Reef - 1994
chant on bells of Tibet, monks barefoot in the wilderness of teenage wasteland.
A motel room in a cold midwestern suburb, where blue collar jocks build
gasoline combustors. Snarfing room service in the blue TV light, wondering
if, this is it?. Remote control through endless sitcom repeated
from forgotten generations. Out in the hallways, the remnants of the nights
show at the Palace are floating in dirty tie-dyes and cheap incense.
The years of roving with the holy church of guitars and the blotter trails
of migrant glory, gave way to the canned beat. The steady thump of the
dance floor drowning the melody and harmony. It was with the lady in our
presence that a new order was born. Strobe lights setting the motion to
slow, and insisting on the steady mix. I left the rental car at the snow
curb side and entered the halls of dance.
Within the halls of Industry the dance floor was pumping. Somehow I had
stumbled into this totally dope scene. It didnt matter about Midwest,
East Coast, or West Coast, the scene was the same. The Lady and Bootsy
had both traveled the same path. I found solace in their shadowland. The
scantily clad babes were dodging the dudes on the dance floor. Pumping,
grinding, and finding another place to be.
Hanging out at the upstairs tavern with Sharon and Dan. Swapping sweat
with the tightly packed cliques. This was like a haven and it is as close
to home as this trip had brought me.
So I ordered another round and talked of Andy painting soup cans. Everyones
famous for 15 minutes she quoted. Yes a little culture can go a long way.
Yet nobody knew what the Surfrider Foundation was or even that Sunday Night was a benefit party for them.
It was just another night to sling drinks and pocket the loot.
It was around midnight that Leon came to me in vision. Dancing to the
love sexy sound beat, he drifted back to memory. He was talking about
the power of love. He was talking about the power of music. The Shelter
People bringing the Gospel truth to light. Another case of an artificially
induced religious experience and everything is going to be all right now.
Yet somewhere she was watching the waves lap the sand in the sunset. Through
the clink of bar glass I could hear the crash of the point. The pack hooting
on the wicked rights. When the sun rose again on the frosted plains, I
would be longing for my home peak. She was waiting for me to exchange
silver for technology. Bequested to establish the server, I had only to
deploy the clients. Business thus completed would allow escape on the
great silver clouds.
On big days she used to surf Second Peak with her gang. They
were a fun crew and I was quite taken by her kindness. I only knew her
as Windy. Lost from any true encounter, I etched the memory
of her form and grace on my inner retina. Never to be realized, never
to be gained, a chance of meetings amid an ocean of take offs.
When the week had turned to end, I was paddling out again. The salt waves
rolling their power in the brisk sunrise. It was just me and the mother.
What could possibly go wrong?