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.
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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.
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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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