game's time traveling influence.
I knew I was walking into a party of performers when, on my way up the stairs,
Santa grabbed my ass. Later in the evening, it was reinforced as I watched
Santa, and a pretty tasty barmaid in drag "show Elvis that he was gay."
I'll add here that Santa had some pretty slinky, frilly stuff going on under
that jolly red exterior. Freaky, yummy show, that. After a few fairly fierce
games of ping-pong, interrupted only by the dog chomping on the ball whenever
it entered his little sphere of influence, we settled down for some quiet chitchat.
Spectacle emerged once again, this time in the form of a short-skirted lass
dangling a rather prodigious phallus (I would stack it up against three of
mine) as bait, and said dog jumping, edging for a chomp. Needless to say, some
of the gentlemen found this particular whimsy a trifle disconcerting. (Not
only because of the phallus size.)
The party finished for seven of us at about three am. It was the first time
I had seen the odd loft of Boris Koski, man of triumph, and I had been duly
impressed. We were off to Jenny's to sleep, and she wanted to stop and see
a sculpture on the way. The piece was in a park. We pulled the caravan over,
halting, parked in its shadow. We looked at it, climbed on it, and took it
in awhile. The sculpture was a tribute to peace, temporary in the park, to
commemorate/ respect/ cry over/ somehow express some of what was going on in
our world after September 11. There was a spiral staircase going nowhere, fitting
poetry, a platform from which to request a dance, perhaps. A bald eagle with
an 18-foot wing wingspan and a rose in its mouth graced a massive globe made
of chain link fence, and even though I cultivate cynicism of all things patriotic,
I felt shivers. It's not often we are proximate to the sacrifice of innocence,
and it imparts grace.
I'm reminded of Julie Chen. Julie gave me that line. We were lovers. We woke
together on the morning of September 11 safe in my bed. Safe in what was once
the choir loft of an old church in Cornwall Bridge, CT, surrounded by the quiet
Berkshire Hills, and safe New York money. My friend Heather was leaving an
alarmed message on my machine about a plane flying into one of the twin towers,
and I allowed that to sink in, along with a mental note to turn the machine
volume down, as we redrifted. The second message got us out of bed. A second
plane. It wasn't an accident. We went to a local bar to see the TV. It was
closed, but open to friends. We sat at the bar with my sister's boyfriend,
drinking nothing but shock.
We both love to roller blade and when we got to the city, we rolled to the
vigil at Union Square. Candles incongruent among the tall buildings, people
being gentler than they are. Julie lives in SOHO: we were shimmered through
the barriers. Below Canal, the silence was eerie and otherworldly. It was smoky.
More smoky than you know. A friend had given me dust masks on the train. We
had them on. Julie and I had spent many hours volunteering together before
this, both believing there is hope for humanity. I'll never forget her eyes
with the mask on, the eyes of a fighter, a black belt, cappuccino skin defying
misfortune's white mask. Firebright eyes. I loved her then. We rolled through
silent streets, unable to escape the glee of the miles and miles of room. I
remarked on peoples' gentle treatment of each other on this night. She said,
"It happens whenever there is a sacrifice of innocence." Quieted, we went home,
and slept together, changed, scared, knowing safety is an illusion. Knowing
life is uncertain.
A few weeks after, we arrived at one of those relationship impasses; neither
wanting to get real, both knowing the superficial had been thoroughly explored.
Julie got filed along with September 11 under "don't dwell on this," and
I rolled on. The sculpture brought it all right back. It asked you to remember.
I complied, drifting.
Then Brady pulled out a soccer ball. We were lost to it. I took him up on it
right away, and Martin followed suit as soon as he spotted us. We quickly grew
from a hacky-type circle to a longer kick. It was clear that even after a long
night of partying, athletic ability was still well intact. Magic rode in on
the back of a lifting ball. Past melted into past. We were no longer tired.
It became all about the ball. About the game. About now. We kicked that thing
all over the parking lot for an hour.
The quick ability; this mutual desire to set all aside in favor of generating
fun, might be what separates us from non-performers. But I guess they have
it too, or they wouldn't stop to watch. Is it what separates humanity from
descent into despair?
Mr. Taxi Trix is a frequent
contributor to performers.net. He is seeking help for his compulsion to make
up words. His love of sentence fragments.