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Sunday, January 3, 2010

Dirty

The sun snakes a slow sexy strut across the afternoon sky towards a night hole at the bottom of the earth. As the final rays disappear, a new light produced by brightly colored bulbs is shed upon the Seattle night crawlers at the affair. Drums beat in rhythms urging hearts to move with it, and voices strain over round metal mikes to be heard by everyone. Dread locks, toe rings, nose rings, tattooed skin, cotton clothing with loose flowing creases scream diversity with sweats, Polo, jeans and khakis.

Head wraps on bearded Indians, gold hoops on big black men, sagging corduroys on Mexicans, and silky black hair on Asians reiterate, reinforce, and echo the variety. Men, women, children in strollers or on foot, and teens checking other teens out mill around make-shift wooden stands which peddle original hand made trinkets. Skateboarders, bikers, rollerbladers, and pedestrians congest Seattle Center during The Folk Life Festival. Blankets are strewn on the grassy knoll surrounding a gigantic ball which shoots water into a a cement bowl. Cigarette butts litter the ground. Alcohol, mainly beer, mixed with sweet smelling marijuana roasting hot dogs, one dollar hamburgers, Greek gyros, and coffee beans consume nostrils and induce hunger for the drug of your choice be it music, food, eye candy, or substance. Every bend of pavement offers existence.

He kneels in a limber fashion on the beaten blades of grass. Close cropped hair, nearly shaven and died blond, seems offensive since the black roots hint tampering. "Dirty" is tattooed on one of his arms which moves so gracefully through the air and dance methodically with the wind and the beating wooden drums of the neighboring act. Black eye liner trims his colorless, vacant eyes. His twenty three years are scantily clad with very tight, very short spandex shorts and a tiny black vinyl vest cutting across his hairless emaciated chest. He is naked to me. Swaying back and forth, his back touches the ground and then sways erect once again. He celebrates with the fire which is confined at the end of two sticks, extensions of his hands. Yellow stains his knees from the grass rubbing against them as he slithers deeper and deeper into the moist earth. This goes unnoticed to the majority of spectators that are unable to look away.

He guzzles a substance from a silver canteen, and adds the new stench of petroleum to previously identified fragrances. We are captivated, alike. Shooting it out of his mouth, targeting the ends of his sticks, he allows the fire to change form momentarily to an orange streaking ball, and then confines it once again. People clap, but not even a hint of a smile tugs at his lips, no flicker of satisfaction registers in his possessed eyes. Instead, the crowd, which is interested for the time being in this "Dirty" man, is gifted with even more petroleum which is still harbored in his mouth for further streaking. To keep hold of the crowd's attention, the man begins to light his pointy pink tongue on fire, and it lags outside of his mouth for everyone to see. Elation rises in the crowd. Some young men, clean cut jocks walk by and distract a few by yelling "faggot" at the performer. He doesn't hear them; only the crackle of the flames, and the dissection of his arms against gravity.

The crowd begins to wander off slowly forgetting; possibly embarrassed to have been intimately connected, even for moments, with this exhibitionist who eats fire for others' entertainment. Feeling the loss of excitement the first hint of reality hits his gaze, and he plops an old felt hat in front of himself inviting payment for the sacrifice of his privacy. Far fewer then the crowd which partook of the show rumble in their pockets for some change that might be weighing them down. They are glad to be rid of him. Feeling generous they drop nickels and dimes into the hat. "Go get a real job you fag," the same boys are back and they feel inclined to put in their two cents as well. The "Dirty" performer slowly picks up his talents off the ground; his two sticks, his silver canteen of petroleum, and his felt hat. He empties the change into his small square of a vest pocket. To reach the next group he must change locations. I wonder how many times he has been burned while giving what he had to offer. He leaves behind a little pile of gray ash and the beating of the drums.

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