Y.M.C.A.

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State Amphitheater

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A city of citizens, as they say, or a sea of humanity. Some things needn't be described but rather must be felt. The ground vibrating underfoot, loudspeakers suspended across the stage blaring away. Music makes the people come together , a singer once sang. Music will save the world , a writer once wrote. Lofty ambitions, when it's just as easy to listen to the music entirely alone, for free, beyond the tall metal gates of the state amphitheater. Or you pay to enter, pay to inhabit a space, to absorb the sounds, mainly to be a part of one large moving body comprised of many moving bodies. What is art? What does art do? Is art free? Does being forced to pay for art negate its creative values and its artistic aspirations? These are all important questions for you to explore, for you to think about alone, inside your own mind. The band stood on the stage, performing to the letter its applauded routine. The larger-than-life jukebox lights flashed red and blue and gold and green...
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Riverside Memorial

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One time an angel flew right up out of the river that runs through the center of the city. This happened very late at night, so nobody saw it. Standing at the river's edge, the angel gazed back down into the water. The angel had never been in a city before. "The lights here feel cruel," the angel thought. The angel also heard a distant humming in the air. "Is that sound inside of me?" the angel wondered. Three blackbirds circled the angel overhead. In the middle of the night, they were invisible. The angel could not see them, but the angel could hear them. Then the angel realized that the humming sound was coming from them. All at once, down the three blackbirds dove, crashing through the humid summer air and straight down through the surface of the river. The angel waited on the riverbank, but the three blackbirds never re-surfaced. The angel can still hear their insistent humming, however, the reverberations of their presence in the world. https://www....
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Public Library

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They say I was born out of a cyclone, but it isn’t so. I *ate* a cyclone. Voices from thousands of old books whirled around inside of me, flung to the walls of my insides by the smoothest centrifugal force. Then my outsides transformed into the fuselage of an aeroplane and I ascended to the darkest blue edge of the stratosphere, bidding farewell to the grass and the trees and the people. Suddenly, I was wide awake, and I never slept again. Equivalent to my sleep were the ideas at rest inside of me. At dawn the filament at the top of the sky brightened gradually, an echo of other variations of light.
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