Friday, February 24, 2017

DF-2 "4 am"




Words, photo and sounds by: Rich Sudney

  The silent world of night beholds the bearers of the slumbering animals. As most of them meditate collectively in alterative realities guided by deep thought, a few of us work the midnight oil till the dawn hour where by the rising Taurus believes all was a dream. Restless and weary, the hours after 4 am calls the end of our nightly duty. No one sees nor can relate to works of hands on the floors of reality as many forgets day's past events in love, anger or neutrality. These streets empty, dark, and sometimes inhabitant by floating spirits conversing with cold sub zero winds, are gently painted in white light equally erased by deep darkness. Store front buildings undercover by this darkness are reveled by second floor apartment lights, assuring their vacantness to the world. Silhouettes in the windows, we can only hope there living. Silhouettes in the windows, living is our only hope.



 
  Guided by double yellow streaks, this driver holds on to existence. Rumor has it that the low rumbling taos hum, the product of over stimulated minds during day light (chaotic thoughts), is harmoniously a single pattern as people dream. With windows down, the wind blowing across his ears diffuses road ambient noise in a colorful sonic waves of motion. The signals of greens, yellows, and reds collides into one mess of violets and blues. The window on  the sidewalk reads "MERRY" in black bold letters. Lighted by fat round marquee blubs, a white lace shade cloth contrasts it like nocturnal ideas of  beauty in the eye of the beholder. As rain drops on the surface of the road, headlight reflections dance in suggestive movements over cracks and ruts only to be cutoff by the splash puddles from car wheels racing to catch a free red light. "You know the chicken got to greedy and danced across the road" he confessed wearing a rubber trench coat, as he pushes his youthful enthusiasms in a broken grocery cart back to where he found them. A hand written sign taped on the front reads, "Bottle collecting lessons - Bring your own cart". In a half drunken voice, confirms that, "He was run over by the very egg that hatched him". Smiling under a novelty children's duck umbrella, the man dissolves into water, leaving behind a cloud of oneness. A cloud we only can see and not touch. Like our thoughts.



  This ride in the country side, split between reality and the left lane, as proven by orange growths along side the tree line where our world meets with theirs. The darkness constant and forbidding, grows out of it's wonder as dawn approaches. Time. Time has it ourselves. Considering it's embodiment where as it's origin, placed in our minds to remind. Remind of what? That we have all the time in the universe beyond the grave? Maybe so, but let us revisit the muted environment. Peaceful, empty, and feeling of unconstrained freedom. This is your town, city, garden or second floor window.

 
 Songs of cricket's fly past his ear, high up above in the tall elder oak trees lining this lonely side street. An orchestral conducted by lazy eyed thoughts of retirement of the day's work and struggles. Synthesizers buzzing and humming in the distant night, grows and weans in unison with mixer's of warm and cool breezes from the lake. Time? Where did it go? "It went to bed like the rest of you", the voice on the radio said with confidence. "...and now a word from our sponsors - Time rap. The only time traveling blanket used by the NFL"

  Engine hot as  hell, wheels on spin dry, windshield wipers time synced to the atomic clock, we are leaning over the steering wheel in deep though of the next 4 pm.

track listing:

01: 4 am......................................17:43 min

02: 4 pm...............................................15:57 min

03: Three Fifty Nine AM..........................4:02 min



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