Notes from going underground

Across the silk-covered room, the fairy tale begins swiftly, a flowing iridescent current. A failed thought pauses in distraction and then floats harmlessly by.

Somehow before it fades, an Asian police officer wearing a green gray uniform urges a speedy retreat from the scene of the crime yet to happen. An unavoidable anticipation pervades and hangs thicker than fog as I follow. The trap is being baited though to what extent remains very uncertain as a frightful deja vu lurks from behind the shadow of a wooden door left ajar. Through it lies our sole means of escape, some think, salvation. But from what or whom? No one directly says, however.

And we move fast through the door and descend an impossibly linear spiral staircase, three steps at a time in a blur. Seen from above, it is a dizzying funnel of steps headed to a central vanishing point. The tessellated perspective distorts any sense of reality, elongating our legs in slow motion until frozen in Futurist space as if a rare Marcel Duchamp canvas. The hunter becomes the hunted, lost in the rabbit hole. Trin T. Minh Ha whispers from the balcony above, something mouthed disguised as words. Who do we run from now? Are they immediately behind us?

Upstairs a clear light shines through the gauze window curtain but from the inside outward, a luminous air permeating thin skins. A mysterious figure is about to appear. The silent cinematographer moves aside, his 35mm camera rolling and shoots from a wide angle, unnoticed.

She calls out without reply.

The tao of poo

Incessant caterwauling squeakily reverberates over the partition so much so that it fazes the normally plastic Yao Ming leaning in mid-dribble, shoulder lowered into the beige receiver, clearing room for a running hook. One hundred t-bone steaks dancing a waltz with one hundred bacon strips along the wall, watch in silence.

Behind the leaden wall sit two aliens of the nookie persuasion, jabbering static in gesticulations. Finally the words, "...dancing on a minefield" become discernable causing consternation among government officials monitoring the exchange from the broadcast booth above the netted homeplate area. Who is the sleeper?

Suddenly a confused Woody Allen appears onstage telepathically repeating that old joke of a bear and a rabbit shitting in the woods where the bear asks the rabbit, "Rabbit, does shit stick to your fur?" to which the rabbit answers, "Why, no, Bear" prompting the bear to grab the rabbit to wipe his ass.

The scatology of chili infiltrates the collective consciousness.

Notes on not eating mussels

Wonder ugly and hop a leaf. A ponytailed girl with fish lips, puckering wood-grained graffiti is left hoisting a tangled ball of orange extension cords. Noguchi using Japanese paper instead, smirks. Are the cut-ups really enough to arouse guffaws? Hopefully under a pseudonym, Chow Yun Fat displaces the neon cool of the John Woo ilk. And the hapa haoles surface en masse, driven from their cubbyholes to seek the daughter of a man whose paintings live only overseas, an indictment on the previous administration fumbling the football.

Beads of plastic sweat cling to the pigmented surface but who knew how to figure out the complicated formula to figure out square footage? Murakami can, though and proceeds on a superflat beeline to that imaginary vanishing point. No one sees Toulouse Lautrec drinking out of the blue-faced lady, his beard shorn.

Six males of Asian descent, mildly drunk but majorly aghast, rant about an impending catfight, placing bets of varying odds. Go ahead and order the duck brioche as the Earl of Sandwich.

Jerry Yee

He draws a charcoal line, wavery in the misty rain as the doppelganger reflects a weird shadow from underneath a tree limb overhanging a grassy plot. Naturally it dissolves, washed away by a torrent of tears. But no one is near to hear you ask, "So who will come and wipe clean the memory?"

Waxen, the prone figure rests comfortably, undisturbed by the surrounding begonias and lavish carnation bouquets. Vertical rows of ideograms on long ribbons of satin argue against the logic of upright Roman text, nearly causing a Trojan War. The walk home is uneventful until the third kidney shrinks out of proportion. Only then does the luncheon resume. Luckily for the pastor, his nephew, the parking lot is empty in front of a leaking restaurant.

Afterwards, all lights, red, yellow and green lead a direct path, illuminating the ranch as if stranded in the Nevadan desert. Throughout the wood panelling sits a fuzzy zoo, thousands of miles removed from sustainable bamboo and inedible bramble. Visitors rest at the dinner table while old acquaintances examine the backs of quarters, looking to make sense of green tea leaves and pistachio shells.

Disembarking off the jet, sad faces pop hard candy into their mouths. And a week goes by quickly for the slow ride back.

A conclusion

Up the middle lies the remains of two horned and bloated goats. Visitors march by in disbelief, asking to themselves, "How did this happen? And who is to blame?"

On the far wall, dimly lit by flickering candles is the gospel, finally.

LARRY LEE
Led the league in least runs scored upon assisted in small part due to his ability to induce batters to "hit his pitch" but mainly to his All-Star middle infield and outfield. Usually stoic, if not downright blase, the robotic "Lar" underhanded a variety of lollipops, slow and high trajectory pitches with heavy backspin that curved back into the strike zone from either side or arced straight down "into the well" consistently for called strikes. Despite, or rather in spite, of his control, his inability, when the game was on the line, to "throw a 'can of corn'" when the umpire squeezed the plate in the championship game led to Simon's Tavern's big inning and eventual (and improbable) comeback in their last raps to win their fifth consecutive title as Lar simply unravelled, giving free passes and frozen ropes to a succession of opposing batters, loading the bases. Alas, the nervous fat pitch he lobbed "right down Broadway" to their weakest hitter whom he previously stuck out twice, nearly snapped his neck off, rocketing over his outstretched (more in self-defense than athleticism) hands headed toward short centerfield and forever in infamy. To compound his lack of intestinal fortitude was his inexplicable brain cramp by not sufficiently covering home plate to field a quick relay throw from his shortstop Matt that would have gunned down the winning run and thus coaxing extra innings. It was not to be as the hit so demoralized him that he simply forgot how many outs remained, rooted on the mound, flabbergasted.

YETTA STARR
Versatile to a fault. Utility fielder "Yettaanotherstar" possessed a strong throwing arm that presented a dilemma in where to play her regularly. Whether at first or third base as well as behind the plate as catcher and in short centerfield, she centerfield throughout the season. In fact, yetta played short centerfield for the first time in the championship game. Fate dealt her and the team a cruel blow. With two outs in the final inning and runners in scoring position to win the game outright, Yetta, out of position directly behind second base, moved instinctly to her left, reached up, stabbed at and deflected the infamous liner from centerfielder swooping in for what would have been the third and final out to win their first title. Instead bedlam ensued as the winning run crossed an unguarded home plate.

And a slick neon sign advertises a free prize for any returned patron interested in reliving a tragic moment anew.

The saddest of possible words...

"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

Or just as worthy, Earney to Miller to Bauling to May,
Our quadruple-powered vacuum, sucking in all debris,
Cleaning dusty pathways, forever linked,
who upon summons take a bow,

ALYSON EARNEY
Defensive mainstay at third base, Alyson guarded the line and prevented grounders from becoming extra-base hits. She formed part of an "Iron Curtain" on the left side of the diamond as anything hit in that direction "got eaten up" for outs. Her quick reflexes and accurate arm in the "hot corner" forced many a hitter to pull the pitch foul, hard to muscle the ball by. Alyson upended by the runner representing the tying run sliding hard into third base in the final inning of the championship game. The runner was ruled safe on a controversial call as league rules dictated a runner is automatically out for not avoiding collision on a slide.

MATT MILLER
Named team MVP. "The General" showed amazing defensiverange at shortstop. Matt could "go into the hole and come up firing" or glide behind second to trigger the forceout at second base preventing baserunners from being in scoring position. His soft hands and cannon for an arm easily scooped up and threw out all batters on any type grounder. Other teammates could cheat "down the lines or into the gaps" because of Matt's ability to cover so much ground. In the final game, Matt made a crucial error in judgement as he broke the cardinal rule with two outs (when any baserunner ran with the pitch) to always make a play on the batter on a grounded ball. Instead of throwing to first base for what would have been the higher percentage third and final out to seal victory, Matt flipped the ball too late to force the runner at second.

TRINA BAULING
Part of the All-Star double play tandem, second baseman Trina often covered the bag with runners bearing down on her hard, intent to break up the force out or double play. Cool under pressure, she tied for the league lead in combined putouts and assists as opposing team continued to test her defense on the right side of the infield, possessing a knack for making the crucial defensive play to "put out the fire". Trina tried in vain to reposition the out-of-position short centerfielder just before the pitch that resulted in the deflected liner that lost the championship game.

CATHY MAY
The heart and soul of R & M Trucking. Sure-handed team captain Cathy threw out a slew of baserunners "going first to third" on slow rolling ground balls and ranked highest among league leaders in fielding her position at first base. Opposing baserunners respected in fear her strong and accurate arm. The team name reflected her competitive fire and blue-collar work ethic to outplay opponents. Cathy dropped a low thrown ball for what would have been an out at first base in the bottom final inning of the championship game. This error allowed Simon's Tavern to prolong their at-bat to eventually win the title.

And with heros are their counterparts, the goats.

Notes on a hall of fame

A partition blocks the entrance into the sacred place, a memory palace long forgotten. On the opposite side is a vitrine housing a dusty satin athletic jacket whose reflective gleam shines off the bronzed bas-reliefs and glossy text covering all the walls within. Frozen in time, such a personal moment transcends historicism beyond legend yet fights together to immortalize loss and commemorate something quite mundane as a specific time gone awry. Remember that defense, not offense supposedly wins championships.

The story unfolds from left to right first, position by position as the throngs sardined around the opening passage, read to themselves the words printed below:

RANDY HONOLD
Literally, death to all flying things reincarnated. The best "pure" athlete on the team, leftfielder "Doctor" routinely demoralized opposing teams by casually robbing batters of seemingly easy extra-base hits on montrously-hit balls way over his head. His ability to come in or go back on a ball plus his deceptive giddyup speed enabled him to quickly make up ground to track down any batted ball for an automatic out. Opposing teams frustrated themselves trying to blast the ball past him on the fly and eventually gave up hitting anything in his direction. In the championship game, Randy raced in and watched in disbelief as the deflected liner hit ground and bounced away from him and the prone centerfielder allowing the winning run to score.

CARLTON MOK
Arguably, pound for pound, the strongest man on the team. "Mo" patrolled centerfield with veteran craftiness. What he lacked in size, he more than compensated with desire and intensity. His encyclopedic knowledge of opponent batting tendencies permitted "our Itsilbitsilar friend" as he is often called, to position himeself accordingly to maximize any angle to :get on his horse" chasing down a ball hit in the gap. Ironically, it was "Mo" who dove helplessly at the deflected liner off the mispositioned short centerfielder for what should have been the final out for a championship victory.

WILL CASEY
Never say die. Stentorian six foot eight inch high rightfielder Will intimidated the opposing teams with his size and voice. An incessant chatterbox, he dared hitters to "feed me leather". Slow of foot, Will played any hitter unusally deep. His defensive strategy was to use his height and very long stride to ramble in, building enough momentum to engulf any flyball with his massive iron-grip hands. Playing the first five innings of the championship game, Will rotated out of the lineup for another teammate to play. He coached from the sidelines, screaming encouragement even when the team lost its composure in the final inning.

Visitors now stop to genuflect.

The Year That Almost Was

R&M Trucking, leading by three runs with two outs and the bases empty in the bottom of the seventh and final inning of the title game for the 1995 Chicago Park District Margate Park Co-Rec Monday Night Softball Championship; lose by the score of 7 to 6 to the reigning champions and perennial powerhouse Simon’s Tavern formerly K-Dugouts when a hard liner is deflected into short leftfield allowing the winning run to cross homeplate.

Further color analysis after the postgame.

Notes within my seldomly used living room

Cloisonned gold interlaced, wraps around his neck just below the larynx, a dangerous knotted scarf that Von Ryan twists violently as steady, even pressure strangles each Nazi guard, all seated abreast like ducks on the pond. It is red dawn and his successors, streamlined mainstream knockoffs effusing angst, are boys lost. Frankenstein whose bellowing voice disrupts the radar screen full of commercial jet liners in holding patterns, frightens away the captive audience, reciting dense Brechtian monologues. Eyebrows raised and jaws dropped because the pitch is out of the strike zone again.

In the flowered bowl sitting atop the black-stained circular endtable, three satin mushrooms-one deep pink, one cerulean blue, one flaming orange, wrestle for the rite of passage of a nuclear family formally looking on, posing relaxed. Heads do roll after a tumble and tuck. But the young boy appears to be crippled, his red cane an optical illusion fading away in purple. Again two right hands offset biometric logic but how fragile is a frayed nerve? An acoustic guitar sits in the nooked corner, a lonely wallflower dwarfed by the imitation rehabbed curio cabinet. Hidden inside are a band of artists content to wait out the Trojan war, making innocuous trinkets to pad the coiffers at the expense of silkened pillows, barefoot and pregnant.

The Art God is well represented in the yellowed space.

A fantastic voyage sedated

Endless miles of plastic highways swerve underground deeply into encrusted tunnels, an arterial labyrinth to be navigated by a microscopic submarine armed with laser beams. The theater of operations is antiseptically sterile as white jumpsuited technicians wearing safety yellow hardhats sidestep one another checking the numerous lighted gadgetry beeping irregularly. Uniformed men peer from behind open Venetian blinds covering thick glass window, ready at the last moment to abort. And an automated voice can be heard throughout the complex mechanically counting down the remaining seconds until ignition.

The tough, old coot lies jaundiced, awaiting Armageddon. Every so often, furled brows reluctantly Morse code short dots and long dashes of convulsions, spasms that belie an intestinal fortitude. Memories like his cherished boat float adrift morphined dreams chasing both King and Queen squarely ahead and well within sight. Soon he will digest a liquid concoction dyed for easier visibility.

Twice removed, the point of this exercise then is to build double indemnity before the shrunken crew leaves the triple airlock to release a huge weather ballon as all converge upon the alien intruder. Around his spleen, glowing radioactive pus choke off his own climate control usually synchronized to an atomic clock. The battle itself remembers the Alamo because the handful of Davids stave off wave after wave of Goliaths disguised as renegade antibiotics in attack formation. It is the art of war, constantly struggling to attain medicated bliss.

A domestic exercise of the democratic process as curatorial practice

Blinds drawn, a silver puff of opium smoke obscures intermittent white noise from broken static emitted by a massive equipment shutdown. The minions so scrubbed-faced do scramble, an ad hoc exodus that violates celestial hierarchy. Ghosts of disarmed MIGs do fly by as a matter of encounter versus displacement.

Unbeknownst to him, though, Tony Randall materializes speaking in tongues, his long wizened whiskers trailing behind entangled tumbleweed. A pair of slanted eyes, prosthetically applied, smiles an effeminate yellow face at Sybil whose seven faces alternate between Pan, half-man, half-goat and the Abominable Snowman. Meanwhile, Medusa awaits for Apollonius to arrive but his flight is delayed by great flying serpents in the sky. Where is the egress?

But the air suddenly clears and history repeats itself, fondly recalling kinships lost, ideas milked and theories impossibly collided. The lack of preparation fuels a stream-of-consciousness, wildly extrapolating anecdote as legitimate artform. Hench, a day in the life of over three thousand miles of undetected crime compressed as Powerpoint wears many hats in a parallel universe.

The performance per se is quite performative though snickers can be heard above bored snores. Truer words may never be spoken.

Once upon a twilight doubleheader...

circa 1969

In a sea of red and white dotted along the periphery, vertigo loses surrealism. The resultant encompassing fisheye view, panoramic in Cinemascope, of the diamonded greenery below, though joyous, distorts all contiguous space/time continuum, elongating heretofore husky torsos. Beauty fully realized as cognitive concept beyond normal parameters, inexorably slides head first, a conscienceless Charlie Hustle.

FADE out.

To the north on the lost horizon bounded by geopolitical fissures encasing a gold mountain stands a faded nondescript three-storey building, heads and shoulders above its siblings, the perfect height from where Alfred Hitchcock looms, arms outstretched holding cotton candy peering in awe of the spectacle of battles won.

Boom goes the successive bangs, a manmade flurry of thunder and lightning framed and contextualized by three thousand years and a great wall.

SWIPE in.

Hands holding two hot dogs semaphore a nautical message from one corner back to home as a thumb lost in the jungle rematerializes before a stunned knuckleballer, his fractured knee cap aquiver.

The ghost of the Polish cowboy is finally dead and can be put to rest in peace.

"...like the willow in the wind"

The dynamics of geographical orientation often form uneasy allegiances between natural enemies because which way the wind blows determines obtuse tracjectories launched from solid sphere impacting against oblong cylinder. This process reflects the superficiality that is the madding crowd at the proverbial fork-in-the-road, the penultimate flip-of-the-coin. Go deep or run shallow; stay true or fly the coop.

Yet stereotypes persist as to how meteorology affects individual behavior transformed into a collective consciousness. North means industry while South represents agriculture. Fast versus slow; cold against hot.

And in the city that Carl Sandberg associates with big shoulders, the equation so historical flip-flops. Blue collar work ethic then borne of the union stockyards immortalized by Upton Sinclair gravitates southerly suffering from an inferiority complex explainable only in terms of perceived classism.

Inevitably the Brahmin caste is left holding the door as the untouchables hurry through. So join the meek (or downtrodden) to inherit the earth.

Notes on an entirely different solar system

Oversized shurikens, each a lovely shade of baby pastel twinkle, embedded as if thrown along the perimeter of where ceiling meets wall. Around their orbit hang miniature Alexander Calderish mobiles in itself another self-contained universe ad infinitum.

The constellations then form haphazard patterns all over Jackson Pollock armwrestling Elsworth Kelly that appear quite dangerously razor sharp. Yet the weight of these Oldenburgian worlds feel heavyhanded to the degree that nothing light exists about how these pentagrammic forms behave in the modest company of chevrons, poured drips or target circles.

Following the trajectory of an open face club, a sand wedge, though, so intently often strains the neck muscle beyond the normal stratospheric airspace violation. Neil Armstrong does take aim and drive the capsule several light years away.

The heavens full of pent-up fury descend.

Notes on nawa shibari

Streamlined tubular chair in black leather handsomely upholstered over hidden birchwood ergonomically hogtied in suspension adjacent an upturned vintage vinyl barstool frozen by not-so-hidden puppet strings. Each knot the perfect bowtie, looped so its tapered legs thrust awkwardly in pain, lower back twisted, upper torso bent over. Hemp cords bruise the matte finish as bound limbs in limbo risk major injury to fragile anterior cruciate ligaments. Imagine Cornelia Parker meets Araki where submerged libidos reach a strange climax and sleek vogue design bends over to grab its ankles.

Extra

As simple as disposing trash, an automatic act, almost like riding an upside-down bicycle attached to an upright stool repeated regularly recompenses a good salary. One day of waiting albeit sated from junk food equals two weeks of pay. That was the happy meal offered by Ray Kroc and an inebriated Ronald McDonald. Under the golden arches a food stylist dawdles away the afternoon light tweezering immaculate fries. You do deserve a break today, actually three or four.

Each hour worth every Big Mac consumed gratis is cooperative business management training, a vigorous set of calisthetics in preparation for all Japanese salarymen on company expense accounts.

A classically tailored black suit absorbs about ninety per cent of harmful ultraviolet rays as do horned-rimmed glasses or wire spectacles worn dangerously low.

Fame impends.

Notes off the Lao Sze Chuan menu

Crenellated bittermelon hardened to a straightedged rectangle, each furrow a striated plane from a bird's eye view lands ever so softly on the abstracted tarmac. Architecturally related, intersticed strip malls of triple-hued firm tofu stand at ease, lounging around a five-city-block radius, arousing the ire of female passersby indignant of the nonstop catcalls in salute. At the end of the street sits a multidecked eggplant, gracefully violent as it backs against the wall.

An imaginary peppery smell wafts sideways through the oyster sauce drizzled atop gai lan stalks. Two hours before rush hour, Chef Tony is overcome, overpowered by licoriced peppers that numbs tongues and reddens faces.

Notes on video orientalia

Disassembled Ming replica footstool in seven pieces form a Chinese puzzle of three faux cloisonne vases huddled inside the decorative fireplace hearth of ecru brick.

A cluster of bright satin embroidered pin cushions connect its mushroom tops like famous Siamese twins Chang and Eng plus one pair of baby China doll slippers atop Remembrance of Things Past.

Greasy porcelain Kung Fu master in White Crane pose basks Kikkoman aglow as the afternoon sun sets.

On the finality of trifocals

Top for long distance, the center for intermediate looking, and the bottom for reading equals no peripheral vision because of how the sides blur. Now to adjust, the whole head moves. Vision unlike its counterpart and namesake Simon Williams, he who is a red-faced, yellow-caped, green-skinned android capable of passing through solid form, deteriorates like a scarlet witch as parts continue to break. In the meantime, Richard Petty shows up on time as expected driving his stock car, screeching rubber and carrying a scythe.

Nearly twenty eight years ago the nonchalance of a basket catch suddenly grew out of focus as the customary reactive nod that confirms destination arrival produced a faded muscle memory. Racing in, ready to swoop were the vultures of time, intent on every bit of continuously rotting flesh. Every Tibetan shuddered, avoiding the Grecian whose formulaic approach promises only empty calories.

Notes on "And Master Po asks.."

Galvanized pipes threaded by teflon elbows or steel tee joints and rubberized, so as to better resist inclement weather transform into the perfect storm that drowns Dirk Diggler. Embedded, the concrete anchor of arachnid legs balances a fragile fulcrum precariously haunched upwards. Little school children who fall from lack of coordination or upper body strength during their recess scuff up their delicate knees but nonetheless curse Buckminster Fuller.

His geodesic self, though, recalculates the angle of repose at a maximum of forty seven degrees latitude and dares the urchins to swarm the goal post, guaranteeing that its tensile resiliency ought to withstand the combined weight of swinging primates imitating Tarzan (as played by the redoubtable Miles O'Keefe) willy nilly.

Jane simply gasps at the spectacle of ascension.