I, The Mirror of Life

Disturbing dreams continue to plague me in bubonic proportions. How I long sometimes to don the robes of Torquemada and expel the heresy running rampant in the clothes of the humble sevants of my consciousness. One of particular note occurred a fortnight and three ago wherein I found myself wandering a maze of pits and crevices in a scathing, brittle landscape, overcome with the smell of a boulangerie in the midst of a kitchen fire. Then from the sky there rode the four horseman--the sky turned red and then black as I realized a sticky, sweet substance was smothering all the land. I then understood that I was trapped inside of a piece of toast being jellied for the consumption by a behemoth of Aesopian proportions.



To help relieve my anguish Spurlock gave me a free pass to his debut with his new musical performance group, Cirque Du Jazz. They performed in a small theater whose entrance accosted not the eyes of the passersby but stood humbly in the alley, existing much like Chinese wisdom; hidden from all but those who sincerely seek it. I sat in my seat enjoying some confectionery purchased from the concession stand near the entrance. I could not help be be entranced by the clerks spidery fingers and eyes sunken so far into his skull that I became jealous of his ability to only see directly in front of him. He delivered my change with morbidly graceful articulation of his fingertips until he dropped one coin on the counter. He stared at it for about five seconds and began heaving heavily. I said, "That's fine, sir. The world has taken more from you than it had any right to. I shall not do the same. Take it, and with it take my gratitude and the knowlege that we are kin." He looked up and nodded, wiping a tear from his cheek, and silently slipped the coin into his apron. There was something truly mystical about him. I turned for one more glance before entering the theater, and found he was gone...only to reemerge from below the counter, stock the napkins, and blow his nose into the trashcan nearby. He and God are the only ones who know if he aimed true. For his sake, I hope he did.



I entered the theater which was lit by a dull, blue light. Fifteen others sat scattered about the theater. A smashing turnout for a debut. I was proud to know such a man as Spurlock. The curtains rose to reveal the combo; Drums, bass, trumpet, and auxiliary percussion. Spurlock dazzled the me and the crowd with trick of circular breathing while smoking a cigarette (from his ivory cigarette holder, of course), thereby blowing smoke out of his trumpet while he played a string of melifluous and expressive lines; one could here the evolution of existential peace in every note played. Accompanying several pieces was an exquisite interpretive dancer named Kit who was portrayed the rise and fall of the universe, of every man, woman, creature, and idea existing in the center of the circle of time. For one moment she was the pole, the tether creating the radius the antenna equidistant from God and Nothing. She was the essence of things...The last two songs featured a singer whose voice reminded me of Central Park at dusk. She delivered a paralyzing, chilling reading of "Fishin' Blues" that conjured images of Conrad, of Marlow's quest for Kurtz, of the doppleganger, of Annabel Lee. Then Spurlock took the microphone and said, "I wish to dedicate this last song to my friend Arvel. We may never know the meaning of things, but beautiful is the creature who never ceases to seek it." The dancer returned and they began "The Contortionist." I was besided myself with gleeful embarassment. Throughout the song the dancer created new ways of bending herself in half--I never thought a human capable of bringing her straight legs to 90 degree angles across the opposite sides of her body. It was the most beautiful musical performance I have ever seen. The eleven remaining audience members gave the greatest gift a performer can receive in a standing ovation. All I could do was smile...