Since I haven’t been able to update these pages as much as I would like, I am going to put some stuff up from the archives.

I put up my first web page in 1995, which sucked but had some fun content, like this piece. This is a short study in mood that I wrote in second person.

(As Yet Untitled)

You open your eyes, and sleep retreats to the corners, bringing into focus the old fan drifting lazily in the morning light. It turns with a slight squeak, the wicker in the worn blades split in places, the pale wood made paler by years of exposure to the sun and sea air.

The sound comes to your ears slowly at first, like a lover’s whisper and just as calming, the rhythmic sound of waves on a beach: near. You stretch to wake the rest of your body, warm yet clad only in a heavy cotton shirt. It’s a man’s dress shirt, and like the fan, the cuffs are frayed slightly, the fabric soft from wear and time.

You notice the man beside you as you brush his shoulder. He is sleeping on his side, his face away from you, and you can see him breathing in time with the ocean.

Sitting up, you look around the room. It seems at once both alien and familiar, and after a moment, you realize that, for now, you are home.

Your feet dangle off the simple bed: a thick mattress over a wooden frame. The floor is stone, and you can feel the slight grit of sand under your toe as you slowly kick your feet back and forth, tracing unconscious designs on the cold tile.

In the distance there are the noises of morning: greetings, shouts, sounds of barter; but you recognize none of the language. French doors open up to a whitewashed balcony, and the smell of the gardenias in the window box envelopes and perfumes you. You smile.

The shower consists of sparkling white tile. A pipe protrudes from the wall, ending in a large head not unlike a large chrome sunflower. A wooden handle dangles from a single chain connected to the pipe; a dull metal grate lies in the floor below.

The water is warm but not hot, and sleep has itself gone to bed, yielding the morning to the sun and light. An etched glass jar holds scented oil, it’s smoothness the tender caress of a masseuse, its only purpose to pamper and delight. The shower is illuminated by a frosted skylight, and you notice how dark your skin has become in this world.

The man smiles as you step from the shower, and his embrace holds a large, thick towel; scratchy-soft, it tingles your skin as you dry.

The dance of morning picks up tempo: another towel wraps like a turban around your hair; the faded jeans off the chair back hug you like an old friend; the white cotton t-shirt that you tie in a knot.

The man is staring at the sea, drinking coffee from a large ceramic mug. You know little about him, but you don’t realize that you are the closest he has allowed anyone to get in some time. The eyes which often hold desire and longing are peaceful now.

Your own cup you hold in both hands, the warmth and rich smell of fresh Brazilian wrapping itself around your senses like a halo, overpowering even the gardenias. Your toes rub against the wrought iron of the patio table, and as you let your mind drift you realize that you are happy.

The patio is on a balcony of one of the several stucco cottages on the side of the hill. In fact, it seems this entire place is one great mountain; the back of a restless giant who turned in his sleep and lost the blanket of the ocean. The land is in the shape of a crescent, one large peak with two arms that taper down into the sea. This cottage is about a third of the way up on the western arm. The ocean lies below, white sand eclipsed by the white breakers as they throw themselves against the beach, an eternal struggle held in the arms of the bay. A large statue of Jesus stands on the highest point, his arms outstretched as if he held this small paradise like the mountain holds the bay, and an almost fatherly smile seems to play across his features as the sun winds its way through the thin and wispy clouds.

Your coffee is gone, and the cup is replaced by the man’s hand as you walk down white steps and into the adobe canyons that form the town. Narrow and twisty, the streets are even more congested by people and the things they come to sell. There is an unwritten hierarchy of commerce: the lower you are on the mountain, the cheaper the goods. The town oldest resident runs the best shop, a small shack at the end of calle mayor. She is of unknown age and origin, and is called La Bruja by the townsfolk because of her irascible temperament and hard bargaining.

Much more pleasant is Corbata, the corpulent owner and chef of the nearest, and best, cafe. Breakfast is a slow ordeal of more coffee, eggs and salsa, and a fried dough similar to a waffle, coated with brown sugar. You and the man talk about nothing and everything, and you laugh for no reason as he mops up the last of the salsa with a flour tortilla, his mouth in a dopey grin as he finishes it off.

You and the man have a standing appointment every morning with the sea, and today you walk hand in hand in the foam; jeans rolled to just below the knees. He is wearing the white shirt you slept in, blown open with the sea breeze, his skin even darker than your deep bronze. The water tickles your ankles as you reach down and cup your hand in the ocean. In one quick movement you splash the man and take off running down the beach, laughing, looking back to see him chase you, slowing down slightly to let him catch you.

You land half in and half out of the water when he tackles you, and you can’t stop laughing in his embrace. For the first time this morning, you kiss.

Paolo waves from his fruit stand as you walk back up into town. He and the man exchange some words; Paolo laughs, saying in English that you are spoiled more rotten than his month old melones. You have a surprise waiting for you, and as you walk you are as inquisitive as a child on Christmas Eve. But, this time, the man will not yield, even when you pout and pinch.

You grow more excited and anxious as you approach the end of the street, for the only shop left is that of La Bruja. She sits hunched over, like an old spider in a web, her long grey hair braided in some random weave, like the work of a demented basket maker. You can see the only two teeth she has are her eyeteeth, and this gives her appearance a venomous cast, an ancient serpent that evolution overlooked.

Her words almost hiss at the man, while his words are seductive, calming. You remember that you are not the only one with hidden talents of persuasion. A subtle dance of commerce is going on, and the foreign words move and feint around you like two fencers, each looking for an opening.

Finally, La Bruja smiles (not a pleasant sight), and produces a bundle wrapped in a coarse cloth. “Por La Dama Bonita”, the lovely lady, she rasps, and opens the cloth to reveal fabric that seems to have imprisoned a rainbow. The colors swirl around and then back in on themselves, they catch the eye and take it on a whirlwind ride, to be left like an unwanted suitor, staring at a closed door and the dawn, abandoned but left with the feeling that something magical has occurred.

The afternoon heat is hidden from by all but the insane, and you now sit cross-legged back on the cottage bed. The dress is hung from a makeshift clothesline. The skirt is long and full, trimmed in scarlet the color of blood and passion. The top is long in the sleeve, but leaves the stomach bare, and everywhere is the hypnotic dance of color.

Your eyes feel heavy from watching the cloth and you lie down in the man’s arms. You dream of dancing, in a room with music like a heartbeat, torches surround you like tiny suns, as you turn and spin, twist and stretch, and almost break apart from laughter and grins.

You awake to a gentle kiss on your ear. Your eyes closed, invisible lips move lightly along your neck to your collarbone, finally stopping at that soft hollow, and, for and instant, you can feel your heart beating.

The dress is made more brilliant by the sunset, and you lean out over the balcony, your weight on your elbows, feet on tiptoe, straining to hear the slight hiss of steam as the sun sinks into the ocean. A cold, half-empty beer bottle is in your right hand, bathed in a sweat of condensation. The town puts the day to rest with a wreath of tiny lights, like candles scattered on a altar.

This time as you walk down the stairs, you are wearing your present. The man is dressed in a thin linen suit, the off-white fabric deepening the color of his skin. More than usual, he can’t take his eyes off you, and laughing, he lifts and spins you around: kissing your bare stomach, your neck, and, once lightly, each eye. He says you smell like gardenias, and your skin is soft as down. You laugh and bite his neck, literally dragging him down the rest of the stairs.

The restaurant is a large square formed by walls of light wood and grass. The ceiling is open to the sky, and a crescent moon smiles down as if it existed this night solely for you. The conversation quiets to a soft hush as you enter, which, considering most of the town has turned out to see you, is a marvel. You sit in high-backed wicker, as the sea and land produce delicacy after delicacy: tender scallops that melt in your mouth, spicy fish that burns, sweet fruit to satisfy, fiery liquor to ignite it all.

You are unaware of the music at first, but then its pull grows. Your every cell seems alive, and you feel as if you might explode, leave your body and fly higher than any drug could ever take you, faster than light or time, your mind full of yellow and the bitter taste of blue. You spin on the dance floor, picking up and discarding partner after partner from the surrounding crowd. Each man caught up in your whirlwind is cast off, only to bring their ladies in to spin in an orbit of you.

Finally, with everyone whirling around you, the colors of the dress spinning and melting, your center holds, and you see everything in slow motion. The townsfolk still dance, while you stand perfectly still. The man in white has shown up to take his turn.

Slowly you embrace, and the dance begins again. You can no longer see the townsfolk, you exist in a universe only large enough for two, surrounded by a circle of tiny suns. The man holds you and dances with you, and you move closer and closer to each other. He laughs and takes delight in the salty taste of your skin; you laugh and bite his chest. You both struggle to become closer and tighter, to spin faster and higher; to laugh and cry and scream and bite: to kiss and to taste and to hold.

You think of sea and sand.

You open your eyes, and sleep retreats to the corners, bringing into focus the old fan drifting lazily in the morning light.