Disco Inferno, Mission St.

High up, a single window comes to bright life on the dark façade of the building. An old woman leans out, smoking over the moonlit sill. Her body heavy. Her hair a back lit halo of wispy gray. Smoke rises as she brings the cigarette to her lips, as if her hair were being lifted gently underwater. Fog slides across the moon. I feel the milky texture of someone else’s skin in my mouth. How much of his day am I digesting? His skin, the dust and sweat upon it, the fibers of his shirt, the fibers of the books he has handled during hours of buying and selling, the little transference of flesh from hand to hand, his, mine, again and again [WHO IS THIS HERE?]. Ahead of me, a woman sings and whistles, “Do the hustle, do, do doo…” She raises her arms and spins, kicks forward, falls back, strutting through an imaginary discotheque lit by traffic lights, passing police cars and neon signs. There is quite a difference however between the flashy Studio 54 runway in her mind and the jagged, uneven pavement she traverses. She stumbles, catches herself, stumbles on–it’s part of the dance. If she turns to me now, there will be tiny mirror balls rather than pupils at the center of her eyes, spinning, giving off myriad reflections of the moon.

Mixed Fruit, Valencia St.

Breakfast at Valencia Pizza and Pasta. Grim headlines from Baghdad are scattered over the table. Corbi and I sit comfortably in the plump, padded rib cage of a dinner booth. The vinyl upholstery gives a scratchy sigh each time we move and its pastel, pink, and beige leaf storm print frames Corbi in a kind of smeared, impressionist aura. It seems to emanate from her as she sits there, wearing pink herself.  Her eyes against all of this are very clear and blue. I love Corbi’s eyes because it is hard to imagine them closed. They always seem wide open, though, as often as not, she is looking inward. Behind us, two prim male voices rise up over Whitney Houston’s lung-powered, but pallid version of “I Will Always Love You!” One of these voices shits from its quiet, flirtatious tone into something persnickety and gruff.  “No No. I’m saying that we didn’t have any reporters there. There wasn’t a reporter near our ground operations…” Listening to a friend while eavesdropping is tricky business. I can only maintain dual attention by turning my eyes to some middle ground–in this case, appropriately, the mixed fruit painted on the tablecloth. Apples, plums, pears and grapes, all laminated by the clear spill cover. The conversations collide suddenly as Corbi mentions that Yoga works for her because of its bodily metaphors. Behind her comes a heavy laugh, “Our officers only get reprimanded. Theirs’ get their hands cut off.” His companion laughs, “Confiscated, they will be returned to you later.” Both their voices rise slightly, and grow quiet again as they discuss the attractiveness of officers shown regularly on the various networks… “I don’t care what they say, I think he’s ugly.” As we leave, I peer over Corbi’s shoulder. The men are stocky, mustached, salt-and-peppered. They pat each other’s hand affectionately as their check arrives.

Mousetrap, 17^th St.

A smear of blood on chocolate-colored linoleum.  Texas is under the kitchen table with a half eaten mouse, crouching contentedly over the soft gray tube, gnawing at organs and entrails that resemble a combination of meat and berries. In the other room, a guitar is being tuned, notes stretching, bending, finding themselves. Outside, on 17^th St, voices are doing the same. Cries that go on till very late, people outside the bar, dealers and buyers, whores haggling, snatches of hip hop and soul songs… The old Octagon organ in the music room sputters to life. Its sound comes from transparent vinyl discs marked with dark concentric circles, locked grooves, sample loops you can see. The disc in the organ at the moment is a waltz, each chord scratched and battered, music from a piano in an attic, or a radio in another decade. Outside, a voices rise up, “You know what she did? She put the tailpipe up her pussy! Right there on the street. Why’d she do that?” A woman’s voice answers, indignant and scornful… “ WHY? You tell me HOW. No woman did that.” There’s a pause then her voice comes again. “ Stick it up own your ass, fucking fool.”

Dumpster Diving, Market St.

Market St. is empty of all but the desperate after 3 AM. Tonight, for once, I’m not among them. I’ve had a lovely evening of valium and pop music and am looking forward to a deep, chemically-aided sleep. Valium: putting the “pill” in “Pillow” once again. A bicycle with squeaky wheels passes. The rider raises himself off the seat to look at me. His arms dangling from his black t-shirt are thin and white, the limbs of a stick figure drawn in chalk. He stops the bike and waits for me. “How you doing?” “Fine,” I say, but quickly add, “Tired.” “Long night?” he asks, full of implication. “No, just tired.” And the conversation continues, one innuendo after another. I shoot them each down. Finally he says, honest and nicely, “ Look, I think you’re hot. I’d like to see you naked. I’d like to smell your farts.’’ I find myself blushing, not at his words, but at his tone. He could be saying he’d like to have tea with me. When I tell him I really, really can’t oblige him, he says, “Just let me see it. I’ll give you twenty bucks.”  Maybe it was Valium. Maybe his voice, but a block and a half later, after making the most mundane conversation while he scouted for some privacy, I find myself behind a Zuni’s dumpster, revealing my bashful goods. I feel like I almost owe it to him to be hard, he’s been so up front and all. But I’m glad I’m not. I take the twenty, politely refuse his phone number, and head on home. Going up my front steps, I feel the bill curled against my thigh. It only occurs to me then that he seemed in pretty ragged condition and that I’d just given a 20-buck peep show to someone who probably couldn’t afford it.

Unchained Melody, Shotwell St.

I’m on my way home from radiation treatment. I’ve gotten used to being nauseated and a bit dizzy, but there is wrongness in my body that is not a physical symptom and has no physical location. It’s the thought of the cancer, growing in the weird garden of my interior. It’s the thought of the radiation passing through my flesh and burning away at elements of myself so microscopic and subtle they are akin to spirit.  It is a bright, windy morning. Light falls heavily over the street, seeming to penetrate the surface of buildings, trees, cars, until they are so saturated with illumination, they overflow. They leak light back into the morning air. Static bursts from a battered radio as I pass by the basketball court. The hiss unfolds into strings and a voice crooning fervently, “Oh my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch…” Growing louder, the song takes everything on the street into itself –the energetic game on the court; the drunks on the curb; the baby blue church flyers under my feet, each one printed with “Are you saved?” in English and Spanish. The music flows over houses, trees, and asphalt for almost two blocks, before releasing the world with the fading words “God speed your love to me.”

Donal Mosher is a photographer, writer, and musician. He was born in 1967 and is still more or less alive.