12/12/2010
12/12/2010

sonnTAG 215

Mit einem Vorwort von Wenzel Mraček

Vom Gebrauch und zum Mehrwert der gefrorenen Bratwurst
Anstelle eines Klappentextes zu „Dancing the Two Step at the End of the Runway“

Vor lauter Arbeit gelingt es mir nur selten, Graz zu verlassen, ganz zu schweigen von Österreich. Das stört aber nicht weiter, so bin ich vielleicht doch eher Kopfreisender, bewege drei Finger über Tastatur und Landkarte, die sich in Archiv und Maschinenpark der eigenen Wohnung befinden. Von Kant heißt es, er hätte Königsberg sein Lebtag lang nicht verlassen und abgesehen davon, dass ich behaupte, ebenfalls ein bisschen denken zu können, ist damit auch schon beschrieben, was ich mir an Gemeinsamkeit hier aus der Nase ziehe, wäre da nicht Folgendes. Bei aller selbst verordneten Sesshaftigkeit, pflegte sich Kant an den Stadthafen des Kanals zu begeben, der Königsberg mit der Ostsee verbindet. Dort lies er sich von den Seeleuten die Orte beschreiben, an die er nie mehr gelangen sollte, so zusagen also die ganze Welt um Königsberg. Zwar trage ich mit solcher Referenz ganz schön dick auf, letztlich bleibt mir Nichtreisendem aber auch nichts anderes übrig, als nach ganz ähnlicher Strategie vorzugehen und wo nur möglich, wirkliche Reisende um ihre Erzählungen aus der Welt um Graz zu bitten.
Als ich nun Shannon Wardells längere Short Story um die Erlebnisse des reisenden Kurzzeitkochs Cook in einem Wüstenkaff nah Phoenix für die Sonntagsgeschichten vorgeschlagen habe, folgte auch gleich die mahnend wohlgemeinte Bitte, der Erzählung voran zu erklären, was diese denn mit Architektur zu tun hätte. – Nun, neben der Sesshaftigkeit haftet mir auch die Aufmüpfigkeit pechklebrig an und jetzt könnte ich behaupten, dass die Antithese, wie die These, die Conclusio bedingt. Verhandeln wir die Architektur, müssen wir zum besseren Verständnis auch das verhandeln, was nicht Architektur ist – beispielsweise die Wüste. Ob die Wüste aber nun Nicht- oder Architektur ist, könnte eine nächste dialektische Auseinandersetzung zur Folge haben, was an sich nicht schlecht wäre, aber hier doch zu weit führen würde, weil das auch zur Frage nach dem Architekten, der Architektin der Wüste führte – vielleicht ein theologisches Problem. Der Versuch, ein Problem zu lösen, wirft neue Probleme auf. Das wiederum entspricht der Empfehlung von Bazon Brock, wie Künstler sich in ihrem Metier der Zeit entsprechend gerieren sollten: Nicht fishing for compliments, sondern fishing for complications!
Um der Aufmüpfigkeit jetzt den Schluss zu verpassen: Welche Architektin, welcher Architekt wollte behaupten, nur irgendeine Entität hätte nichts mit Architektur gemein (und sei es Vaucansons falsche Ente).
Der Koch in Wardells Erzählung, auf dessen Speisekarte es keine Ente gibt, befindet sich in einem zeitlichen, geografischen und topgrafischen Übergangsbereich und denkt dabei weißgott nicht an Benjamins Passagenwerk, immerhin aber an Pascal. Seine Küche, zwischen Kneipe und Striptease-Bar gelegen, ist Umschlagplatz menschlicher Befindlichkeiten, die uns als Klischees und gebrochene Klischees US-amerikanischer Lebensart politisch unkorrekt erzählt werden. Obwohl Shannon Wardell nach seinem Philosophiestudium einige Jahre in den USA unterwegs war – und Kerouacs „On the Road“ offenbar inhaliert hat – ist die Erzählung keine wirklich autobiografische, wenngleich ich Shannon in genau dieser Dienstkleidung kennen gelernt habe, wie er sie in der Geschichte beschreibt: Auf dem Kopf eine Kochhaube mit zwei roten Hörnern und eine Schürze auf der „Bratwurstmeister“ steht.
Gerade als Sonntagslektüre erlaube ich mir also, ArchitektInnen die folgende Geschichte zu empfehlen, in der ehrlich gemeinten Hoffnung, sie mögen wenigstens an einem Sonntag nicht an ihren Beruf erinnert sein.

Dancing the Two-Step at the End of the Runway

Von Shannon Wardell

During my wander years, I sometimes jobbed as a cook when I needed money for breakfast or gasoline. It was a little like picking up some manna when the belly began to growl since, along those back roads and secondary highways that I travelled you could always find cosy greasy-spoon diners whose owners paid cash at the end of the day or week. I had no formal training as a cook, yet between New York and California I had learned enough to hold my own in any kitchen.
At one point in Phoenix, I was living in a biker motel near the northern outskirts where empty streets simply dead-ended abruptly in the desert. Like something between a ghost town and suburban sprawl, apartment complexes grew out of surrounding desert lots and industrial warehouses; the only other businesses that survived this climate were a few diners, liquor stores, gas stations, factories, bars and a Harley Davidson motorcycle mechanics institute. About a mile away was the kitchen that supplied two connected bars where I cooked mainly burgers, sandwiches, buffalo wings and the occasional flame-broiled Black Angus T-Bone.
The front bar and grill, called “The Two-Step,” presented itself as a down-home western bar-restaurant for families and clever outlaws: cheap drinks, large portions, a swept floor and a tidy pool table in one corner with straight sticks and plenty of chalk cubes. On some Saturdays, a western band would play Patsy, Hank and all the standards while couples danced the two-step.
The ice machine was also up front, so when I needed to refill the cooler bins I came forward and chatted with the regulars for a while. There were a couple rare characters that I remember well. Ralph had once played lead guitar for a rock band named Venus’ Dildo that had travelled all over the US in the seventies. They didn’t become famous, but he always seemed to have another story to tell about their outrageous escapades with groupies. His current band toured the local bars, but professionally he now worked as an electrician with an interest in cutting-edge computerized gadgets.
Stephen would also stop in now and then for a lemonade and some chat. Utterly self-assured and composed, he would spread the warmth of his personality over everyone with whom he spoke. Somehow, he could manage to strike up an easy and casual conversation with anyone, even criminals and white trash. After a half-hour or so, he would take his leave from each person around and walk out, driving away in his ’69 Chevy pickup to the next bar. Perhaps because he never came across as being preachy or judgemental, everyone spoke to him with great respect, even though they had no idea just how far-sighted and generous he truly was. I found out from someone else that he was an ordained apostolic minister, though I never saw him “in uniform.” Once I asked him why a liar and impostor like Jacob could be so blessed. He replied with a laugh, “Jacob lived during a time in which success was thought to be the certain sign of God’s favour. He who plays fair loses the game. It’s no different today than it was back then. Integrity is a rare quality that is literally more precious and more expensive than gold. It’s no wonder that so many rich folks don’t have any and so many folks who do have integrity are far from being rich. But don’t tell my bank director that I said that; I still have nine years of mortgage to pay.”
The wolf and the shark both share just as much of God’s favour as the lamb and the surfer. The shepherd and the lifeguard want to believe that their cause is righteous, yet the truth hurts more than the honest savagery of crushing, sharp teeth that rip and tear through the skin to sink deep into the warm, supple, pliant, suppliant and, above all, tasty flesh underneath.

When I needed stock from the freezer, I passed by the service door to the back bar, called “The Runway.” Approaching, I gradually heard the hard bass line drive become more and more intense for this was a strip bar for rich business sharks, petty pushers, riff-raff, loners and losers. A glitzy stage with runway lights and stainless-steel vertical poles stretched into the middle where the girls put on their acts. After their show, the girls cruised between the tables, letting the drooling boys purchase their attention. Lap dances available upon request.
The name “Runway” also alluded to the small airport runway just a stone’s throw to the east. There were no commercial flights out of the Deer Valley Airport, rather it was simply for private commuters in their Piper Cubs and bi-plane enthusiasts.
The Boss of “The Runway” was named Harvey; tall, dark and stern, he always carried a handy pistol stuck in his belt behind his back. In Arizona at this time, it was completely normal and legal to see men with pistols strapped to their hip in the post office or filling up their shopping carts with barbeque sauce and lite beer.
Taking old grease to the containers out back, I passed the dressing rooms for the girls. About thirty girls worked for Harvey though only half would show up each night. It was a regular cat-house back there; inevitably, several of the girls would be fighting with one another, usually over tips, torn costumes, and stolen items like drugs, customers or acts.
The make-up mirrors were covered in lip-sticked graffiti. They called out my name as I passed, stopping to chat while they fixed their lacy garters, asking my advice for they would often experiment with various stereotypes: the nurse, the femme fatale, the school teacher, the dominatrix, the matriarch, the queen, the goddess, etc., etc.
They saved their sweetest smiles for when they would come to the kitchen to order their dinner with extra French fries. It seemed like they were all one step away from starvation. Unfortunately, the harsh, bright halogen lamps stripped away whatever made-up mask of erotic they had so patiently applied. They were not aware of this, of course. But each time I was filled with a strange sense of pity for this girl wearing a couple of strings leaning coyly over the counter in a cloud of stifling perfume, the make-up caked across her face, a façade of femininity that tried every flirting trick in the book to get an extra portion of beef in her burger without Harvey needing to know.
The cook before me had never refused; in fact, Roger had worked out an informal bartering system: in exchange for the large portions, the girls could “return the favour.” Professionals trading expertise, as it were.
How could I refuse? They tried so hard to be glamorous; was it really their fault that they had not one chance in hell to overcome the poverty of grace which surrounded them? If they had known the true reason for the extra portions, they would have thrown the food in my face. So I said nothing, accepting their parting winks instead with a nod and the warning to not let Harvey catch them. We became conspirators against a common enemy, the Bossman with the loaded Berretta behind his back.
One girl never came back to the kitchen. Earlier, Roger had evidently tried to make his not-so-subtle pitch in that snake oil voice of his, “Perhaps we can make a deal--”. She looked him straight in the eyes, laughed in his face and told him to go lock himself in the freezer and fuck himself with a frozen bratwurst. She never came back to the kitchen again and her name was Cindy-Loo.
A group identity turns into an ossified stereotype in the same way that a word or phrase becomes clichéd, hackneyed and empty of meaning. The time is then ripe for an individual to come along who is bold enough to break the mold and breathe some fresh life into this group. After all, each member within a group also has a deeper and more intimate yearn to be recognized as a distinct individual worthy of having a unique fingerprint. This dynamic is the iconoclastic internal combustion engine that has kept the human species worthy of existence from the cave through Lemuria, Atlantis, Jerusalem, Athens, Rome and over 1990 subsequent years all the way to a rowdy honky-tonk bar and grill on the edge of the desert north of Phoenix, Arizona.

Cindy-Loo was the star of that entire Deer Valley region. She had a genuine charisma that was simply stunning to watch – off the stage. I never actually saw her in action in the spotlight, but her fans would recount her performance in awed intonations as though they had just seen a famous opera singer at the Met.
I remember her though one evening sitting up front in a “Two-Step” booth with her boyfriend, her long curves wrapped in jeans and a white oxford shirt. Fetching some ice from the machine, I looked up to see Cindy-Loo throw back her head with the laugh of Judith sounding out, a laugh that gushed and bubbled forth as free and clear as crystalline water out of a natural spring.
I drank deep from her laugh and its vitality that attracted the attention of everyone within range. Yet, there was no trace of affectation to her manner at all. I felt drawn to her, felt this need to feel her attention directed solely at myself alone. I had no wish to wedge myself in between her and her friend; I just wanted to exchange a few words with this overflowing Source of Life. Then I realized that I had spent a long time at the ice machine. Nothing brilliant fell into my head, so I picked up the ice tub and headed back to the kitchen.
The girls began to turn up as their hunger made it hard to look sexy. Yet, Harvey made no secret of his disgust for flab and orange-peel skin. “You can take those thighs down to the ‘Chicken Coop’ on 7th Street, girl, ‘cause we got standards to keep up here.” If he was in a good mood he might say that it was for her own good anyway to be healthy and well exercised. “Call me Mr. Preacherman ‘cause I’ll keep you lookin’ like an angel, baby.”
Harvey hired Lucille to manage “The Two-Step.” A natural talker, her smoky voice made the boys feel right at home in her comforting presence that was part mother, part flirt, part confidant and all woman. Rudy the barman took care of the practicalities. She was there to let the liquor work its heart-warming magic in that particular way that drinking alone can never provide. She knew the psychic dynamics of the egoistic world in which each of her clientele existed. She might not know his name, but she knew how to find it out along with everything else as long as he had the cash to pay the next round.

On the weekends, I would clock off in the evening for a couple hours and shoot some pool with the black-shirt boys. As the midnight orders started coming in, I would turn up some James Brown or the Isley Brothers in the kitchen while I boogied those burgers across the grill, flipping them high in the air to catch them on an open bun. When the mood comes around to dance low-down and wild, I want Motown funk.
Across my apron someone had written “Hamburgermeister” and my cook’s cap had two red horns coming out of the forehead. I liked to shake out a large basket of crispy fries to make that particular sound like a wire wisk fan on a snare drum as I sang loud and sassy; after the downbeat I twirled the basket in mid-air splattering hot oil everywhere.
Lucille wanted to throw a big bash to promote the bar. She hired Ralph’s band, a well-known comedian to entertain the folks and one Monday evening organized with me in a booth up front a few specials that would be easy to prepare in advance.
At one point, she had to check in at the bar. Someone had punched David Allen Coe into the jukebox. The ceiling fans turned lazily in the swirl of tobacco smoke. “The Two-Step” was fairly empty that night: regulars at the bar being nursed by Lucille while Rudy chewed on a toothpick drying glasses by the sink. Some ranchers were shootin’ pool. I rolled a cigarette and deftly slid open that private drawer in my head reserved for personal thoughts.
Questions: Why the hell am I here, in a land far away from family and old friends? What am I looking for? Why should it be found within this gritty side of humanity? And what colour should I paint that 1958 Triumph 6T Twin that I had picked up in Scottsdale? As the tobacco burned and the glass slowly emptied, one answer teasingly let itself appear in my head: dark, metallic green.
My reverie was suddenly interrupted as Cindy-Loo slid into the booth across from me. With a wry smile she said, “The girls are all tellin’ me that you make a mean burger, Mr. Cook, even better than Roger.”
“Well you know how he was: always a little absent-minded and easily distracted by the fashion show you gals put on every night in the kitchen.”
Her laugh was right there, less than three feet away from my own face. It washed over my skin like mountain creek water.
“You mean that you’re not as distracted as he was?”
“Of course it’s distracting when a bevy of dance girls with big hair wearing a couple strands of dental floss do their catwalk in the kitchen. I deserve a bonus for ‘Fatally Dangerous Working Conditions.’ But unlike Roger, I can look the girls in the eyes.”
“Oh, that’s why Jackie thinks you’re gay. She says that it just ain’t normal when a man can look in her eyes while she’s wearing her yellow lace half-cup.”
“Jackie seems to overestimate her own powers of attraction. There is nothing worse than someone who tries to show off a brainless, perfect 10 body in crude, ugly ways. She gyrates like an MTV wanna-be star and I have to hold back the puke. I can’t help it. Bad acting simply makes me cringe, even if she’s model-pretty. My face winces up and I feel sick. No doubt a lot of boys like to have a puppet-doll like Jackie turn them on. Whatever. Let the swine revel in their slop. Don’t tell her I said that, though; she’d throw her food in my face.”
Standing in the shower of a mountain creek waterfall: the image slipped behind my eyes as she laughed.
“I know what you mean,” she gasped. “Jackie and I don’t get along at all anymore, ever since I took first chair. Recently she has been gettin’ downright dirty to some of the girls: cuttin’ costumes here, breakin’ heels there. I caught her once goin’ out with a palm of Vaseline that she claimed was for one of the boys. Later I found out that a greased pole had ruined Diana’s climbin’ act. Jackie just put on her sweet angel face. What a lying bitch, and she’s not the only one. Sometimes I wonder just what the hell am I doin’ here around such scum.”
Johnny Cash crooned his ballad of Ira Hayes out of the jukebox. One of the men at the bar whom I had never seen before stood up to leave, hitching up his pants. Lucille waved him goodnight, “She’ll be alright when she gets back, Dave. Don’t forget to water her plants. You take care now, hear --” And across the table from me sat the strip-tease dance queen of north Phoenix.
As she watched Lucille, I took a quick mental photograph of Cindy-Loo sitting on one side of the booth bench, her curvy torso turned slightly to the right draped in a light blue rancher-cut shirt, her left leg swung languorously over her right knee with her right arm resting across the back of the booth. Her nut-brown hair, gathered loosely in a thick braid, nearly reached down to her waist, though stray strands flew around here and there. Her left hand lay relaxed on the table; the long, slender fingers made me want to weep with joy. While she talked, she could become quite animated at times with dramatic gestures and funny facial expressions. She seemed to glow with verve. Her blue-grey eyes radiated this mischievous gleam as she, having felt my stare, slowly turned towards me as though she were waiting patiently for me to find the slimy frog she had tenderly hidden in the pocket of my jacket.
“Other than my cooking, what reason is there for you to work in a place like “The Runway?”
“For someone who hasn’t even introduced himself, your questions are rather personal, Mr Cook.” I didn’t want her to think I was trying to make a pass on her, yet I was really curious about this question.
“Call me Cal. Cal Cook. And I don’t think the question is personal at all. It’s a professional question from one employee of “The Runway” to another. But forget it if you don’t want to answer.”
“Cal as in Calvin?”
“Worse. It’s short for Pascal.”
“I don’t think I have ever met someone named Pascal before. Sounds French.”
“Yeah. A man named Pascal wrote some books a long time ago that my old man liked.” Would it be fun to talk about The Wager with a professional stripper?
“But Cook is not really your family name, is it?”
“It is, in fact. But I am not a professional cook; that’s just a bread-job to help pay the rent.”
“Is that right. And what would you rather be doin’?”
“For someone who hasn’t even introduced herself, your questions are rather personal, Ms. First Chair.” Her rock water laugh spilled over my face.
“Sorry about that. My name is Cindy-Loo; how do you do.” She held out her hand across the table; the fingers were cool.
“The reason why I am still at “The Runway” is kind of complicated and not that interesting to tell. I like puttin’ an act together that makes sense. Any chick can get on stage and shake herself around changin’ moves here and there to get something new-like. I aim for different forms that you never see in ballet class. At “The Runway,” it’s like I get paid for practicin’. Sometimes I imagine that I am Salomé who can even bewitch the mind of a powerful king with my dancin’. Do you know that story?”
Which one, I asked myself, would she be familiar with? I wondered what I now would be blabbering about had I seen Cindy-Loo dance on stage.
“Never heard that story ‘bout Salomé?”
“Actually, there are a couple different stories, I think. And at least two different Salomé's. But you probably mean the dancer who turns old king Herod into a squirmin’ bag of hot jism ready to give half his kingdom as a tip for her hot boogie. But all she wants is John the Baptist’s head on a platter ‘cause, if you believe Wilde, she’s actually got a hot spot in her heart of heart for that Wild Man in the camel hair suit and will have his kiss even if she has to cut off his head to get it –“
“What are you talkin’ ‘bout? She wanted to save St. John. That’s why she was dancin’. She knew that was the only way to save him.”
“Hmm?” I didn’t recall Matthew or Mark suggesting anything like this.
“Sure. St. John’s had been thrown in the hootch by Herod ‘cause John had been scathin’ Salomé’s mother and Herod for havin’ incest and doin’ outrageously sinful things that prominent people shouldn’t do. But he was right; her mother had become a really sleazy bitch. Salomé realized that if she danced for Herod, she could make him release St. John in return. But her mother threw the shit in the fan by tellin’ Herod to axe John. Then Princess Salomé ran off with that hunk Commander Claudius to follow Jesus.”
“Hmm. Where d’you hear this version anyway?”
“Man, didn’t you ever see Salomé? Rita Hayworth in her prime and Stewart Granger, mid-50’s. Rita doin’ that Dance of the Seven Veils was my first inspiration to find out how powerful dancin’ can be.”
“Oh. Hollywood. Must have missed that one.”
“A Classic like Salomé is one you shouldn’t miss, you know.”
Time to scoot before saying something I might regret later. Her boyfriend was supposed to arrive soon anyway. In the parking lot on the way to my truck, I saw him slip out of his Mustang coupe, twirling around to slam the door closed as he whipped a comb out of his back pocket. Sauntering towards the entrance, he slicked his hair back. Commander Claudius! I wondered if he knew his Salomé as I knew her. Flaubert’s Herodias came to mind.
The night of Lucille’s big bash rolled around; by 8 o’clock “The Two-Step” was packed, the mood laughing and festive. Ralph’s band tuned up; they were all dressed as rodeo riders with big brass-plate buckles, two-tone rancher shirts and padded crotches.
Lucille sat high on the bar smoking, holding court with a group of men standing in a semi-circle around her. As Ralph let loose on his version of “Keep my Griddle Good and Greasy,” one of her knights in denim helped her down to lead her over to the dance floor.
Back in the kitchen, I began to roll out some more tortillas. From the back hallway, I heard the signature jackhammer whack of Lady Lane in pumps who soon turned the corner looking ferocious in a gorgeously mauve gown that trailed behind her. She was the only singer among the “Runway” girls.
“That’s it, I’ve had enough of these sperm-bag-boys. They can’t even pretend to be grown up. Fuck them and their money. I’d rather sing down at the “Coconut” for 60 and 5 rather than smile for such jug-headed cum-quats with assholes for mouths and shit for brains. I spent an hour and a half getting ready tonight, all for nothing just because they want to dick out their petty, disappointed lives. And I curled my hair for Christ’s sake--”
I had never seen her so worked up before; evidently, a brawl had broken out in the “Runway.” I told her to go up front and talk to Lucille. Her voice and Ralph’s band could steal the show, even off the cuff. Lady Lane had long ago become immune to fear; having curled her hair, she was determined to get up on stage, even if it meant that she had to keep her clothes on. She waved as she swept out encouraged with another chance for victory.
I had rolled out three more tortillas as I heard another hammer heel approach down the back hall; around the corner came Cindy-Loo looking as furious as an oriental belly dancer could possibly look with bells jingling from every joint and an ornately arranged bun of hair on her head. Carrying a pair of jeans and a white rancher shirt, she began cursing loudly behind her.
“What a sorry sack of slime that Harvey is! What a greasy haired, big-pored, stinky-breathed, dandruff-on-his-shoulders dipstick! Jerk yourself off, you pasted-grin bastard! You joke of a man who has to beg for kisses from employees because no woman worthwhile would ever give you the time of day. Go fuck a jackass if you want a partner who is on your level. And no after-shave at all is better than that cheap stink stuff you squirt over your shirt. Retread!”
She stripped off the veils one by one with vicious, impatient jerks, the bells tinkling gaily before she ripped them off. She kicked off the one-inch heels and slid the garters down her long legs, flipping them onto a near table. A thought caught her attention and she stood there for a moment with her head cocked at an angle looking up at the ceiling, her hands on her hips with elbows akimbo, her back straight, her chest slightly heaving from the excitement. All she wore was a golden bikini that looked like it could have been a present from Wonder Woman. Then she whirled around shouting, “Only a limp prick of a man tries to buy good lovin’ and not earn it.” A door slammed down the hall.
She turned to her jeans, relaxing as she chuckled to herself. She’s never even heard of Sappho, I thought, noticing that I had rolled that tortilla much too thin and egg-shaped as well.
Looking over at me as she picked up her jeans, she let out a calm sigh. “The other girls had warned me ‘bout him.” She slid her legs one after the other into her jeans. “How’s Ralph playin’ anyway?” She nodded to the muffled music coming from up front. Picking up the rancher shirt to put it on, she glanced at me and I noticed in her eyes that mischievous gleam.
“They are swingin’; Jerry’s playin’ slide, Chuck’s gonna blow a fuse on his harp and there just might be a surprise comin’ up later if Lady Lane can work something out.” Listening, she slowly covered her naked arms with the shirt.
“Can’t miss that!” Smoothing the shirt-tails around her hips, she buttoned up the jeans and snapped up the rancher. Reaching up to her hair, she pulled out a few pins and removed a thin silver crown, shaking out her hair as it cascaded down over her shoulders.
“If you can two-step better than you can roll out tortillas, you should take a break soon and ask me to dance.” She toed her feet back into her heels.
“Why, the two-step is just a fox-trot with a drawl for folks who don’t want to count to four. Must be an awfully boring dance for someone like Salomé.”
“It all depends on the partner.” Sliding the silver band back into her hair while tossing the pins onto the table, she staccatoed smoothly across the kitchen tiles. She pushed the door open to “Blue Suede Shoes” and sashayed away, snapping her fingers.
About two hours later, I was sitting in the dusty bed of my truck looking up into the immense night sky with its deep, dark heavens sprinkled with diamonds; the waxing moon had already set. Lady Lane serenaded the full house with “The Lady is a Tramp.” I needed some fresh air though. The same Salomé witnessed the end of John and Jesus, those two apotheosized solstices. Too bad Hollywood strips away the best parts when it reduces myth into a simple story.
While we two-stepped earlier, Cindy-Loo told me that she had decided to quit “The Runway” and head out west. It seemed like she could anticipate nearly every step I made. With my right hand on her back, I could feel the golden bikini. What would Commander Claudius think about her plan? Her laugh, from inches away, drenched me. Well, he would have to decide if she were worth his while to follow. I can imagine that he’s been wanting to head out to Los Angeles for some time, I suggested as the song came to an end and I let her go.
Harvey was caught in the girl’s dressing room scraping cold cream off of his shirt front. He then kicked everybody out of “The Runway” waving his Berretta around. I caught a glimpse of Cindy-Loo jitterbugging with her Claudius who was dancing just as wild and sassy as she. Certainly, the soma and psyche dominated over the nous; Moreau would have painted her in yellows and reds against shadows of blues and greens, a St. John’s Fire flickering in the Midsummer solstice night.
Leaning against the wheel well, I heard the twang and slide of the steel guitar float through the air along with a singing female voice that could make a city-boy and a Saguaro weep in each other’s arms. I squinted through the dark; to the east in the direction of the Deer Valley Airport in the faint glow from the tarmac lights outlining the end of the runway, I saw the surrounding cacti with their crowns of thorns swaying slowly in the cool desert night.
The next day, I found on the kitchen table one of her scented blue veils folded beneath a sprig of rosemary. I left a week later heading north.

> > sonnTAG 215 wurde von Wenzel Mracek ausgewählt und am 24. Februar 2008 in der Reihe sonnTAG veröffentlicht.

Shannon Wardell, geboren 1969 in New York City, Studium der Philosophie in Annapolis, Maryland (Thesis über Søren Kierkegaard). „Wanderjahre“ in den USA, der Schweiz und Paris. Lebt mit Familie in Rohrbach nah Graz, beschäftigt als Native Speaker am GIBS, Graz. Autor, Maler, Bildhauer und Musiker (Traditionals, Blue Grass, Blues). Organisert im Jugendkulturfestival Future Icons „The 2008 Young Hearts Art Competition”.
www.future-icons.at

Verfasser/in:
Shannon Wardell
Netzwerktreffen
16. + 17.11.2023
 
GAT+