"Thoughts of the Past" Hot cocoa steam rises from my Turkey Hill mug, sifting through the chilled, moist mountain air. Sitting in my Lancastrian home, I find myself in a battered-up lawn chair on a dirt horse-racing track among three hundred other spectators, awaiting the next country music performer's turn on stage. The stage stands about forty feet tall: an immense wooden mountain, painted bright white, covered with various banners, posters, and flags, shining like a small sun through the help of numerous artificial lights. North of the stage sits a caravan of mobile homes, vans, and tents, resting in the center of the track surrounded by towering peaks of the Pocono Mountains. White specs poke through the pitch-black sheet over this small valley universe. The faint glimmer of the miniature town of Gratz stretches out to the west. A wave of applause sifts through the huddled crowd as Richard Harding, a Western cowboy folk singer, steps onto the stage with his battered banjo friend. Moving towards the main microphone, his worn, prickled face conjures a joyous grin. His cheeks tighten, his eyes narrow, and his voice rises as it starts upon a grateful greeting toward his gathering. King Richard, now relaxing upon his throne, opens his performance with an old, twangy tune, brightening his old-timer audience and turning back time to their long-forgotten memories. My older sister Kimberly presses a black plastic bar and the tiny spheres lodged in my ears burst into symphony with They Might Be Giants' "Apollo 18". We sit back and silently giggle while entering our world of sensory isolation. After a few more albums we grow restless and decide to leave for the "Teen Dance." The chairs creak rudely as we leave them empty and adults send a curious glare as we pass their view, headed off of the track. The terrain changes from hard, dirty sand to moist, plush grass. The green carpet calls out and bids our feet to a massage, pushing it's moist fluff blades through my toes and prickling my feet bottoms with soft, pointy arrows. Kim and I travel off to the northern end of the track, where a small river lives, kept company by its full belly of various fish, community of snake houses, and clothes of tall grasses. Along the river perches a small playground and a recently constructed pavilion. The pavilion is bombarded by inner dance lights: blue, red, green, bright, dim, scattered, focused, solid, flashing lights jolting out in all directions-- a headache waiting to happen. Loud, popping music shakes the ground and rumbles in my stomach. Shrill glass-breaking, and low lifeless voices bounce within and thunder out. Animals run in terror for half-a-mile radius, wondering if the end of the world has come to take them away. Recognizing the animals' wisdom, we decide to stay in the playground. Like all other playgrounds, this has the tall, shinny metal slide, the rusty, old merry-go-round, and the plastic swings hanging down from strong, weathered chains. We climb the tall, metal slide ladder. Reaching the top, I feel proud to be high above it all, King of the Playground Slide, wealthy, powerful, and (most importantly) happy. But a coup begins in my kingdom and some inner force beckons me back to the ground, where I am normal, where I belong. I sit down atop the long, drooping mirror, realize who I am, and willfully shove off. Normal Kim and Mike trot over to the relaxing swings. The black rubber seat wraps around my hind end as I curl my arms around the tall chains. My legs push off the ground shoving me backwards and up, where I climax and reverse downward. My legs push me forward this time and I become a pendulum, ticking away time like a stubborn, old grandfather clock. But I am still an ignorant child, knowing not the constant of time, and begin to push the pendulum with my weight, rising it higher each period, taking control over time. The grandfather clock is wise, however, realizing the attempt is fruitless, for each time I am pulled back to where I started and my efforts are dissolved by gravity: the balancing force of our universe. After jumping from the swings at their climax, we land near the most-visited merry-go-round. Gripping opposite bars, we dig our feet into the brown earth and start the ride spinning. We circle with it once, twice, jump on top and hold on tight, widening eyes as the playground turns to a blur of white lights on black. I wonder why this is so much fun, repeating the task over and over again the same way as the first, much like the rest of the playground. Deep inside we're terribly bored, trapped in a false happiness by artificial toys. Ups and downs, goods and evils, laughter and tears, all played out in a perfectly balanced, four-star script. Lives are written to entertain and keep us occupied, pushing us off track like a lost train of thought. We, the ship-of-fools, never realizing where we are, what we're doing here, and where our course is set for. Over and over the scene flashes by. I force my eyes to concentrate and my mind to stabilize. Immediately the whirlwind freezes and the deception of the merry-go-round is revealed. The illusion comes to a halt and my tired sister heads off to a tall maple tree. I join her and, deciding to take up her older-sister role, she starts to teach me how to dance. We sit there alone under the tree, swaying back-and-forth to the nearby music. "Yeah, you're getting it," she compliments. "But what's the point? Going back-and-forth, over and over to someone else's irritating beat of music?" "Good question. It's just a socializing thing." We continue to discuss childhood loves and fantasies, unknown futures and impossible questions. "What a lonely people we are," I think. In every person lies that overpowering desire for companionship: at any age, from any background, all people feel alone and incomplete, searching for that person who can at least provide temporary equilibrium for their desires. Despite finding love, we rarely feel complete and satisfied with ourselves. Always an ionic charge in a nuclear universe, needing that opposite; bouncing around through space lost and alone, confused and ignorant. Gravitational forces keep us on track, balancing the good and evil, euphoria and agony, love and hate. They pull us toward satisfaction, allowing perfection to be a future reality. The lights inside the pavilion slow and the people inside search frantically for a partner as Led Zeppelin begins the first chords of "Stairway to Heaven." The song concludes whispering its title and the pavilion rapidly empties, quieted in total silence; balanced out by time. Kim and I part with the lovely tree, we thanking for its company. We return to the tall, white stage, finding it has also died out for the night, returned to normality. We take our fifteen minutes of fame alone on the abandoned stage, singing political songs of Billy Bragg, discussion their hidden meanings, and wondering why there is corruption in the world. "I guess everything just needs to be balanced out," I say. "Without equilibrium, the universe would fly off in disarray, inevitably destroying itself." Kim reluctantly agrees, troubled by why certain people must suffer more than others. We conclude that perhaps people choose the difficulty of their lives, realizing at that point how mortal hardships strengthen one's eternal soul. It's all about learning and experiencing: getting the most you can out of life. Looking up at the stars, we are easily overwhelmed and decide to return to our trailer. We swim in the plush grass one last time and bid it a good night. Opening the camper door, we are greeted by family and prepared for bed. "As everything else, waking must be balanced by sleep." And so we sleep, dreaming of swirling galaxies, heaven, hell, and the balanced reality of life. woodstock [eden] SAUCE00Thoughts of the Past woodstock eden 19950312( P