(for Velocity)
The Vegas lights edged the landing strip of foreign invaders, the undulating forgotten origin that forged desert sand into monuments of clear silica pillars. She had arrived from the post of all “posts”, the mismatched oasis whose creativity was so spontaneous it, by necessity, combusted.
The heat contrasted oddly with the cool neon that sought to eliminate all vestiges of absence. And yet absence was all pervading.
She had come to this town to taste the legendary fashion that was rumored to explode metastatic into rains of rein stones. She toyed with fashion like autumn trees fired their leaves to stand naked with audacity. She toyed with fashion like a collection of 1960’s Playboys revealed in the corner of a used bookstore.
It amused her to assume magazine personas of eras whose meteorites had lost their trails through the night sky. Not that one could see the past through the glare of the ever present signage.
Even as the lush and beautiful woman she had become she still clung to the little girl dress-up fantasies, their meaning mutated from frustrated want to coy in-joke. She would paint her body in mode after mode only to reveal, surprise of all surprises, there was a real person at the core and the joke is on you.
It amused her to assume magazine personas, the bright primary colors that enticed travelers to lighten their wallets on their way to three shows nightly.
It amused her to assume magazine personas from a time that appeared to have a cultural clarity, a simplistic view of a world that no longer existed.
It amused her to assume magazine personas for this present season, this present phase of her life.
She knew in the end history would find her, she would move from deserts to lands with deep slow flowing rivers. Move from magazine to literature.
Perhaps Paris. Perhaps Milano. Perhaps somewhere with a memory.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The Concentric Circles of Time
“I don’t exist when you don’t see me.”
-- Andrew Eldritch
He had formed in a moment, on a winter’s night, when the ice was thick and the world was asleep. Formed in a world of poppy flowers and brick dust, of frozen drain pipes and near empty coal bins. But that was hardly a memory now -- a past city whose endless sidewalks filled with crowds of holiday shoppers, their meaningless laughter a baffling social ritual of recent invention.
He brought the compressed images into the present, as if they had all just happened, as if outside the door was a cast of disparate characters exchanging introductions.
They chattered in languages of banal origin of how the weather was reinvented day by day, how different modes of transportation didn’t travel down similar streets.
Their words were an elliptical orbit around his head forming concentric circles of time until, hands drawn to his ears, the world went mute.
And in the silence of the settled dust, when the hours had resolved in the abandoned alleys, a sweet distant song resonated siren-like among the shadows he wore as camouflage.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair sang from an upper floor window, sang to the sealess shore he had remembered as azure waters.
Sang of what was once the theory of pale skin and was now the sensation of silk.
Sang of what was once the rumor of poetry and laughter and was now the fragrant lips that whispered the dream states of ecstatic expression.
Sang of what was once the choreography of seduction and was now the wordless cry of release.
Whose song fastened the hopeless fire escape ladders to their ever present rusting brackets?
Whose song echoed along the facades of 19th century tenements?
Whose song settled like late Spring mist unto freshly laundered sheets undulating mildly in a barely noticeable wind?
She sang from an upper floor window, a siren-like song, in a city of endless sidewalks, in a world that long ago had gone mute.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair sipped morning coffee in the breeze of first light.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair caressed the thought of flight.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair lived a life more precious for the memory that, of all that she knew, all that she would ever meet, she had been loved to a depth they would never achieve.
-- Andrew Eldritch
He had formed in a moment, on a winter’s night, when the ice was thick and the world was asleep. Formed in a world of poppy flowers and brick dust, of frozen drain pipes and near empty coal bins. But that was hardly a memory now -- a past city whose endless sidewalks filled with crowds of holiday shoppers, their meaningless laughter a baffling social ritual of recent invention.
He brought the compressed images into the present, as if they had all just happened, as if outside the door was a cast of disparate characters exchanging introductions.
They chattered in languages of banal origin of how the weather was reinvented day by day, how different modes of transportation didn’t travel down similar streets.
Their words were an elliptical orbit around his head forming concentric circles of time until, hands drawn to his ears, the world went mute.
And in the silence of the settled dust, when the hours had resolved in the abandoned alleys, a sweet distant song resonated siren-like among the shadows he wore as camouflage.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair sang from an upper floor window, sang to the sealess shore he had remembered as azure waters.
Sang of what was once the theory of pale skin and was now the sensation of silk.
Sang of what was once the rumor of poetry and laughter and was now the fragrant lips that whispered the dream states of ecstatic expression.
Sang of what was once the choreography of seduction and was now the wordless cry of release.
Whose song fastened the hopeless fire escape ladders to their ever present rusting brackets?
Whose song echoed along the facades of 19th century tenements?
Whose song settled like late Spring mist unto freshly laundered sheets undulating mildly in a barely noticeable wind?
She sang from an upper floor window, a siren-like song, in a city of endless sidewalks, in a world that long ago had gone mute.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair sipped morning coffee in the breeze of first light.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair caressed the thought of flight.
And in the silence a woman with forest fire hair lived a life more precious for the memory that, of all that she knew, all that she would ever meet, she had been loved to a depth they would never achieve.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Last Subway Station
He learned early not to answer the phone, that the voice of violence would hiss and burn through the wire. Every breath was hidden and obscured. Every step was swept for unsettled dust.
He would listen late at night at the rooming house door, listen for footsteps in the still white-washed corridors, always aware of the second exit, always ready to break out a dead run.
If he let his guard down there was the chance the dark would lunge screaming at him like a horror movie slash scene, splintering wood and guttural profanities, shards of glass dangling overhead, sparkling with razor accuracy before littering the barefoot floor.
Through the doorway this disheveled and deranged old man, empowered by his demons, seeking revenge for the self-hatred that consumed his life, hunting from room to room. And he would have to be faced, last one out, leather belt distance from safety.
It was a great relief to be sitting alone in what some would call the abandoned hollows of the city. It was a great relief to find that place where no one desired to stop. They thought he had been left behind when what had really transpired was he had stepped outside.
Even now when he closes his eyes he can see the train tracks, his great wall of industrial defense, jumping from crushed stone to wooden tie, the trestles of antiquity his balustrades.
How ironic that the Boston Strangler had just been captured.
How ironic that the wolves of childhood would slide past him in the last subway station, staggering broken and abandoned by life.
He had learned and succeeded. Nothing stood now between him and the train entering the station waiting to take him to the center of the city.
He would listen late at night at the rooming house door, listen for footsteps in the still white-washed corridors, always aware of the second exit, always ready to break out a dead run.
If he let his guard down there was the chance the dark would lunge screaming at him like a horror movie slash scene, splintering wood and guttural profanities, shards of glass dangling overhead, sparkling with razor accuracy before littering the barefoot floor.
Through the doorway this disheveled and deranged old man, empowered by his demons, seeking revenge for the self-hatred that consumed his life, hunting from room to room. And he would have to be faced, last one out, leather belt distance from safety.
It was a great relief to be sitting alone in what some would call the abandoned hollows of the city. It was a great relief to find that place where no one desired to stop. They thought he had been left behind when what had really transpired was he had stepped outside.
Even now when he closes his eyes he can see the train tracks, his great wall of industrial defense, jumping from crushed stone to wooden tie, the trestles of antiquity his balustrades.
How ironic that the Boston Strangler had just been captured.
How ironic that the wolves of childhood would slide past him in the last subway station, staggering broken and abandoned by life.
He had learned and succeeded. Nothing stood now between him and the train entering the station waiting to take him to the center of the city.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Ballet of the Maid Hatter (The Magic Hat #4)
(for Kess)
It was a dance of reinvention, where the forced and angular movements were meant to give gestation to a mirror image of her hopes, a dance of engagement and retreat alternating between soul baring pale skin and the comic withdrawal of hat in hand.
Dance was important to her, the metamorphosis of banal walk to conscripted maneuver to graced flutter. It transformed her to the hummingbird that hovered above the crowded and littered streets.
Dance was important to her, from the time of Sesame Street gyrations that warmed her giggles to the desires for the entranceway to pop pantheon.
Dance was important to her, top hat Fred Astaire, the black and white tuxedoed films where fantasy blended into club life.
Dance was important to her, its sad and sweet afterglow, its fulfillment and fleeting energies, its coda of anticipated applause. How she waits, poised, posed, perfect in the passion.
It was a dance of reinvention, where the forced and angular movements were meant to give gestation to a mirror image of her hopes, a dance of engagement and retreat alternating between soul baring pale skin and the comic withdrawal of hat in hand.
Dance was important to her, the metamorphosis of banal walk to conscripted maneuver to graced flutter. It transformed her to the hummingbird that hovered above the crowded and littered streets.
Dance was important to her, from the time of Sesame Street gyrations that warmed her giggles to the desires for the entranceway to pop pantheon.
Dance was important to her, top hat Fred Astaire, the black and white tuxedoed films where fantasy blended into club life.
Dance was important to her, its sad and sweet afterglow, its fulfillment and fleeting energies, its coda of anticipated applause. How she waits, poised, posed, perfect in the passion.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Before the Invention of Photography
What time held that clarity, standing outside the door, waiting with a smile because there was no other reason? What time, indiscriminate in its abuse of the possible, where perception and meaning were in conflict and resolution, where his lack of distance, his distorted experience, were all still forgiven?
He walked into the dimly lit room, aroma of old Boston where the dusty rose light of decades shadowed the unread leather-bound books. Walked into the room where those on leave from confinement spoke in the poetic alliterations swept up and passed from handshake to poolroom handshake.
Who had he talked with, Bickfords mirrored walls of safety? Who had his back when all he wanted was a moment’s relief, winter cold to summer heat and a return?
He walked into the dimly lit room, aroma of old Boston where an old man of unknown origin slowly melted from the feet up, as if the hardened sugar of his life had turned to blood and betrayed him, all kissing him on the head in homage to a genetic tradition.
What time held that clarity, waiting for late night trains and hearing the squeal of wheels entering Harvard station? Did anyone read his graffiti, subway philosophy in the crude graphic of a disordered mind? If only he could write in English.
He walked into the dimly lit room, aroma of old Boston where dark haired girls he would have loved fixed there lipstick, where “A Love Supreme” set his aesthetic, where a pocket poet be-bop wordsmith formed the rhythm and cadence of his stutter.
He walked into the dimly lit room, sometime before the invention of photography, sometime when a subtle guitar’s melody captured the tones and textures to be forgotten later in a time when clarity was a permanent present.
He walked into the dimly lit room, aroma of old Boston where the dusty rose light of decades shadowed the unread leather-bound books. Walked into the room where those on leave from confinement spoke in the poetic alliterations swept up and passed from handshake to poolroom handshake.
Who had he talked with, Bickfords mirrored walls of safety? Who had his back when all he wanted was a moment’s relief, winter cold to summer heat and a return?
He walked into the dimly lit room, aroma of old Boston where an old man of unknown origin slowly melted from the feet up, as if the hardened sugar of his life had turned to blood and betrayed him, all kissing him on the head in homage to a genetic tradition.
What time held that clarity, waiting for late night trains and hearing the squeal of wheels entering Harvard station? Did anyone read his graffiti, subway philosophy in the crude graphic of a disordered mind? If only he could write in English.
He walked into the dimly lit room, aroma of old Boston where dark haired girls he would have loved fixed there lipstick, where “A Love Supreme” set his aesthetic, where a pocket poet be-bop wordsmith formed the rhythm and cadence of his stutter.
He walked into the dimly lit room, sometime before the invention of photography, sometime when a subtle guitar’s melody captured the tones and textures to be forgotten later in a time when clarity was a permanent present.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Photographie Noire (Retrocity #24)
(for Velocity)
The black lace curtains barely filtered the intrusion of hard blue light from the indifferent wintry afternoon. It was a forgotten neighborhood, an embarrassment only romanticized in post-modern, suburban graphic novels. To look but not live.
She had come, not to celebrate in its death, but to embrace its timeless beauty.
The mechanical elevator whirring on its cables while aged sleeping security guards were grateful not to be disturbed. Whirring as it sweat grease in a proud display of almost perfect arrival.
She waited for the dust to drift through the last tangents of sunlight, waited for the moment, waited for the shot.
Little girl, Veronika Lake dress up in the cross currents of a culture adrift in the abundance of the pixilated points of its compass. So many adventures to follow and no where to go.
But she was here, now, centered in the lens, digitally defining her piece of the portrait.
She casually picked at the flaking paint chips as the spectrums of artificial luminosity adjusted the angles of shadow, wondered where the sclerotic grey pipes emptied their buried exhaustion, wondered at what depth they travelled “under the floorboards”.
Clicks and encouragement and her pale skin continued in its transformation of the space between chaotic lace and hard and ordered metal, the lushness of her movements lending a palpable and scented reality to the static and unforgiving functionality that framed her art.
But she was here, now, centered in the lens, digitally defining her piece of the portrait.
Her gloved hands unconsciously rose to her throat in a subtle and protective gesture reminiscent of the best noir divas, her eyes a blend of personal joke and femme fatale suspicion.
Her gloved hands covered her faced in perfumed lace, inhaling the vague memories of an outdoor market and the impulse purchase of an extravagant, luxurious and extraneous accessory. An accessory that had now found perfection in time and place as it caressed her powdered skin.
Here, now, centered in the lens, digitally defining her piece of the portrait.
The black lace curtains barely filtered the intrusion of hard blue light from the indifferent wintry afternoon. It was a forgotten neighborhood, an embarrassment only romanticized in post-modern, suburban graphic novels. To look but not live.
She had come, not to celebrate in its death, but to embrace its timeless beauty.
The mechanical elevator whirring on its cables while aged sleeping security guards were grateful not to be disturbed. Whirring as it sweat grease in a proud display of almost perfect arrival.
She waited for the dust to drift through the last tangents of sunlight, waited for the moment, waited for the shot.
Little girl, Veronika Lake dress up in the cross currents of a culture adrift in the abundance of the pixilated points of its compass. So many adventures to follow and no where to go.
But she was here, now, centered in the lens, digitally defining her piece of the portrait.
She casually picked at the flaking paint chips as the spectrums of artificial luminosity adjusted the angles of shadow, wondered where the sclerotic grey pipes emptied their buried exhaustion, wondered at what depth they travelled “under the floorboards”.
Clicks and encouragement and her pale skin continued in its transformation of the space between chaotic lace and hard and ordered metal, the lushness of her movements lending a palpable and scented reality to the static and unforgiving functionality that framed her art.
But she was here, now, centered in the lens, digitally defining her piece of the portrait.
Her gloved hands unconsciously rose to her throat in a subtle and protective gesture reminiscent of the best noir divas, her eyes a blend of personal joke and femme fatale suspicion.
Her gloved hands covered her faced in perfumed lace, inhaling the vague memories of an outdoor market and the impulse purchase of an extravagant, luxurious and extraneous accessory. An accessory that had now found perfection in time and place as it caressed her powdered skin.
Here, now, centered in the lens, digitally defining her piece of the portrait.
White Cubes (Photo #13)
(for Velocity)
Was it the comfortable geometry of angled artwork or the way her knowing hands caressed the stone birthday present of modern architecture?
Was it the diffuse light of cubicle humor or the incandescent color of her hair that refracted like the sun’s harsh revelation of oil on water?
Was it the way her pallor radiated in defiant contrast or the manner in which her shoes braced against an inner tension?
Was it the arch of her back or the delicate curve of shadowed calf whose liaison with spiked heel defined elegant posture and position?
Was it the confidence of her cheek bones? The conical essence of her aureole? The pale perfection of her skin?
Or the cat-like method with which she regarded her possibilities?
Was it the comfortable geometry of angled artwork or the way her knowing hands caressed the stone birthday present of modern architecture?
Was it the diffuse light of cubicle humor or the incandescent color of her hair that refracted like the sun’s harsh revelation of oil on water?
Was it the way her pallor radiated in defiant contrast or the manner in which her shoes braced against an inner tension?
Was it the arch of her back or the delicate curve of shadowed calf whose liaison with spiked heel defined elegant posture and position?
Was it the confidence of her cheek bones? The conical essence of her aureole? The pale perfection of her skin?
Or the cat-like method with which she regarded her possibilities?
J'etais Libre Parmi les Esclaves Masques
It began as a fascination with barbed wire, the barbed wire that marks borders, the barbed wire that keeps out the poverty of life.
A fascination that translated into the barbed wire he wrapped around his arms like the penance of enlightenment, like the corona of a sun, black sun of ancient sailors in a starless sky, drops of blood forming on his skin to be dabbed away like the tears of a troubled child.
A barbed wire sonata, basso continuo humming like a swarm of bees dripping with the sweet honey of endorphin relief.
Barbed wire that spider webs the windows along the street he traveled in the diffuse light of a sunless day.
Barbed wire strung along the shore to repel the unwanted, the unattended eyes.
Barbed wire that rose like an exorcism over the demons of everyday life.
If he had a flag it would be the black barbed wire that proclaimed an iconic and ironic liberation, an indelible revolution.
A fascination that translated into the barbed wire he wrapped around his arms like the penance of enlightenment, like the corona of a sun, black sun of ancient sailors in a starless sky, drops of blood forming on his skin to be dabbed away like the tears of a troubled child.
A barbed wire sonata, basso continuo humming like a swarm of bees dripping with the sweet honey of endorphin relief.
Barbed wire that spider webs the windows along the street he traveled in the diffuse light of a sunless day.
Barbed wire strung along the shore to repel the unwanted, the unattended eyes.
Barbed wire that rose like an exorcism over the demons of everyday life.
If he had a flag it would be the black barbed wire that proclaimed an iconic and ironic liberation, an indelible revolution.
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