The puddles are dirty, a brown layer of grime swilling about under the water’s clear surface which reflects the sky. Little toothpicks of vivid green grass jut daringly out of the saturated soil, while the jagged fingers of established oaks scar the sky like lightning. Old, new -- just alike.
It begins to rain, so lightly that at first it seems unreal, like looking at a slightly grainy TV program or a scratched painting. The little white streaks of rain drops are so fleeting as to be invisible. But my skin knows it’s raining, knows the fresh, electric feeling of watery air and the tiny tingle of raindrops hitting my palm. My skin knows the rain is good, that a shower cleanses the earth we pollute. My skin is very wise.
It is wet out so most creatures have gone inside (they are much wiser than us). But somewhere in the stillness a gull shrieks its strangled cry, reminding me of sadness and the ocean.
The crowd buzzed impatiently, people jostling and craning their necks to stare at the empty stage. Various instruments and techonology cluttered the stage: a cello, violin, drumset, grand piano, keyboard, as well as mics and amps. Blinding lights would occasinally flicker across the audience and stage, inciting an eager round of aplause though still no performers emerged. Coctail waitresses expertly navigated the dense block of people, hollering for drink orders. The scent of stale beer and smoke wafted from the women in front of me; nauseated, I looked at the ornate decorations on the wall and ceiling to entertain me.
The Fox Theater in Oakland is as grand and gaudy as any palace. Giant golden statues resembling buddahs, gilded with glimmering gems, guarded either side of the stage; their glittering green and red eyes seemed to disdain the restless crowd in their grand domain. Above the statues rose golden lattices which formed innumerable criss-crossing patterns, melding into the ceiling where changing colored lights painted the surface of a lavish latticework of flowers. Along the walls were rows of well-lit enclosures; just inside them, twinkling white lights illuminated costly rugs hanging aginst the wall.
As I gazed up, the house lights began to dim. Excited, I peered at the stage between bodies. Sure enought, three muscians entered and took their places. The corwd whistled and shrieked, and a chant began. “Regina, Regina, Regina!”
Finally, from behind the folds of the black side-stage curtain she emerged, and I caught my first glimpse of the idolized singer. She was fashionably clothed in a ruffly black dress with a shiny black belt and silver leggings. A cascade of voluptious brown hair framed her pale face with its smiling blue eyes and bright red-painted lips.
“Hello Oakland California,” Regina said softly into the microphone; cheers erupted in a head-ringing din. The performer smiled shyly at this enormous response.
“Thank you for coming out tonight,” murmured the soft-spoken singer. The crowd cheered adoringly.
Regina settled herself at the grand piano and began to sing. The music swelled inside me until I felt certian that I would burst with the joy of it.
She opened with “The Calculation.”
***
This was a month ago and i still haven't finished it, proceeding in my infamous tradition of beginning stories and never ending them. writing comes to me in spasms; i'm possessed by words, which burst forth in a rigorous tumult like a sudden breach in a dam. it seizes me, and i write in a frenzy of energy. then, as abruptly as it gripped me, the drive ceases, and i am left puzzled and winded as if i'd run a great way, only to discover i'd arrived somewhere unexpected. i don't know that i'll ever finish a story; i am young and full of beginnings, and somehow i suspect i shall always be this way. stories lie when they have endings, for nothing ever ends; changes, certainly, but never ends.
the concert was wonderful -- perhaps someday, if the inspiration captures me, i shall continue the story.
