The Monster has A Pulse
I found a place full of tortured souls. Walled off by a vacant lot a transformer station and some sort of business that radiates strange hissing noises at all hours of the day and night, I think I am starting to grasp why it has been named what it is. There are mostly free thinkers here, with the occasional uninvited mongoloid thrown in the mix to give the intellects and artists something to look down from their roof top perch on. I wouldn�t say the people I�ve met here are better than everyone else, but first impressions do make up a lot of what you see and what you know. Quite frankly most of them are better people than most of the ones I have met through out my journeys in this expansive suburban nightmare.
These souls have found a haven for which to hang their weary heads, a place of solace to come to once they have drank their fill of the swirling masses of my beloved collegetown and beyond. This place bears the touch of all those that claim sanctuary here. The ghosts of those that have come before and those still to come are etched and stacked in every inch of space. Initially abrasive and nothing more than a mass of clutter to the untrained eye, the marks that the souls of geniuses have left are everywhere. I found myself often wondering what sort of tortured march brought a random object to its current resting place. What outpouring of emotions left bright colors masterfully imprinted on a wall and what sort of mental existence left a mannequin head pinned to a table. Rusted bits of metal, haphazardly arranged (and very empty) alcohol devices and cigarette butts are strewn about in an artistic expression that only a tortured mind could appreciate.
Sometimes I imagined the footsteps outside or on the roof and sometimes they were actually there. The weight of so much raw intelligence and creative power in a confined area cause boards to creek, chairs to shift and footprints to appear by sheer will power and concentrated bursts of creation. This place has a pulse, it is alive and will remain so long after these random souls have vacated; in a place like this you can�t help but leave part of yourself there forever. Even wrapped in the pre-dawn warmth of a warm Arizona morning, when only those of true grit and madness are left upon the rooftops to watch the sun wash away the darkness, the genius is there.
Even when I was nearing incoherency, speaking in hushed tones about illuminated objects as the dark sky gives way, I could still feel the pulse. It has burned into me with an intensity that even driving into the east rising sun couldn�t duplicate and raced through my veins with a rush a heroin addict would envy. I�m not exactly sure what I have discovered here, but I know I want more. The little piece of my soul that I left behind in the belly of the beast before racing the sun home has made it that much stronger.
This was just a tiniest of tastes of endless possibilities that manifested before me as soon as the souls of my shoes touched down upon the concrete walkway. This weekend I was thrust into the creative monster known as Country and this monster has a pulse.
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