monday musak

Musak; mixed media on canvas, 20 x 24 inches. The string series continues.

** Musak **
I didn’t care. I just didn’t. I wanted to be present. I wanted to be righteous. I wanted to be some kind of force. Some kind of mystery. What I *didn’t* want was a driver or a tennis coach or platinum-plated electronics. And I didn’t want to go to camp. My parents sent me anyway. I was fifteen. The place was called Camp Chetangi. It wasn’t on any map. It looked like a resort. We had a chef. We had *menus*. The stables were out of some movie. We had individual horses. And individual instructors. Mine played classical music. Mine said, In Mozart’s day, horses were an everyday part of life, especially for people like you. I thought, Shut up, Mine. You don’t know me. What could I do to make them know me? And you know what I did? I ran. I ran out to the forest. I ran deep into the forest and stood there. I could hear them looking for me, calling my name. But I didn’t move. I just let the night come. Shadows then darkness then the trees becoming beams of light again, but only with your eyes closed. And that’s how they found me the next morning: standing there, with my eyes closed. Dreaming horse dreams. Then they sent me home. My parents had to think about this one. They decided to repackage the entire episode. They said I was an individual. They said that I was highly motivated. That I could accomplish great things, but never in a group. Groups were flattening. Oppressive by nature. They said my intellect was geared towards the creative. They said I had style. So they bought me a Freedom Coach. He was recommended by some outfit called the Soaring Council. He looked like a tennis player, only tired: shaggy beard, long hair kept down by a head band, these soft white wristbands with lines of red and blue. Terry cloth soft. Wide lens sunglasses with wire frames that he wore all the time. He asked me what the forest was like. I looked at myself in the reflection of his sunglasses. It was dark, I said. So dark you could sleep with your eyes open. There are other things like noises but you pretend the noises aren’t there. That’s when you close your eyes. So close your eyes, he said. And pretend I’m not here.

* * * * *
Another story from my show.


  1. Oh, so rich and powerful, I love your writing! So glad to have tripped across you, I saw and felt each scene and emotion play out before my eyes.

    I think your "coach" held a fair amount of wisdom, too.

  2. I love the colours and dreamy atmosphere.... great work!

  3. wooo!

    awesome! I love your work!


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