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back Dirt Road Blues by Peter Wilson Number of episodes: 10 Words of previous episode revealed to each author: all of story Written between 12 Jun 2002 and 8 Jul 2002 I was watching the rain fall a moment ago, heavy dark clouds rolled across the city this morning and at around midday released their burden. The whole atmosphere changed, a wonderous darkeness at noon, the shop lights glowed unnaturally and the air seemed to carry an electrical charge. The front of low pressure reminded me of the awesomeness of nature and helped me put aside my petty concerns and obsessions for the moment as I watched the rain bullet through, winnowing the cast grey sky. A mad guy ranting on the subway, I don't know what he is saying, but it is loud. He's stamping his foot, people edge away. One girl blocks her ears and then giggles embarrassedly as I look at her. He looks like a businessman, his clothes are neat and he is wearing a tie. The only thing missing is a jacket, but it is summer. He finishes his performance and takes a bow. Like a one man play, perhaps his release after twelve hours at the office. Or maybe there is no office, or there hasn't been for a while now anyway, maybe there is a wife who he can't face or own up to. But if that were the case wouldn't he be hiding out in some 'bang' somewhere, not starring in a one man subway show. Without stoking a fire extinguishes. Ankle jewelry, there is something obscene about it. Four Russians walk past, one man and three girls. Tall solem and grey, I feel apprehensive. A middle-aged woman in heavy make up is stopping people in the street, she is not handing out fliers, she is holding nothing, but continually accosts young woman, teenagers. A guy around 25 gives me the evils, he pulls out his lighter and flicks a four inch flame to light his cigarette, a show of strength, some mad expression of bravado. I smile and giggle at him, girls giggle and wave at me from a second story cafe. SUN-RISE Talk drunk spittle of hips whips of hair a few hours 30,000 receptors 150 faces buzzing ago ago sidewalk throwing the night alleys and sour girl conversation I made her smile. They moved like trap door spiders, pressing me, pulling me into the dark, looking at her pools of ashen void, broken eyes emmiting an opaque lizard stare. PEACE Lying half-awake in the beautiful world of music and semi-conscious. The C.D. is stuck on around the six minute mark, everytime it gets up to six point forty-three seconds or there abouts it jumps back, so the track is pretty much never-ending and it is a good thing I am listening to Ornette Coleman and not Britney Spears. I gained time in through the melow bass runs and the Hi-hat streaming, editing itself, feeding and mixing a stratum of sound. To be general as to desire: the purple-orange chasm secured in concrete between twilight and us. Great proving it is not humans on the cypresses reading dead phalli in a place way above water. Quickly real, the man in down, bridging inescapable reflections of traffic, on the undistorted earth. Traffic and form means droplets in the man are insidious but soon dissipate and suffuse as I march my stream, become the leaves, the trees around the crucifixes. Heavy neon and concrete pages the more town gives way to pools of indifference. They walking came, they seemed full of rain, as broken as the hill, as hopeful as the giving. I now find it hard to remember a time when I didn't love her. With any-every-mind it occurs and resonates, we all know but forget. Woodststock chorus throwing hand-phone Korea sidewalk army blue eyed angel from the Mid-west getting his funk on a talk drunk spittle on me whips of hair strobing. "Things are getting pretty surreal." That morning I walked into the hills. The left over neon diffusing into the smokey humid air. I passed large market gardens trailing down terraced slopes, workers bending over, their skin dark brown, baked by the sun. Thousands of chilli peppers dry in plastic glasshouses, hundreds of meters long.. Water trickles from an overflow onto the path like the sweat beading, dripp-ing down my forehead and back. Trickl-ing. I look at the water glisten-ing, think about water... ...childhood, Dad and I in the surf at Piha or Ocean beach, he's teaching me how to catch the waves, I look up at the sparkle then back to him, I can't touch the bottom, I don't feel afraid, I look at my Dad and do as he does... ...I catch a wave and ride it in to shore and yell with joy, waving to Dad, shout something, he's smiling, thumbs up, I race back out to my father, bobbing up and down in the surf. Following that dirt road, Going to see where It leads. Walking down a dirt road, Kick the stones Into the weeds. The summers dry-as-dead bones The dust hides the green. Walking down the dirt road, Hope I make it to the sea. back © All work herein copyright the stated authors.

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