Rodney Sanches
Waiting
Sitting in a small chair, in a tall building. A young man places a crumpled paper cup in the small metal can behind me.
I am unable to connect the machine under my fingers to the external network of other machines, and for now am truncated. Continually clicking on the icon that draws symbols to actions, after a moment of action designed in a room, some where in Europe, the icon reverts to a declaration of error.
There is no hope for linking. Isolated, the machine seems flawed, broken, a time cancer.
Waiting for a companion to arrive, all that can be done is record. The surroundings are too banal to note, but I will out of anger for the lack of imagination and pleasure at these details and the frustration at being denied a connection. Heavy glue and sawdust compounds laminated with picture of wood grain in an orange colour that does not resemble any local wood panel the walls (except perhaps when hemlock is wet). Glass, tempered and rounded rise from concrete with a pebbled sandstone surface. Air exchange systems perpetually humming air through their vessels. The people in dull colours and black, quietly stare, cough and murmur. The floors are united by great empty spaces and a cough can travel from the corner of one floor to the other side of another. A bag of books are dropped onto a desk, the percussionist sighs. Exasperated voice walks by (Cantonese?), the phone of derision pressed against the annoyed ear.
The lights vibrate, imperceptible green.
The network scanning icon is compelled to spin once again.
A woman’s eyes are scanning as she walks, her head sweeping on the X axis.
Steve waves.