About Me

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Michael seeks to create works that reflect his struggles with the world he finds himself living in, and the commonalities that we all share in this. Desire, Defeat, Acceptance, Judgment, Love, Fear, Time, and Space. Michael's studio is downtown Los Angeles in the Spring Arts Tower. "Happiness is that funny little place halfway between fantasy and reality." -me

Friday, September 11, 2015

On Eddie Gasper, Bob Fosse, and Such Stuff

This summer quarter at Antioch University, I participated in the course offering, Kant After Duchamp. It was a one day seminar, professed by the brilliant Justin Cole. The course was similarly titled from the book which was our guide, and authored by Thierry de Duve. In the text, a mathematical calculation was proposed where by one could reference the quality of Art, and consider as such through the If / Then proposal. Not unlike if X=Y and Y equals Art, then X also equals Art. And so on and so forth. 

R.L. Vickler, 85, Aide to Truman, articled by John Allen Paulos and re-printed in A Mathematician Reads the Newspaper, offers a similar kind of proposal in calculating length of obituary to various factors such as fame, achievement, and other important deaths on the same day, which in turn would of course take up typeface on the page, and perhaps eliminate or contribute to the length of obituary, depending on the very same factors for each. 

What is all this comparing and contrasting anyway? Why do we look for a proposal which may or may not consider the quality or dimensional stake one thing or another has? Is this need based on a propulsion to indicate and organize a universe which in all actuality has neither, it just is? In understanding our world do we in fact understand ourselves more clearly, and is a mathematical schemata the best formulaic guide toward this end?

This past month one of my most cherished teachers passed. I was a dancer in his dance company, and worked for him in this capacity for about 6 years. I am now 48 years old. He was 86. 


If how much I cherish said individual, C; how long we actually worked together in duration, D; is compared to Said’s lifespan, S; and mine currently, M (and is obviously ever-changing as I continue to live, while Said’s doesn’t); will I be able to register an equitable result which can then be used to evaluate against all other cherished peoples in my life, O-P? Maybe this looks something like C = (D x S / M) + / -  (O-P)?

Of course I have no idea on a very basic level how to create a formula in consideration of something simple (how many oranges will I need on a 5 hour road trip if I a.) don’t like oranges, and b.) only have oranges from which to choose for liquid refreshment on such a trip for whatever reason), or something as incalculable as losing a cherished person.

Some things are better left alone. The only person who cares for the length of an obituary, really, is the typeset person and really now, does such a person actually exist? With the push of a few buttons it is set with the aide of a computer, and is simplified, extremely so. Who else cares? The family who remains? Do they count out and measure the space offered for the loved one, or because most likely it is seen on a computer mediated device, no comparison, one obituary to another, is even seen?

Eddie Gasper was my dance teacher, mentor, and dear friend. He worked on Broadway in the original, and in some cases revived, companies of Little Me, Can Can, Oklahoma, West Side Story, Sweet Charity, Irma La Douce, and Guys and Dolls, to name a few. He was Bob Fosse’s assistant for several years, and taught me how to dance. And like the universe, the only measure for this, is in the ineffable. 


If  Eddie Gasper was a dancer on Broadway and taught by Agnes de Mille, Jack Cole, Michael Kidd, Bob Fosse, Luigi, and Jerome Robbins (to name a few), Then, somewhere in me is distilled all of such stuff, too.

Friday, March 28, 2014

The Dream, named Arid.

And so I think it was trying to tell me something, something in my dream. Something about God...
...and it is like watching a movie. A movie that as you watch it, you know you are the movie, and you know it will end, because after all, all movies end. And still we watch them, knowing the outcome more or less from the start of the movie, because after all, there are only so many endings. But still we watch them, entertained up to a point, and that point is when we know we are reaching the ending. And this understanding is so great and so sad and so compelling you try to change the movie as it goes because the part of you that understands, this part that knows, knows you are God and you are driving the movie and you are all alone in this...and when it finally gets to your part you may say aloud, "...I don't like how this feels," because you understand. You know.
Ouroboros.



In this dream, this movie, it has four parts, and once activated, each part performs its duty, its role if you will, and then the 4th part, which is You, will conclude in death. Your death, your movie, and so as you watch this movie you know this because we all know movies end, and we all know the only ending is death, and so you try to change the course of this movie, and it is ceaseless...ending only when it meets the 4th component, which is You, upon Your Understanding, and as I just said, it is Your Death.

This is something about God. About Eternity.

The Eternity is composed of 4 things:
The Action.
The Players.
Your Understanding.
Your Death.

And when you die, another movie will begin and resume with your place in it. First as simply the viewer. In the dark with a bag of fresh popcorn in your lap. Munching along, enjoying you are away from your life at a movie. Then as you watch the movie unfold, you follow the other characters, thinking they are separate from you, and then you will again reach your understanding, recognize yourself and know you are the characters, and know you are reaching the end. Because you will remember you are in a movie house, watching only a movie after all...will you try to change it up? It is all in your head.

I was telling Ann, my friend I work with at the theatre...I was speaking with Ann of this time we are living in, right now. For this is what we do.
And I called it, "Arid," for this is what it is.
We are in a dry spell. Spiritually, Politically, Emotionally, Personally, Creatively. And when it is arid like this you sit and allow it, and wait. Just like the 70's. You wait for it to change, because it always does and you accept this because you don't dare call the rain. Because with the rain, Something Great will come, and with it change, and the change will also mean the end. The end of what just was. And so here is the Story. Here is this story. Should we watch it? Is this the story you want to see next? Or can I create another?

Here goes.

I am in a desert.
It is arid, a dry desert. Unlimited blue blue blue sky, and near-white sand for as far as the eye can see. Beautiful. Stark. Silent. Arid. You are waiting for help. We don't yet know why you are in a desert, this is only where this particular movie begins.
I am in a desert, and along comes a family in their car. A Mother, and Father, and Daughter. They have room for me to join them. To join them in their car, knowing I am left, alone, adrift, they invite me along. To help me get Someplace, the Place they are going.
A pleasant enough plot for this particular movie to begin. But you the viewer, who is also the character waiting in the desert, knows this will end. This story will end and its ending will force another story to begin, because what else is there, and so you the viewer pauses.
"Do I want to continue this scenario?" You ask yourself as you pause this particular story, this particular event. This, "movie."
You choose to continue following this tale, borne from your very own imagination. You get in the car, and the Father drives off. In the car the Family tells of their journey, where they came from. Their lives. Their story. Father is a banker, and just wants to spend some time away from his office. He tells his wife, "...this weekend we will get away, just the three of us, and go for a small holiday." The wife loves this, she purchases a new dress because in this town they are going to travel to, there is a quiet little restaurant she knows they will visit, and it is always warm when they sit outside, in the evening under the porch where Wisteria hangs overhead, and she will want to be beautiful for him still, and comfortable, and be the beautiful bride he married. And that is her Story. And in back, next to you, is Daughter. Daughter watches as they travel along, silently, and listens as Father, and Mother, talk and laugh and discuss the route they are to take, riding silently along, and as she listens she turns to you and asks, "Where are you going?" And the you that is watching this movie arrives at realization. The you that is watching suddenly snaps to attention upon this question she asks, "...where are you going," as she knows the story is going to end, and you are the story, and the daughter is you too, and she is just an illusion, borne of light projected out of light vibration upon a screen, and if you choose to stop this story you can, but it will, nonetheless, end. Whether you change the story right here right now midstream, leaving the Family on their way to their little holiday, which takes them through the desert where they picked you up, or whether you start a new story, a new story you make up in your head. But all stories come to an end, and the ending is you.

And this is God. It is creativity endless of itself, continual, ceaseless. Searching through your story to know yourself, but when you know yourself, when you know God, will the story finally end? Will God turn into itself and say, alone, "...I don't like how this feels."

Monday, July 15, 2013

...and now we pause for Station Identification

Where are we anyway?
Last night I lay in the backyard, binoculars to eyes searching the heavens. I recently added this practice to my evening routine of sky-scanning before bed. It is quite peaceful. A beautiful way to finish my day, as it is perspective-facilitating. Not able to see many stars due to light pollution without this help, the binoculars bring forth many more lit objects. Opening up the skies to so much more. Satellites pass through the circular scope, making me seem enormous and the heavens singularly-celled-small, as it did when peering into a microscope in jr. high biology. This feeling of relationship-warping works for me, and reminds me of the deep connection to The All. I am made of the same stuff as I peek into, and am as deep and penetrable and full. Free of complete discovery, continually searching for more, looking out and looking within. And as satellites of my consciousness roam free within this: my infinite space, seeking refuge in hopes of communication back home, relaying data, I find my way slowly through the Field of Superconscious.
Some evenings I go up to the roof, above our patio. The musician Ben Lee (link) inspired me to create a mandala as he did, reaching out, searching to connect. And as we know this is really about reaching in. Sitting in the center of the mandala I am reminded of my place. Filled with love and hope, wonder and peace, I look out and in simultaneously.
My daughter and I laddered up to the roof last week. I made sure she sat back in the corner far from the edges, and from there she sang a song about spiders, making it up as she went along and watching as I worked out the shape using a measuring tape and the large plastic circular top from her turtle sandbox. Four hearts measure out the four directions edging the icon for the Earth, and icons for the other 8 planets (yes, I included Pluto) encompass this. The mandala is currently gestured quite simply in chalk, awaiting its acrylic finish. A symbol of infinity to the four directions sits in the center. It is a map, a road sign if you will of where we are in relationship to the whole for those visiting or just passing through.



Hello. 
Where am I?
Where are you?
I am looking for my way Home.
I am trying to find my way back Home.
And as I do I help others who may have lost their way.
Red Rover, Red Rover. Send all the Kids over.
We all get to go Home...we all get to go Home, one day.
Those who won, and those who lost...all go Home.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

...and recently,

I realized I have not shared anything for some time here. Like the song, "Time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking..." and as we step each moment, "...into the future," what do we bring with us?

For a good period of time now I have been haunted by Robert Mapplethorpe. You know and I realize I have written much on this one man, and apparently I am not through with him, nor he with me, yet.
I revisited his opus, X Y Z, almost 25 years exactly from the first time I saw this on the opposite coast, in a show at LACMA on its final weekend. After, having to find a quiet corner where alone I could shield my face with sunglasses in an effort to hide the tears I could no more contain as they streamed down my cheeks, I wondered at the profound effect his work had on me. 
I still wonder on this. Unsure of the why of it, but happy and thankful in some odd way to have this experience. Searching for the meaning to my response and finding, what? 
1988. It was the beginning of my own life, a fledgling artist, and Robert was showing me his. 
2013. Midstream in my life, hopefully if averages apply, and I wonder at mine in comparison. Grateful to have the breadth of time and experience now as a mature artist so I can revisit this powerful series. Seeing my place in it and recognizing my own ideas and ideals...beauties magnificent and terrible to behold. Both equally wondrous. Like a storm containing all within itself.

In March I began work on a series, a series started a few years earlier in photographic images I created and filed away for the...future. A friend I met in 1988, and who as it happens satellites in and out of my orbit, reconnected with me asking if I would consider donating a painting to a charity he chaired. I was happy to be asked, and even more happy to be able to participate. So, the series I had on files would be executed, giving the first one to this charity. Silver 101, as it relates my image of Los Angeles in history and traffic. Silver being the screen, obviously Hollywood, land of endless illusion and where the past always meets the future presently... and the endless traffic, jammed together.




Silver 101 #1
Oil, Oil Stick on; Red Rabbit-Glue Gessoed, and Black Gessoed, Canvas
30" x 19"
2013
Michael Gardner

And then working in this silver, tearing up as the aluminum it contains burns my eyes, I realized that there was a previous file as yet un-executed too.
Robert Mapplethorpe's Auto-Portraits.
And so, Saint Robert I begin to execute. Analyzing his auto-portraits taken with polaroid, and painting them for him and also for me as I consider them self portraits as well. Producing the right shade of gold, noble and gesturing toward something from the past, became foundational to this work. 




Saint Robert #1
Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas
14" x 12"
2013
Michael Gardner

Both of these series, Saint Robert, and Silver 101 are in process, and will be seen in their entirety on my web-site when they are finished. Who knows when that will be? In the future.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Remembering The Gates



Thinking about a visit to my old home, New York City, from nearly ten years ago this winter to view The Gates, the monumental sculptural, site-specific work by Jeanne-Claude and Christo. It is an artistic reflection of beauty, endurance, community, and free form thinking and imagination...much like the city it was produced within. It is comprised namely of Central Park in NYC, in the winter of 2005, and the 7,503 structures that aligned pathways throughout this park. Connecting the space of the city park, and its inhabitants, with vibrant florid orange fabric drapes which were animated by the wind and yet seemed indifferent to any other elemental residue, as I was able to witness in the time I spent experiencing this monumental work all variety of weather; sun, overcast, daylight, night time, fog, rain, snow, and sleet. These ‘drapes,’ were singularly held aloft by steel and vinyl tubing structures in the shape of rectangular arches suited for pedestrian passage underneath. Lining the byways in the park like giant dominoes, yet incapable of falling one after the other, the drapery of the fabric billowed gently overhead and flowered the space enormously. Viewed up close they obscured the outstanding topographic scenery the park is known for, and from a distance exemplified the space with its gentle dotting of lines, illustrating the free flowing design each flaneur may stride as if on a 19th century derivee. But it isn’t the 19th century, and life in a modern and bustling 21st century city such as New York doesn’t provide the kind of time or psychic space one may have had when living in the times of one Charles Baudelaire. However, this public work, granted significantly with the aid of the city’s mayor Bloomberg, helped to recreate this mode of pedestrian ponder one was forced to reconcile while in the space, even if the work was disliked, as many voiced disdain for such a project.


Figure I The Gates, Central Park (Michael Gardner, 2005)

The magical difference of the past in memory and said habit resulting from this past, versus the inescapable force of the now via The Gates, is a major shift and result of ones experience with this public work. Living in a major and crowded city, our senses work toward a focus of attention and protection together, as we make our way through life in this environment of choice. “We work out when and where to look, which sounds to tune into, what we can ignore. This ability to filter one’s perceptions, however, is stretched by the sensory excess of urban environments,” indicates Fran Tonkiss in the article, Spatial Stories. This understanding is reframed and underlined by Georg Simmel in his article, The Metropolis and Mental Life. “Man is a creature whose existence is dependent on differences, i.e. his mind is stimulated by the difference between impressions and those which have preceded.” Now take this, “Man,” place him in an urban context of the park, a place he may route routinely in his day or week, and has for years and years. Redesign the surroundings of this park, which through history of repetition through this space is augmented by the sculptural work The Gates, and this psychically challenges him to reconfigure in his mind the event of the space, forever changed now, and re-establish within his bodily memory map, a new experience. “...mapping is a form of abstraction explicitly linked to spatial geometry - ‘a conceptual grid that enables every phenomenon to be compared, differentiated, and measured by the same yardstick,” illuminates Phil Hubbard in his article The Represented City. This route in this city park will never again be the same. The habit in his mind of the space he travels through has evolved. His recognition of the park space once protected by the city essentially from the city itself, is redrawn in a manner which challenges himself in the space, and as Simmel continues, “...pronounced differences within what is grasped at a single glance, and the unexpectedness of violent stimuli.” The very rhythm of this man’s life, in a city that changes and doesn’t change simultaneously to one who lives in the midst of such a bustle for years, is altered. If even for the two official weeks The Gates was up, and then forever after. This is truly the power of re-presenting the city to itself through public art, and a piercing reflection of such a city through the enormity of its design and implementation. More specifically, calculating in the pain and upheaval from the circumstance of 9-11 just a few short years prior, one could view a prism like refraction of renewed possibility and beauty within the once darkened and shadowed change the terror of that day challenged the city, and how community was re-established through this as it crossed all boundaries of difference, such as race and economy, to refresh the integrity of such a place and the possibility in inclusion urban life in a city provides for all.


Figure II The Gates, Central Park (Michael Gardner, 2005)

And just like that fateful day, the event of The Gates in totality and singularly of each individual, “gate,” marked through the artistry of sculpture, a passage of time. Walked under and through, each gate notates much like a clock; a tick, then tock, as each step touched upon the pavement, a moment in time. Recording the surroundings and experiences through the experiential demarkation The Gates imply and integrate into ones being, an aside if you will, to the permanent surroundings. Or evolutionary as nature in such a park would contain, but perhaps not to the eye as this kind of change happens so slowly one notices only in terms of memory to years past. Here is life for all of us right now, The Gates gently intone. Much as in the article, Writing the City, authored by Peter Preston and Paul Simpson-Housley, when they wrote, “The city’s air, too, may be blent, composed of the hopes, aspirations, disappointments and pain of those who live it; like Larkin’s church, it is a kind of vessel, filled with human experience.” I believe Jeanne-Claude and Christo understood this deeply. In their efforts to create a capillary system of pathways through a world famous park, they established a bloodline the en masse-human vessel contained, through The Gates. Enveloping the rich and poor alike under their guardianship.  As Preston and Simpson-Housley indicated in continuation in this article, “...the city is an active organism, which may prove to be a site of culture and inspiration, like Pushkin’s Odessa, but is more likely to be seen as oppressing its inhabitants and creating or exacerbating divisions within individuals.” The Gates understood this, and created a pathway through these oppressions. Uniting its inhabitants in play.


Figure III The Gates, Central Park (Michael Gardner, 2005)

The journal article, Thinking Art Sociologically, by David Inglis, discussed many of the social and political encompasses art, in connection with a city, contain. Noting that there are, “...a great many issues connected with artistic matters...that we should not take the word ‘art’ at face value and accept it uncritically...the sociological view tends to see ‘art’ as always thoroughly bound up with politics [sic], the latter term is meant in its widest sense, where it refers to conflicts and struggles between different social groups.” Despite these assertions, The Gates succeeded in eliminating real or imaginary boundaries, and established a collective of interested parties from all social strata. Many of whom were not invested toward any considerations of ‘art,’ but in terms of allied constituents from the city to which they all belong. Participating in something unique and transient. Volunteers rising at dawn together helped deploy structures hard hatted engineers and constructions crews set out along paths. Uniting inhabitants side by side, city neighbor’s new and old together assembled each gate. Upon completion and ready for releasing the drapery making up the most visible and elemental feature of each gate, the New York Times article ‘The Gates’ Unfurling to High Hopes, by Randy Kennedy, February 12, 2005, quoted Mayor Bloomberg as announcing, “I can’t promise...particularly since this is New York, that every single person will love ‘The Gates,’ but I guarantee that they will all talk about it.” And photograph it, and explore it, and garner the attention of all the world’s cities. Quite an accomplishment a city notorious for so many reasons was accoladed, and an accomplishment for public works in every city worldwide. It may be site-specific and temporary, but ultimately temporal and historical for all time to follow. Temporaneous features prominently in a city, as people move in searching for dreams accomplishment, or desiring to anew a life dissolved of hope in a previous locale. The Gates is much like any new and also important traveller, who may or may not establish permanence in residence within any city’s estate. Like the ever changing face of architecture New York endows itself with, The Gates impermanence attests to this idea. Building’s may stay, or may be re-built, and much like the nature of New York specifically which re-new’s itself routinely as it’s space is small and unchanging (the borough of Manhattan, where all of this article features representation is obviously an island, and as such can only rebuild through new design; buildings, roadways, infrastructure. Tearing down and re-building back up again. It cannot spread out like pancake batter spilled onto the untouched outer limits as other cities can do), except through re-feature of aesthetic focus in architecture and the like. Phil Hubbard’s article The Represented City, again helps to understand these ideas. In citing Baudelaire whose prose understood this evolutionary attitude a city can possess when as he reflected on Paris:

Old Paris is no more (a town, alas
Changes more quickly than man’s heart may change);
Yet in my mind I still can see the booths;
The heaps of brick and rough-hewn capitals;
The grass; the stones all over-green with moss;
The debris, and the square-set heaps of tiles.
...Paris may change; my melancholy is fixed.
New palaces, and scaffoldings, and blocks,
And suburbs old, are symbols all to me
Whose memories are as heavy as stone...

The “perceptual innuendo,’ as coined by Lyn Lofland is ultimately the basis and spine line for the monumental accomplishment The Gates gave us. The unexpectedness of such a visual intrusion upon such a famed space, as noted in movies, plays, music, and historical accounts of Central Park, is the focal point from which Lyn’s assertions would begin. This public work illustrates the whimsy of a magical and facile imagination, incorporating the history of the initial design for prominent gates, as was included in the first blueprints for the park, and from which initial inspirations for the project arose in the minds of Jeanne-Claude and Christo. The crowding and spectacle of the park’s natural and man made formations, flourished with the sculpture, and the spectacle of the people who inhabit the city as they make their way through the park; seeing and being seen. Part and parcel of the juxtaposition Lyn informs us of. As journaled in The 3Cities Project: New York Essays, by Richard Ings, “In Lofland’s analysis, the pleasures of the public realm are aesthetic as much as interactional. As well as the theatre of people watching and being watched, there is ‘the experience of enjoyment occasioned by certain (mostly visual) qualities of the built environment.” The Gates would prove to be a third party in this cultural, sociological, and artistic exercise, and as such I imagine will endure in the memory of the inhabitants who experienced it, the psychic essence of the park itself, and in stories and photographs shared.


Figure IIII The Gates, Central Park (Michael Gardner, 2005)




Works Cited
Hubbard, Phil (2006). The Represented City. London; Routledge.
Simmel, Georg. The Metropolis and Mental Life. 
Tonkiss, Fran. Spatial Stories. Subjectivity in the City.
Preston and Simpson-Hously. Introduction. Writing the City.
Inglis, Donald. Thinking Art Sociologically. 
Ings, Richard. The 3Cities Project: New York Essays. http://www.nottingham.ac.uk/3cities/ings.htm
Kennedy, Randy (2005) 'The Gates' Unfurling to High Hopes. The New York Times. Feb. 12, 2005.


Monday, November 19, 2012

The Self in the 21st Century...3rd section.


...Section 1&2 may be read on Facebook if you are a friend.

I wanted to move to Galisteo, New Mexico when I grew up and live the life of a recluse. Now it seems, this century makes a recluse of all of us as we no longer need to interface, literally, because we can intercyber instead. Alone with my gizmo’s I can relate when I want to. I hear when someone wants me but I don’t have to respond, the message will be waiting when I choose to view it. I can post a birthday greeting on YouTube for my best friend who will love it because it is so publicly declarative, and I didn’t have to leave my warm cup of coffee sitting on the dining room table to make and send it. I’ve connected and reclused myself simultaneously. 
This simultaneousness is the heart of living in this 21st Century, and its illusions are as solid as the little rectangular flat devices we carry in our pockets enabling us to access them. I don’t believe in accessibility, however it seems I rely on it around the clock and participate in its machinations just the same. As an artist I have made myself accessible in more ways than I care to intellectually or spiritually recognize, and as such have given way to faith over disbelief that the accessibility I invoke will be the same ones that enable a gallery to find and promote me and my ideas. Twittering like millions of other birds as we nest on invisible lines perched in our iPhones, we read and dismiss information that was carefully crafted in under 144 characters with speed freak like distraction. Distractions once reserved for the meth addicted or ritalin needing grade-schooler, now embody most of the people I know, myself included. Fed by a constant need to know what is happening in the world around us, I’m certain however I know less about the world than I did in the previous century even as news sources and their reports are IV fed into my devices. 
I no longer feel as if I inhabit a world, taking up my little space in it, but that I am inhabited and what space I did have is no longer filled by me, as I seem to exist less and less. 
I think this feeling starts with my work and awareness as an artist. As more and more people move into the realm of being 'artists,' regardless of creative ability, understanding, or thought, my art world and its space diminishes. I may be a part of the generation possessing its last artists, as actual art making has been dissolved and replaced by the idea of art. Even the idea is appropriated so no longer is an idea required to produce. The artist will no longer be necessary and the world will have digitized all of it. Printing an oil painting, xeroxing a sculpture, and gif’ing a moving image from several still ones; all amateur crafted through technology. Even Garageband makes music for you and Soundcloud publishes it, and that feeds into Twitter and gets shared on a blog that hundreds of followers reblog. A regular blogjam of regurgitated regurgitation. RT’ing has become the last bastion of individual thought. You no longer have to have a thought, just RT one. Worst of all the creation of Rap, as it proves to be the final sound of music made. There was a time when artists wrote songs, and a generation later that song was re-recorded by another artist. Royalties were paid, as was homage to the original source, and a new artists’ insight through their era’s eyes was shared. Now a rap artist writes and records a rap, but who is going to re-record Bitch N****z by Snoop Dog? No one. Once artists like Joni Mitchell could think of the royalties coming in from re-records, but Snoop can’t imagine this kind of financial dividend as his work begins and ends with his own efforts. And efforts that may have been lifted in a riff written by Miles Davis, or a loop digitized on GarageBand, anyway. 
This is what it means to be living in the 21st Century. The previous century’s beginnings was an open field of artistic and industrial innovations and progress. Diseases were eliminated or contained. Methodology was crafted and educationally implemented. Real estate was ergonomically planned and cities grew enriching their space as the inhabitants filled them.
The beginning’s of this century were birthed out of the Y2K scare, which proved to be unfound. Yet a few years later as planes flew into towers in Manhattan, we were forced to re-boot in a new era we may not have been psychologically ready for and the shock of that crash was much the same kind of shock re-booting implements. Anti-terrorism tactics of searching the elderly in airports before plane boarding, and reporting suspicious persons and activity vetted anyone in their biases toward those unlike, birthing internet bullying their ugly offspring.  Welcome, 2013.  

Thursday, November 15, 2012

True Story:


Riding my bike home from my best friend’s house. Mom said be home by midnight. 

The field between our houses was a couple of acres. Old crops of wheat still sprouted up, but what was once farmland was now a field. This field would soon be new homes and a street connecting his neighborhood and mine would be in its place. I thought this field was pretty special. I didn’t want homes being built there. It felt sacred to me. Should be left alone. Sometimes I got scared riding my bike home through the field at night, down the dirt beaten path so many kids used. Used mostly during the day though. Sometimes I rode my bike all around the acreage even though the distance was triple, because I didn’t feel like crossing the field alone. This night I had to hurry to get home. It was getting late. 

Late summer night. Quiet. Beautiful and very still. Growing up in a town so silently silent, especially in the summer when everyone vacated to go to the lakes. I loved it. No one around. Listen for the train whistle from the tracks a few miles away just to be sure you aren't the only one left. Someone else is up. Someone else is awake. someone else is here.

Whistle blow. Blooow. Bloooow. 

A mourning dove in the evening as sun was setting would do the same thing to me. Remind me I’m not alone. Another being is near. 

Coo. Coo. Cooooooo. 

This night no train. Doves asleep. Just me. Soundless. The field. The dark night sky. The beaten dirt path. Somewhere a clock was ticking warning me to hurry. My bike metal chain and spokes banging as I rode shot home. Getting close to the street, closer to the homes and something catches my attention. A sound. A drone. A buzz. What is that sound? Like a garbage truck in hydraulic lift. Louder. More condensed. A sound I can’t place. What is that sound? I’m nearing the end of the field, almost to the street. Our house is across the street, second one from the corner. Always struck me as an odd location. Available. Exposed. Just off the edge, but not far enough in. Sitting silently in the dark of the night. A streetlamp on the opposite side lit the driveway. A small tree on the verge not moving. No wind. No one on the road. Just me, my bike, this sound. 

Squinting as I near the house, trying to orient the sound with my eyes in the dark. I’m starting to ride faster now this sound urging me. I see something. Noise coming from the end of our driveway. Something I can’t identify. Something is at the end of our driveway. The sound tells me it could be a garbage truck, but this is impossible. Not this late. Not on this day, not even close. I am looking at it trying to identify. It is smaller than a garbage truck, and my mind is trying to orient what I’m looking at. The sound confuses what the object could be. Not quite a truck, smaller. I am thinking a man with a shopping cart. A shopping cart? No, that is too small. Shopping cart doesn’t make that kind of noise. Doesn’t make sense. Mechanical electrical vibrating sound noise. So I think it must be, truck.  But no, what I see is too small for that. Smaller than a truck. As tall but not as long and more dense. 

I flash on the sound which is so loud now I wonder why no one is coming out of their front doors to investigate. This small college town where nothing ever happens. People leave their doors unlocked at night. Yet no one comes out of their front door. No one turns on a porch light. This sound. This shape of noise mass and a person behind it at the end of the driveway. Why isn’t the man in the garbage truck driving? It isn’t a garbage truck. He isn’t in it either. He is behind it. He is pushing it? I think of Mad Max. It isn’t necessarily a man. 
Something not from this time is at the end of our driveway and I have to pass it up our driveway to ride my bike into the garage. How do I know it isn’t from this time? From the space I live in? I am terrified, I am out of my body. What the hell is that. I want to cry. I’m scared. I can’t look at it any longer. That sound is near deafening. A male being with a shopping cart the size of a truck full of stuff making a horrible noise at the end of our driveway. I’m alone. I have to get home. 

I ride my bike up and over the curb diagonally across our lawn to the far side of the house where I know the gate to the fence is always open, otherwise I couldn’t get into the backyard. I ride around to the back door of the garage, connected to our house. Jump off my bike and throw myself at the backdoor to the house which is unbelievably locked. I can hear him. It. That. The sound is getting closer, right at our front door. I am banging on the back door with my fists, and miraculously mom appears. I am stammering. That sound. That sound. What is that? In the driveway. Mom! My mom doesn’t even respond. She looks out the window of the front door and nothing is there. No sound. Nothing. She doesn’t acknowledge my hysteria and says goodnight and walks upstairs to her room. I run downstairs to my room, which has windows on ground level facing the driveway.

Don’t turn on your bedroom light. You don’t want to be seen through the windows of your room.

I look out. Nothing is there. No sound. No man. No noise. No truck. Nothing is there.