Meltdown

Silent, sad-eyed cobwebs sway in slow, spiraling waves, reflecting the weave of an untouched tapestry, a shrouded secret buried away since the beginning of time. A madness, carved into glass walls, walls that closed in on themselves centuries ago. A forgotten vault, desolate, cold and empty. A wonderful stillness, unbroken in eons. Sands, untrodden, undiscovered, untouched. A peace, a sleep, an unmoving ripple, calm, disturbingly threatening.

A dusty tabletop. A lidded box crafted of vintage mahogany and Spanish cedar. Inside, two silver coins, a restless spirit, and a red rose.

A single, solitary string, plucked on an ancient guitar, the dormant madness vibrates.

A candle flickers, a white shadow curls up, a ghost creeps, spreads forward, little measured steps in syncopated time, gracefully easing into linear displacements, a metric dissonance, cascading into successive downbeats, soft, uninterrupted rhythmic structures.

The lidded box is opened and careless fingers pick out the rose. Blood drips off onto the silver coins as the spirit clings onto the thorns left behind.

Crazy fingers drum on faded tabletops; a soul strums, plucking chords that chase dreams waltzing across dead dance floors.

A restless spirit, generally lost and never found, a fleeting aura of madness, floats on by, skimming the ripples that hover at the edges of my vision.

My boots, of Spanish leather, tapping, keep time, as fingers carelessly pick on guitar strings. Chords dangle in splendid isolation, a cumulative duration of a conclusive impulse, quickly folds into an accent of discontinuity, an expressive timing, a violent, flamenco sound, wrenched from a distant horizon lost in time.

The ripple rips outwards, blowing away the cobwebs, shattering glass walls, surging onward in great majestic waves. A red ribbon is yanked open; thick, wavy curls tumble, cascade down, red heels tap out staccato rhythms like berserk castanets in fevered hands, and the spirit sweeps across the floor, a swirling whirlwind spiraling around the grand hall. The stillness, now shattered, rages on, an avenging angel wiping out eons of silence, a rampaging sandstorm, blowing away years of cold, empty, wasted memory lines. The strumming, frenzied and urgent, syncs in with the clacking heels. Sinusoidal curves undulate, amplitudes harmonize and frequencies mesh, causing a resonance that folds memory, sliding it into a universe suspended in time-warped dimensions.

The night shifts over my boots and the wild gypsy is a fade to black.

Adios, Mi Corazon

Iron pillars towering into the night sky, the gates, even higher. Mud squelching underfoot, boots worn and weary, face lashed by the rain, a huge bell with a long rope hanging down, a hand clutching, yanks. The bell rings out soundlessly, a useless shout in a loud silence, made louder by the storm that refuses to break. A rumbling in the skies, like the distant roll of drums accompanying a hard, long trek through the middle of nowhere – a blank memory set in a dark desolate wasteland. A flash of light, the boots refusing to yield, the mud slips away.

Deep within a castle, mists lift like curls that fall like silk that smoothens out, over a quiet pool, a quiet quiet pool, and sinks in quietly so quietly without a ripple, one that spreads out in slow, ever so slow, slow widening circles, a small pebble tossed aimlessly in, making another, the circles now growing, meshing, opposing, calming, growing, shrinking, whirling, masking out little soundless screams that surge up through a deep gash running through and through and across the wasted seconds, riding, leaping across wide burnt out chasms, bridging a divide that melts and folds into the ever widening ripples that eat into the edges of beyond. A silver bracelet, a broken amulet, a ruby roughed out, the beads tight around a neck that yearns, a century of rain, a tender heart, a wisdom that bleeds.

Bruised, battered hands, gates creak open, the blood dripping onto the layers of gouged out thoughts that drag in the mud behind tired boots. Come in, a shelter from the storm. Warmth, traded off in a forgotten game, a slow poison creeps, colors move in. Restless, tight, a marksman with a mission carves out missing time, a gesture, helplessness, reaching, shining, numbers within, without. An open door, come in, a shelter from the storm.

Doubts, washed by dreams, a giving equal nothing, slashed ropes – washed out souls, who make empty spaces ask for more. Tired eyes watch, a door creaks open. A delicate bracelet, a brief flash, slim fingers curled around a silver dagger. A rip, silk smoothens over, a ripple widens, a pebble skims, a divide melts. Wisdom lies bleeding in the mud.

Adios, Mi Corazon.

Zanzibar

Zanzibar? you know about our Zanzibar?

Sure .. we made him, right?

Who we?

You and me – all those days ago…...

Tell me about the Zanzibar that we made. I don’t remember…

You don’t remember because you were high. High on the rhythm of the beast that filled your soul with a strange, mad music. A music that raced through your veins and rushed straight to your head. You wanted to carve out that music on the ground right then and there but you didnt know how. I said it was ok we would find a way... but you got all mad and pounded on the walls.. dont you remember ....and that music that was now playing madly in your head was driving you nuts as you tried to find some way of grounding it.. it kept stretching you till your taut nerves were ready to snap.. and suddenly in a violent, suspended moment, the horse reared up on his hind legs, wildly pawing the air, his nostrils flared in a magnificent display of defiance – he was untamed and wanted to stay that way… and you wanted to ride him, oh you wanted to ride him so bad – so bad – I could feel the tension in the air, your eyes shining with excitement, your arms poised, ready to fling themselves around his neck the first opportunity they got. It was superb, two absolutely wild spirits locked in a dangerous game, one wanting to break free and ride, and the other determined not to allow that… and then in a split second, he was gone, charging off into the darkening sky. He didn’t win, you didn’t lose. It was just that at that moment, it was not meant to be.

What happened then?

Then we waited. For him to come back. Waited for the heady high that you had experienced, and which I had watched. Waited for those mad moments, when you had wanted to ride him to the ends of the world, when you had wanted me to run away with you. And while we waited we worked on Zanzibar. Worked with a liberating energy that flowed freely from us, watching it grow and take shape under our nurturing hands, till it had begun to be like what we wanted it to be. We spent long hours, drunk on moonlight and wine, talking about wandering gypsies, runaway horses and Paul Gauguin.

Did he come back?

He came back. As suddenly as he had gone. He was still as magnificent as ever, wild, untamed, proud – eyes blazing defiance. But something was different now. I noticed that you were not reacting to him the same way as before. His rhythm did nothing to your soul. There was no music that rushed to your head and your fists were no longer clenched. The tension was gone. It was almost like a terrible sadness had descended upon you and you had just let go. It was like sometime during those long hours when he had been away you had found a door and had slammed it shut. And suddenly nobody - not me, not the horse, or anybody else could touch you anymore.

Placeholders

You wander down long empty corridors marking out little crosses on the wall. Placeholders, for frames, that will hold accounts of a day gone by. Areas are measured out and spaces calculated. Stepping back, you regard with thoughtful eyes the lines and shapes that will breathe life into your ideas. Balances are weighed, strokes arranged, concepts highlighted. And you vaguely wonder where the clarity is hidden amongst all the clutter. You listen to the whispers as you spread out your thoughts and taste the lingering spray of splashed on colors. Your sunglasses dull the radiance bouncing off the unruly canvases. Feeling the restlessness of the brushes lying around, your slender fingers touch the dry paint peeling off the brush handles, scrape off the layers and lay bare the sensitive ions hiding in the fiber.

I sit on a bench, staring at the walls, and wonder about all the placeholders I have seen along the way. I may just be one of them - a thinking, feeling, burning, questioning, reflecting placeholder.

Waiting.

Waiting for the energy that had once burned great holes in my being. Yearning to feel the chaos, which accompanied the gut-wrenching process that had crashed all around like a symphony gone berserk. All translating in some wonderful way into magic, which had not felt the need to analyze shifts in rational thought. Like the nonsensical finding of strange alligators in teacups. Or getting ants drunk on cheap wine. All exhilarating excesses, brought on at the time by exciting intrusions into a thirsty mind, intrusions that had released an abundance of energy, churned up storms and whipped my nerves into a frenzy. A time when I could have burnt down entire fields so that the flames lighting up the sky would allow you to read everything that I was writing there.

You had walked into my cave, chaos spilling from your emerald robes, rattling my vacant skull, shaking pillars propping up a rocky roof, thoughtlessly rendering my existential plans so much dust in the wind. It was not as if I had needed the chaos, I probably could have managed without the turbulence, but I would be lying if I didn't say that blowing me away then was probably the best thing that you could have done in a long, long time.

Infinity is vague. Love is crazy. And somewhere in between we had survived.

The Assasin

The dry dust hangs in the air outside the crumbling church. Dry skeletal trees scatter around. A solitary bell high up on the roof, the rope dangles, showing years of disuse. Slicing across like a razor inflicted wound, a deep trench in the ground. Miles of rough rock dot the ground from the church to the far horizon. The heat waves blaze across the rough ground. The lost ghost town has no name. The wind cries, a soulful, weary wail, mournful and extreme.

Inside the church, rows of dusty benches, unused, gathering dust, an altar set against the high backdrop, a wall on which is a single large crucifix, silent, raging, unforgiving. At the altar, on her knees, hands tightly clasped to her forehead, a figure lost within herself. Kneeling, back rigid, shrouded in black, Faith mouths a silent prayer. Fear grips her throat, a red ribbon wrapped around her neck, the only sign of color in the brazen colorless surrounding.

On the far side of town, atop a small rise in the ground, a lone figure, dust caked, dry, parched, makes his way down the slope, eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun. The air is empty, the town is dead and the dust is everywhere. The dusty boots kick small pebbles along as they make their way towards the old church. The silent assassin, heart black as the night, walks with deliberate steps.

Inside Faith’s mind, tucked away in a remote area, there is a clearing, sandy, quiet and cold. On the edge of the clearing the sand ends and the sea begins. The sea, she is calm, reflective, shy, hiding deep within her bosom a dream, sheltering within her corner of a strange world a secret, shutting it out from the noise and the heat outside. Faith, a solitary prism, waits, insanely, impatiently, for the ideal world, for the light.

The assassin pushes open the door and walks in. The dry light refuses to come in through the open door. The boards creak under his weary boots as his measured steps move closer to the kneeling Faith. A gloved hand reaches out, the air goes colder, the light steps further away from the open door. The red ribbon, gripping, tight, strangling, waits for deliverance. The reaching hand stops, very deliberately, the assassin removes his glove, and places his hand on the slender neck. Naked, cold flesh on warm, a brief contact, then a swift slit with a knife, and the red ribbon lies in shreds on the floor.

Faith’s mind snaps awake. Her hands fly to her throat tearing at the fear that now lies at her feet. Her numb senses jolted, she whirls around and her look collides with the cold stare of the assassin. Her brain freezes and a surge of electricity streaks through her being. Their eyes lock. The hand reaches out once again; strong fingers circle the slender throat, a slight pressure for the briefest of moments, and then the hand slowly moves up and covers her face.

A tiny leaf stirs softly within Faith’s mind, dislodging a thought, which now moves languorously, stretches, and looks out over the silent sea. A glow fills up the little thought, little sparkles moving around in tiny circles, growing out, rippling, building, till the resulting waves are flowing like silk over the sea. The closed eyes behind the rough hand covering her face can now see the sea begin to churn and come alive. The hidden dream springs from her bosom, wet with the sea-spray, salty, fresh, skimming the thundering waves, riding the surf. A glow emerges from the depths of the turbulent ocean, a blinding light stabbing the murky evening air, washes over Faith, over the insanely waiting prism, and tumbles out in myriad colors splashed onto the sky behind.

Two cups of Coffee, a Smoke and a Runaway Dream.

Locked away in a vacancy, shut away from the light, a secret handshake sleeps unaware of the imperfect world outside. A sliver of a dream stirs somewhere deep within, moves across a thin line, pulls back, and goes back to sleep. The light shifts, it is ten minutes before the rain, and the sun comes up on another day in the perfect world.

I look out the window, it’s a clear day and I can see forever. The haze hangs behind me, the wind is high and the sun shines down on the imperfect world around me. There are no secret handshakes here.

So I pay attention to the details. There is a plate of sandwiches on the kitchen counter, a custard drenched folly tucked away into the fridge, a jug of orange juice on the window sill and sprigs of mint that notice the temperature drop. A custodian of errant hearts, images on the TV straying in fragments, juveniles grabbing frozen ice cream that melts and messes with my brain.

So I pay attention to the details. Meaningless little squiggles scratched out with designer pens on scraps of paper, lace trimmed cloth on tabletops, squirrels frantically gathering nuts, a kite floating away, the rain coming ten minutes later than I thought it would. And somewhere out there, there’s two cups of coffee, a smoke and a runaway dream.

So I pay attention to the details. A belt tightened a notch, marbles lying on the floor in dangerous disguise, walls with no sunflowers painted on them. Beer that froths up and over the rims of assorted mugs, crystal gathering dust on the sideboard, wind chimes swaying in a vacuum. A tight knot in the gut, that tightens and holds on to the future.

The haze behind me moves up and around, as I part the curtain, shut out the logic, and step into the perfect world. The thin line, bright red, is easy to spot, so is the sleeping handshake. The sliver of a dream stirs once more, sits up and stares at me. I look on as the stare turns into a smile, which becomes a laugh. There is a frozen moment when the laugh becomes a cackle, which turns into an evil raucous shriek. It then very quickly folds over and melts back into the sleeping handshake. The rain comes down as I step back, and the sun sets on another day in the perfect world.

My designer pen continues to make meaningless squiggles as I pay attention to the details. There are no secret handshakes here. Only two cups of coffee, a smoke, and a runaway dream.