Saturday, January 26, 2008
EXCERPTS FROM AN EVENING WITH Jan (c) 2000
One day one man was so struck:
When thoughts pass through my mind the wind ruffles the leaves. And when the wind ruffles the leaves, I look and think, "Ah, the wind ruffles the leaves" and do not realize that when I think about the wind, it does to my mind what it does to the leaves.
Question:
What is the wind doing in a man's head?
When thoughts pass through my mind the wind ruffles the leaves. And when the wind ruffles the leaves, I look and think, "Ah, the wind ruffles the leaves" and do not realize that when I think about the wind, it does to my mind what it does to the leaves.
Question:
What is the wind doing in a man's head?
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
THE WORDS (c) Nick Anvil 2007
The words abound around me
Verbs and nouns and syllables
That pound between the space of sound
Of days and ways already gone
They want to bring me down
Until the midnight rain
The midnight rain
The midnight rain
Wash away the structure of the words that seem to claim
Come sliding down and cover up the echoes that remain
The midnight rain
The forces that play in the head
Drones and moans of what was said
Pounding till the head explodes
Spewing forth its verbal load
They want to take me down
Until the midnight rain
It’s a frontal game within the brain
With structured sentences refrain
The sound that cracks the space within
That speak of love and mortal sin
They want to bring me down
Until the midnight rain
Verbs and nouns and syllables
That pound between the space of sound
Of days and ways already gone
They want to bring me down
Until the midnight rain
The midnight rain
The midnight rain
Wash away the structure of the words that seem to claim
Come sliding down and cover up the echoes that remain
The midnight rain
The forces that play in the head
Drones and moans of what was said
Pounding till the head explodes
Spewing forth its verbal load
They want to take me down
Until the midnight rain
It’s a frontal game within the brain
With structured sentences refrain
The sound that cracks the space within
That speak of love and mortal sin
They want to bring me down
Until the midnight rain
Sunday, January 20, 2008
THE NIGHT (c) Nick Anvil
Sunday, January 20, 2008
The stale, stagnant air give way, parting like Moses with the red sea as your perfume entered the room. It didn’t seem to fit somehow with the smell of stale cigarettes and burned coffee that claimed the room. Like little children playing tag, your shadow chases the outlines cast from the lamp in the corner of the room. I reach for my cup of coffee, the heady aroma filling my senses; begging me to play “remember when”. But I know if I give in you’ll leave. Just the merest hint of days gone by and you’ll flee like the breeze that brought you here. I watch a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Bright flickers of light, the smoke rising until the flame turns to ash. I lift the dark liquid to my lips and rise to go to the kitchen. As I enter the doorway I reach for the light switch on the wall. But I sense this too will chase you away and I drop my hand, leaving the light switch untouched.
The moon is bright tonight, streaming across the kitchen floor. The moonlight making the linoleum sparkle like jewels on the floor, a glint here, a glint there. The window beckons me closer. A few stars twinkle in the night sky but they are no match for the white orb hanging in the night. Every hole and crater of the moon’s surface seems to stand out in stark contrast. I reach for the faucet, releasing the water into the sink. The cold, hard metal stings as I fill the cup with water. The water moves across my hand, soft and smooth like a silken glove. I pour the water from the cup and laying it on the counter for safe keeping, turn and walk to the patio door. The door crunches the tiny rocks and dirt in the tracks as I slide it open. A gentle coolness beckons me outside.
Soft leaves greet my feet playfully as I step onto the patio. The cool breeze brushes at my face like the caressing fingers of a gentle lover. The wind lifts my hair, pushing it across my face, like a mother’s hand brushing each strand into place. The freshness is everywhere, sprinkled like dew on the grass in the morning sun. The leaves drift into the yard, moving here, there, in no particular direction. Their little dance is interrupted by the slap, slap, slap of tires on pavement. Gravel and twigs giving way as the wheels move over them. The hum of the engine fills the air like a cat purring in a empty room. The purring is shattered with the harsh ding, ding, ding of a bell. An ever present reminder to ”remember to take the keys and close the door”. The sounds intertwine; crumpling plastic, doors slamming, footsteps as someone hurries home from whatever or wherever. There’s a football game down at the park tonight. I can hear the muffled announcer’s voice calling the plays. Telling everyone over and over again what they just saw on the field. Cheers waft across the night, as I sit on the step.
You’re here beside me, your heady aroma mingling with the cool night air. How many times have I wished you were here? But there it is again, that little “let’s remember when” song and dance, never quite far away, always closer than you think. I watch the few clouds in the night sky sitting ever so quietly, barely moving. I hear laughter and it sounds like crystal being tapped with a fine silver spoon. The moon is laughing too, a mirthful smile hinting at hiding the biggest secret in the world. “Just what do you see from there my friend, I ask. “Do you see the sun as it dances away every day, the dimming light your own personal alarm clock? Or, are we your night light, a little glimmer of light to keep you from stubbing your toe as you move in the darkened universe? Do we shine at you with a smile on our face, suggesting hidden tales and mysteries? Do you see our craters and valleys like an acne faced youngster or that of a sly, wizened old man? Do you see it all, or nothing at all? “Hey old man”, I ask, “sitting atop your perch, do you see there is nothing there?” The tinkling laughter again fills the night air.
I rise from the step but I’m stopped by wetness on my skin. I hear the plop, plop, plop of water hitting the leaves on the ground, becoming louder, slapping at the grass and the patio floor. It hits the leaves, flattening them against the ground in a kind of passionate interplay. Together they dance until the leaves can hold no more. I open the door to go inside but I don’t need to look back to where you were. I know you’ve already gone. Your perfume is faint, but it lingers even as the rain tries to wash it from the air. I walk to the kitchen, taking the cup from the counter and fill it with the last remaining drops of coffee in the pot. The aroma stings my nostrils as the moon’s brightness gives way to the dawn. The linoleum has lost its sparkle. I walk into the living room where the shadows from the lamp have faded, becoming one with dark autumn colored carpet. I lift my cup to you, to no one, to everyone, to nothing, to everything. Taking a sip I turn off the lamp and await your return.
The stale, stagnant air give way, parting like Moses with the red sea as your perfume entered the room. It didn’t seem to fit somehow with the smell of stale cigarettes and burned coffee that claimed the room. Like little children playing tag, your shadow chases the outlines cast from the lamp in the corner of the room. I reach for my cup of coffee, the heady aroma filling my senses; begging me to play “remember when”. But I know if I give in you’ll leave. Just the merest hint of days gone by and you’ll flee like the breeze that brought you here. I watch a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Bright flickers of light, the smoke rising until the flame turns to ash. I lift the dark liquid to my lips and rise to go to the kitchen. As I enter the doorway I reach for the light switch on the wall. But I sense this too will chase you away and I drop my hand, leaving the light switch untouched.
The moon is bright tonight, streaming across the kitchen floor. The moonlight making the linoleum sparkle like jewels on the floor, a glint here, a glint there. The window beckons me closer. A few stars twinkle in the night sky but they are no match for the white orb hanging in the night. Every hole and crater of the moon’s surface seems to stand out in stark contrast. I reach for the faucet, releasing the water into the sink. The cold, hard metal stings as I fill the cup with water. The water moves across my hand, soft and smooth like a silken glove. I pour the water from the cup and laying it on the counter for safe keeping, turn and walk to the patio door. The door crunches the tiny rocks and dirt in the tracks as I slide it open. A gentle coolness beckons me outside.
Soft leaves greet my feet playfully as I step onto the patio. The cool breeze brushes at my face like the caressing fingers of a gentle lover. The wind lifts my hair, pushing it across my face, like a mother’s hand brushing each strand into place. The freshness is everywhere, sprinkled like dew on the grass in the morning sun. The leaves drift into the yard, moving here, there, in no particular direction. Their little dance is interrupted by the slap, slap, slap of tires on pavement. Gravel and twigs giving way as the wheels move over them. The hum of the engine fills the air like a cat purring in a empty room. The purring is shattered with the harsh ding, ding, ding of a bell. An ever present reminder to ”remember to take the keys and close the door”. The sounds intertwine; crumpling plastic, doors slamming, footsteps as someone hurries home from whatever or wherever. There’s a football game down at the park tonight. I can hear the muffled announcer’s voice calling the plays. Telling everyone over and over again what they just saw on the field. Cheers waft across the night, as I sit on the step.
You’re here beside me, your heady aroma mingling with the cool night air. How many times have I wished you were here? But there it is again, that little “let’s remember when” song and dance, never quite far away, always closer than you think. I watch the few clouds in the night sky sitting ever so quietly, barely moving. I hear laughter and it sounds like crystal being tapped with a fine silver spoon. The moon is laughing too, a mirthful smile hinting at hiding the biggest secret in the world. “Just what do you see from there my friend, I ask. “Do you see the sun as it dances away every day, the dimming light your own personal alarm clock? Or, are we your night light, a little glimmer of light to keep you from stubbing your toe as you move in the darkened universe? Do we shine at you with a smile on our face, suggesting hidden tales and mysteries? Do you see our craters and valleys like an acne faced youngster or that of a sly, wizened old man? Do you see it all, or nothing at all? “Hey old man”, I ask, “sitting atop your perch, do you see there is nothing there?” The tinkling laughter again fills the night air.
I rise from the step but I’m stopped by wetness on my skin. I hear the plop, plop, plop of water hitting the leaves on the ground, becoming louder, slapping at the grass and the patio floor. It hits the leaves, flattening them against the ground in a kind of passionate interplay. Together they dance until the leaves can hold no more. I open the door to go inside but I don’t need to look back to where you were. I know you’ve already gone. Your perfume is faint, but it lingers even as the rain tries to wash it from the air. I walk to the kitchen, taking the cup from the counter and fill it with the last remaining drops of coffee in the pot. The aroma stings my nostrils as the moon’s brightness gives way to the dawn. The linoleum has lost its sparkle. I walk into the living room where the shadows from the lamp have faded, becoming one with dark autumn colored carpet. I lift my cup to you, to no one, to everyone, to nothing, to everything. Taking a sip I turn off the lamp and await your return.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Nick Anvil Friend of Jan Cox
I walked into the room brimming with anticpation and a sense of the unknown. Tangerine Dream was playing across the room as I walked in and sat down on the soft pink carpet. I heard words from Jan Cox - words that sparked my neural cravings beyond a hunger that even I knew existed.
He spoke of the molecular body ( the red circuitry) connections feeding the emotions (the blue circuitry) that make us what we are - and for a few he spoke of an explosion that goes beyond the neural everyday thoughts that bog us down with those unanswerable why's, where's and who's (the yellow circuitry).
From that incredible evening, and many other evenings, with Jan Cox came a writer within that spoke of the heat that can fire the thinking beyond it's norm, beyond it's comfort zone.
To those who hunger, who question, who find ordinary everyday thinking to be limiting - the following is a story to tempt those thurst buds and offer you the opportunity to find a minute morsel that feeds the internal yellow circuitry.
----------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------
Now that you've read the story, go to jancox.com and read The Daily News, and the Transcripts of his actual meetings, to feed the ultimate neural hunger. The words there are his alone - FEAST AND ENJOY!!
He spoke of the molecular body ( the red circuitry) connections feeding the emotions (the blue circuitry) that make us what we are - and for a few he spoke of an explosion that goes beyond the neural everyday thoughts that bog us down with those unanswerable why's, where's and who's (the yellow circuitry).
From that incredible evening, and many other evenings, with Jan Cox came a writer within that spoke of the heat that can fire the thinking beyond it's norm, beyond it's comfort zone.
To those who hunger, who question, who find ordinary everyday thinking to be limiting - the following is a story to tempt those thurst buds and offer you the opportunity to find a minute morsel that feeds the internal yellow circuitry.
----------------------------------------------------------
Within each of us is a thriving neighborhood of reflection; a community of thoughts and a city of dreams. This inner city, in each of us, is driven by a simmering passion that can only be called…………………
THE HEAT
©Nick Anvil
The heat poured from the foundations of the street as it the thermostat of hell had wreaked its vengeance upon the city above. The old men, sitting on the porch, mopped at their heads with soiled, faded handkerchiefs as they talked and played checkers in the heat.
The heat, the city seemed to boil internally as if on the edge of eruption. Ready to spill its load like a blister popped with a pin. Voices raised in anger drifted through the walls into my apartment. I laughed. It was a ritual I had come to take as usual. Each week Sam and Shirley fought. I once tried to find the basis of their arguments, but there seemed to be no one thing that raised their voices to such a fevered pitch. They simply fought over everything. The arguments seemed a bond between them. And when their voices were spent, it wouldn’t be long before the creaking of bedsprings filled the night air. And still the temperature climbed. The mercury was a deep red on the front of the drugstore thermometer. The crimson grew higher and higher, dangerously close to the top, threatening to shatter the glass that held it captive.
“Blood…yes, blood, it looked like boiling blood.” Another chuckle escaped and I caught my breath. “Nah!”, I spoke out loud and hushed myself. The walls of my apartment were so paper-thin that snoopy Mrs. Robinson might hear me and spread rumors about, “the man in 1B!” I could hear her now, “He really is strange, you know. Why just the other day I heard him talking to himself, and I know he didn’t have anyone with him. Well, if he had I would have known. They have to pass by my door to get to his, you know.” I turned back to the window, laying Mrs. Robinson to rest for the moment.
I watched the kids playing in the street below. The fire department had opened the hydrants to help cool them as they played. The stream rose in torrents as it played with the parched pavement. The roar of the air conditioners hissing in harmony to the sizzling water, as they filled the air - churning and pushing, working at eking out the few drops of comfort for those that can afford the price of the heat. The heat…it boiled everything and everyone. The city boiled under its oppression. Like a white hot flame, licking at the city’s fuse, and igniting the street into fevered outbursts of anger and derision.
The city is my life. I’ve come to know her heartbeat, the pain, the loneliness, and the excitement that fills her streets. From my window I watch her feed and grow. From the hookers who work the corners, to the secretaries out for lunch and a new dress, to the businessmen driving in from suburbia, to the rich and powerful who frequent her avenues for a taste of the roots from which they grew, and were never able to fully rid themselves of the physical hold to her basic guts. I’ve watched them all feeding on her passions, drinking from the fountain of life, feeling the need to feed the most primal of their instincts
Yes, it is instinct and more that draws them back to her. It’s as if she were the mother of their very soul. They suckle her, draining her dry, feeding on the rich nutrients she has to offer. She holds them close, and they can only come back for more. Oh, they all have their personal reasons, but none can truly sense the hold she has over them, nor do they want to.
I watch a passing cloud as it teases the city with little hope of emptying its contents for even a second of relief. It passes slowly, seeming only to put a lid on the heat…making it hotter and more unbearable.
I get up from my bed and go to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water, the water soaks the wash cloth, but even the coolness of its temperature is at best tepid. Still, as I hold it to my face, it offers only momentary relief from the heat. I splash the water on my face and head back to the bed and my view out the window.
The cloud is completely passed now and the sun’s rays glare menacingly, reflecting in the shop windows below. It is midday, lunch time. Voiding themselves of their contents, the office buildings spill the people into the streets. This is my favorite time of the day. The air is alive. There is a kind of electricity filling the air as the people run through the streets. They scurry through the streets franticly, dragging the ball and chain that has them tied to the clock. There on the corner is the blonde from the bank. “How many times have I watched her entering the little Cafe?”, I ask myself. I fumble for a cigarette, taking care not to lose sight of her as she crosses the street. “She’s wearing blue today. As bright and shiny as the light in her eyes”, I note. I take another drag off my cigarette. The dress clings tightly to her figure, revealing full hips. The slit up her right leg is showing a slight glimpse of firm and shapely thigh. The top is cut with a sensual hint of breast. “Is she of money?” I ask myself. Her clothes are too well tailored to her well-proportioned body. The sun illuminates her hair, falling softly around her shoulders.
I put out the cigarette and watch two cars collide. The drivers emerge, each one screaming at the other. The damage is slight, but the heat makes them react in frustration and annoyance, their tight schedules already bulging at the seams of inconvenience. I turn away as the blonde steps from the Café with a box in her hand. “What does she eat for lunch?", I muse. “Can she dare to eat well, and keep a figure that turns eyes to stare as she walks down the street?” I light another cigarette and feel the heat as it closes in tighter around my room. I look at the fan in the corner, but I already know it will do nothing more than blow the heat around, stifling the few breezes that dare to dance in the trees outside the window.
The afternoon passes slowly as the city awaits the dusk. Yet even as the sun sets, the heat only gains intensity, as the streets fill with the night people. Packed tightly into every nook and cranny they seek solice from the heat. They mask the boredom of their meager existence in the glitter of the night. In the twinkling of the city lights they seek to quiet the nagging voices of discontent and dissatisfaction. Whether it’s drinking, gambling, or an hour with one of the “ladies of the evening”, they pour into the pulse of the night.
Music drifts through the window as HARRY’S TAVERN beats in simultaneous rhythm to the heartbeat of the city. The street feels a bit sluggish from the heat, but she will regain her energy as the tempo picks up, becoming almost a mirror image of the sound of her breathing. Many nights I’ve sat at this window, watching the street fill and empty. Almost like the tap on the spigot filling the mugs at HARRY’S, off and on, off and on, trying to quench the thirst from the heat, numbing the sensation of its presence. It remains undaunted. The mugginess fills the air like glue, sticking to everything it touches, leaving a ring that won’t wash out.
I watch the street and its movements. Smoke rises from the street as hundreds of cigarettes burn. Red embers glow in the night, ashes of dreams falling on concrete. Yet still they fill the night with music and laughter, trying to find their own personal reality. The night pulses, grinds with the sound of lovers, voices of frustration, anger and prejudice…each seeking their place in the mainstream of city life.
I get up and go to the bathroom, take a leak, splash my face again. I walk to the kitchen and grab a cold one from the fridge. I taste its bitterness biting at my tongue, but the coldness is refreshing. I sit down on the edge of the bed to light another cigarette. I take one more gulp from the can, the coldness is already warmer, and soon to be gone completely. I look at the sky, a blanket of haze, a remnant of the heat below. The night will be a hot one.
I watch the cars cruising the main drag, most with windows down, trying to get even a little breeze, as they move. “Do you know where you’re going?” I wonder. “Are you just driving to get away from the hotbox you call home!” I laughed. I watched the aimless prowling the streets. They too, call the street home. They carry a gut instinct of her avenues and boulevards that few will ever know, but still have little understanding of the city’s ways.
The air is thick with the heat. “I should get some sleep” I say to myself. Even as I hear the words, I know that sleep is still far from me. It will be a one of those nights that I sit and watch the street carry the city into another day.
The city is quieter now. The time is just before the dawn when the night people drag themselves back to where they live. They take home little, only a brief break from the heat. The sky is lighter, slowly preparing the city for the day ahead. Soon the sun will break through the haze and the gates of hell will once again open. The heat will spill out, rising up and burning through the foundations of the street. “Wake up!”, I whisper. I smile as I lay on the bed to watch the city breathe in the air of morning.
THE HEAT
©Nick Anvil
The heat poured from the foundations of the street as it the thermostat of hell had wreaked its vengeance upon the city above. The old men, sitting on the porch, mopped at their heads with soiled, faded handkerchiefs as they talked and played checkers in the heat.
The heat, the city seemed to boil internally as if on the edge of eruption. Ready to spill its load like a blister popped with a pin. Voices raised in anger drifted through the walls into my apartment. I laughed. It was a ritual I had come to take as usual. Each week Sam and Shirley fought. I once tried to find the basis of their arguments, but there seemed to be no one thing that raised their voices to such a fevered pitch. They simply fought over everything. The arguments seemed a bond between them. And when their voices were spent, it wouldn’t be long before the creaking of bedsprings filled the night air. And still the temperature climbed. The mercury was a deep red on the front of the drugstore thermometer. The crimson grew higher and higher, dangerously close to the top, threatening to shatter the glass that held it captive.
“Blood…yes, blood, it looked like boiling blood.” Another chuckle escaped and I caught my breath. “Nah!”, I spoke out loud and hushed myself. The walls of my apartment were so paper-thin that snoopy Mrs. Robinson might hear me and spread rumors about, “the man in 1B!” I could hear her now, “He really is strange, you know. Why just the other day I heard him talking to himself, and I know he didn’t have anyone with him. Well, if he had I would have known. They have to pass by my door to get to his, you know.” I turned back to the window, laying Mrs. Robinson to rest for the moment.
I watched the kids playing in the street below. The fire department had opened the hydrants to help cool them as they played. The stream rose in torrents as it played with the parched pavement. The roar of the air conditioners hissing in harmony to the sizzling water, as they filled the air - churning and pushing, working at eking out the few drops of comfort for those that can afford the price of the heat. The heat…it boiled everything and everyone. The city boiled under its oppression. Like a white hot flame, licking at the city’s fuse, and igniting the street into fevered outbursts of anger and derision.
The city is my life. I’ve come to know her heartbeat, the pain, the loneliness, and the excitement that fills her streets. From my window I watch her feed and grow. From the hookers who work the corners, to the secretaries out for lunch and a new dress, to the businessmen driving in from suburbia, to the rich and powerful who frequent her avenues for a taste of the roots from which they grew, and were never able to fully rid themselves of the physical hold to her basic guts. I’ve watched them all feeding on her passions, drinking from the fountain of life, feeling the need to feed the most primal of their instincts
Yes, it is instinct and more that draws them back to her. It’s as if she were the mother of their very soul. They suckle her, draining her dry, feeding on the rich nutrients she has to offer. She holds them close, and they can only come back for more. Oh, they all have their personal reasons, but none can truly sense the hold she has over them, nor do they want to.
I watch a passing cloud as it teases the city with little hope of emptying its contents for even a second of relief. It passes slowly, seeming only to put a lid on the heat…making it hotter and more unbearable.
I get up from my bed and go to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water, the water soaks the wash cloth, but even the coolness of its temperature is at best tepid. Still, as I hold it to my face, it offers only momentary relief from the heat. I splash the water on my face and head back to the bed and my view out the window.
The cloud is completely passed now and the sun’s rays glare menacingly, reflecting in the shop windows below. It is midday, lunch time. Voiding themselves of their contents, the office buildings spill the people into the streets. This is my favorite time of the day. The air is alive. There is a kind of electricity filling the air as the people run through the streets. They scurry through the streets franticly, dragging the ball and chain that has them tied to the clock. There on the corner is the blonde from the bank. “How many times have I watched her entering the little Cafe?”, I ask myself. I fumble for a cigarette, taking care not to lose sight of her as she crosses the street. “She’s wearing blue today. As bright and shiny as the light in her eyes”, I note. I take another drag off my cigarette. The dress clings tightly to her figure, revealing full hips. The slit up her right leg is showing a slight glimpse of firm and shapely thigh. The top is cut with a sensual hint of breast. “Is she of money?” I ask myself. Her clothes are too well tailored to her well-proportioned body. The sun illuminates her hair, falling softly around her shoulders.
I put out the cigarette and watch two cars collide. The drivers emerge, each one screaming at the other. The damage is slight, but the heat makes them react in frustration and annoyance, their tight schedules already bulging at the seams of inconvenience. I turn away as the blonde steps from the Café with a box in her hand. “What does she eat for lunch?", I muse. “Can she dare to eat well, and keep a figure that turns eyes to stare as she walks down the street?” I light another cigarette and feel the heat as it closes in tighter around my room. I look at the fan in the corner, but I already know it will do nothing more than blow the heat around, stifling the few breezes that dare to dance in the trees outside the window.
The afternoon passes slowly as the city awaits the dusk. Yet even as the sun sets, the heat only gains intensity, as the streets fill with the night people. Packed tightly into every nook and cranny they seek solice from the heat. They mask the boredom of their meager existence in the glitter of the night. In the twinkling of the city lights they seek to quiet the nagging voices of discontent and dissatisfaction. Whether it’s drinking, gambling, or an hour with one of the “ladies of the evening”, they pour into the pulse of the night.
Music drifts through the window as HARRY’S TAVERN beats in simultaneous rhythm to the heartbeat of the city. The street feels a bit sluggish from the heat, but she will regain her energy as the tempo picks up, becoming almost a mirror image of the sound of her breathing. Many nights I’ve sat at this window, watching the street fill and empty. Almost like the tap on the spigot filling the mugs at HARRY’S, off and on, off and on, trying to quench the thirst from the heat, numbing the sensation of its presence. It remains undaunted. The mugginess fills the air like glue, sticking to everything it touches, leaving a ring that won’t wash out.
I watch the street and its movements. Smoke rises from the street as hundreds of cigarettes burn. Red embers glow in the night, ashes of dreams falling on concrete. Yet still they fill the night with music and laughter, trying to find their own personal reality. The night pulses, grinds with the sound of lovers, voices of frustration, anger and prejudice…each seeking their place in the mainstream of city life.
I get up and go to the bathroom, take a leak, splash my face again. I walk to the kitchen and grab a cold one from the fridge. I taste its bitterness biting at my tongue, but the coldness is refreshing. I sit down on the edge of the bed to light another cigarette. I take one more gulp from the can, the coldness is already warmer, and soon to be gone completely. I look at the sky, a blanket of haze, a remnant of the heat below. The night will be a hot one.
I watch the cars cruising the main drag, most with windows down, trying to get even a little breeze, as they move. “Do you know where you’re going?” I wonder. “Are you just driving to get away from the hotbox you call home!” I laughed. I watched the aimless prowling the streets. They too, call the street home. They carry a gut instinct of her avenues and boulevards that few will ever know, but still have little understanding of the city’s ways.
The air is thick with the heat. “I should get some sleep” I say to myself. Even as I hear the words, I know that sleep is still far from me. It will be a one of those nights that I sit and watch the street carry the city into another day.
The city is quieter now. The time is just before the dawn when the night people drag themselves back to where they live. They take home little, only a brief break from the heat. The sky is lighter, slowly preparing the city for the day ahead. Soon the sun will break through the haze and the gates of hell will once again open. The heat will spill out, rising up and burning through the foundations of the street. “Wake up!”, I whisper. I smile as I lay on the bed to watch the city breathe in the air of morning.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Now that you've read the story, go to jancox.com and read The Daily News, and the Transcripts of his actual meetings, to feed the ultimate neural hunger. The words there are his alone - FEAST AND ENJOY!!
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