I Touched Brock

     My presence in Atlanta, Georgia and the performance of Nero's Day at Disneyland aligned like stars. As it happens, a significant portion of my Berkeley friends were with me. The venue was an umbrella art studio with large empty rooms and hospital corridors cured with hanging, splattered, chalked art. In the center of one of the miscarried wombs of the building stood a keyboard burnished by orgiastic fingers and a pile of wired boxes. The sound from the single amplifier could have been made by a rabid Jackson Pollock pleasuring himself with an anachronistic 15th century AC powered vibrator.
     We lingered as do the indifferent souls on a clouded day in the Elysian Fields, our brains trying to repair and make sense of the sonic battering they had just endured. A large chalk covered wall fulfilled its role as a conversation piece as we fell in with an adjacent couple. Being super-charged by A. the music, B. the beer, or C. the combination platter, we both declared a dance party and invited the nearby strangers in a single excited breath.
     In a house that I didn't live in, with people I didn't know, and with a sound system I wished I owned, I handled the digital turn tables with glistening zeal. By two or three a.m., bodies had disappeared or lay prostrate in little pools of sweat around the premises.