a tall cliff with nothingness spilling into the distance. The women who were once covered in veils and cloth have shed their layers, given up their modesty and fear of earthly retribution by decency, laws and men.

There are female drummers along the edge of the cliff, the shadows of flames move across their amber skin.

One clearly visible drummer is wearing tattered clothes, sexy in their dirtiness and caveman aesthetic.

All of the women are barefoot, dancing on the floor of an ancient, sacred cliff. Long, wavy hair sways wildly in circles as they move. Their movements look like guttural, body responses to the calls and instructions of the rhythms. The movements are heavy and pound upon and into the earth with extreme intention.

Skeleton House

The frame of a house stands in front of other houses built on a charming residential street. It is a mere skeleton with flights of stairs reaching more than seven stories into the air. There are no walls and no floors, only the basic outline and those stairs.

My companion urges me to enter, and with another friend in front of him and myself taking up the rear we begin to ascend the flights of stairs. I can see the rectangles of green grass lined up beside the sidewalk below.

When I glance to my right I am looking at a complete house painted in a very regal eggplant hue. To my left is the street, more grass, sidewalk, and high end homes. Their front doors have brass knockers, their windows are arched rather than squared.

The structure we are in is out of place, practically in the front yard of the eggplant house. We are nearly to the third floor when it begins to sway unsteadily to and fro.

For a moment it leans on the house to the right. Then suddenly every beam gives way, the stairs fall into a line of planks, like toothpicks glued end to end set dangling in mid air.

I have managed to grip this. I am swinging on it, trying to reach my friends hanging from suspended beams before they fall.

Underwater

I was in a small octagonal submarine with a mission to learn seaweed harvesting techniques. As we went down, liquid came through the bottom of the craft. It was green and gelatinous, and I became claustrophobic from the thought of soon needing to get into the water and use a square black breathing device that was known to attract sharks and dolphins, which was apparently useful for our purpose.

Attack from Within

Her hair is almost white, her fair complexion is masked by an elaborate paint job. The pattern is exotic, the colors vivid. Bright red features predominately.

She is on the floor convulsing. For the first time I am able to perceive that which vexes her.

It is barely visible, a yellowish vapor with a distinct shape. It reaches into her through her vagina with two arm like tentacles.

They look like the spine of some bony fish made outrageously long. Its head is featureless and elliptical, protruding from the end of a gangly limb like torso nearly undistinguishable from the other two appendages. It moves with determination and presence, clearly a calculating life form. I sense that it derives some satisfaction from its probing and the screams it elicits.

As her writhing and her cries cease I look away not wanting to comprehend the significance of such sudden silence.

Twisting Road

I am driving on a twisting, winding road in El Salvador with my sister.
The road is narrow and treacherous, plenty of people have accidentally driven off by a slight gust of wind.
We are headed over a mountain covered in lush jungle foliage and I have a birds-eye-view of the car. As I try to concentrate on the road, I take a quick glance at my sister and notice she is my mirror image.
She gasps as she remembers she has forgotten something, I wonder if we should head back...although I am unclear where back is.
Is it in front of us or behind us? It is clear that we have been here before..the end and the beginning are blurred.