Spinning whirling twirling
round and round
up and down
backward and forward
go the ballerina’s skirts with the rustling
as she pirouettes her way through the stage
pitter patter go her feet
the violins melodically huhuh
as the pas de deux begins
clash! go the cymbals
as the villain enters
the huhuhing of the violins steps up
the ballerina looks up to the blare of the trumpets
the cello oooms menacingly as the villain approaches
but the hero arrives to the whistle of the flutes
Clash! Clash! Clash! go the cymbals as the two duel
the trumpets blare for one final time as the villain dies
transitioning to the soft whistling of the flutes
as the lovers unite
when the curtains plop to the stage
the audience
clap! clap! claps!
Category: Writing
Ivory Requiem (a novel I’m working on)
CHAPTER ONE
My life is an open wound. This story is not about the past although it does play a big part. This story is actually about the future. I am not going to begin with the contrite saying this story begins whenI would not do that to anyone who happens to be reading this.
Parts of this story were related to me after the events had transpired. I do not have the ability to be omnipresent, but it was necessary to state all the events that had transpired because some of them were beyond my scope and the scope of humanity.
Before I begin, I must explain who I am and what I meant by the very first sentence. My name is Eric Cromwell, and I am the proverbial jack-of-all-trades. I seem to be blessed with the gift of being good at everything I do, and I can do a lot of things. My past shaped my life, and events led me from the innocent childhood I once had listening to my mother play the piano to a jaded law enforcement officer who was part of the Special Investigations Bureaus Rave Unit. My job is to go to the raves in Los Angeles and monitor the activities of those selling drugs to the ravers. The most notorious of these pushers is Benny “the Skunk” Carlisle. It has become my mission in life to destroy him. Because of his bad drugs, many people have died, including someone very close to me, but for some reason law enforcement does not want to go after him.
I always know at which raves he is going to be. He only goes to the big ones. The Skunk is not the only reason that I go to the raves although he is the reason I came back to them. About a year or so ago I caught sight of a young woman who had the face of an angel and a very sensuous body that must have aroused an immeasurable amount of jealousy in Aphrodite. I had never met her in person but I knew who she was. Her name was Avery Norris. She was a pianist as my mother had been and was the utter embodiment of Love.
Growing up I used to sit in the living room and listen as my mother practiced for her performances. Every time she made a mistake she would look at me and we would laugh. The best times were when she would teach me how to play. Sometimes we would play Chopsticks together.
I was twelve years old when my life was destroyed, and all that I have left is my mothers piano, which I refuse to play. When my mother was killed, her body was so badly charred by the fire that destroyed our home it was unidentifiable. The only things that survived were the garage and my mothers Wurlitzer piano, which was inside. Anyone who knows anything about pianos
would not keep one in the garage. My mother did. She had just gotten a grand piano, but it was turned to ashes in the fire, like her dreams of one day playing at Carnegie Hall. She was working on a piece that she called “The Waltz of Death.” Despite, its macabre title, it was sweet and lyrical. I can still hear her playing it, while my imagination envisioned an orchestra conducted the Great Maestro (Death). Everyone dances this waltz from the time our birth to the time when the conductor waves his baton for the very last time. My mothers dreams of playing her waltz went up in smoke during the fire that consumed my childhood.
I never played the piano after that day. I have taken up painting and drawing. I have to do something with my hands. The funny thing is that we as human beings try to run so far away from things that we end up running right into them. That is the way it was with pianos and me. I seemed to be always caught in a vicious circle trying to shadow box my memories without realizing I
was perpetuating the very thing I was trying to avoid. Life is like that.
I have never tested the veracity of my beliefs, but I know they are true, which is why I find myself attracted to Avery Norris. She played with such skill and passion that it seemed as if the Angel of Music herself was playing Averys piano. Averys playing reminded me of the ghosts of my mother. Full vicious circle.
All of this was running through my mind as I watched the dancers at a rave in the San Fernando Valley. The rave took place in an abandoned warehouse and it attracted many of the young, local denizens of LA. Including Avery Norris. The warehouse had been abandoned for at least a good ten years. In the year, 2032, nobody in his or her right mind went into the Valley. Ravers were never in their right minds, which is why they chose the Valley to hold all their raves.
Those SIB agents who monitored them were even crazier. Many of the monitors were ex-ravers like me, so they knew how to play the game. The warehouse was large. About twenty thousand square feet of youths, music, and drugs. The whole place was illuminated by thousands of tiny lights powered by electric generators. The DWP had long since cut off the utilities to the Valley, which had been completely abandoned in the years following the Third World War.
A rudimentary stage had been set up where the DJs worked their magic and created the hypnotizing beats of the style of music known as trance to which the ravers danced. Many of who moved like people caught in the rapturous sensations of sexual intercourse. In fact, some of them were doing it in some form or another. The others were just too caught up in the sensations caused by the Ecstasy that they had taken to give a damn about what their bodies were doing.
I had the sickening sensation that someone was going to die. My mothers waltz echoed softly in the recesses of my mind. I tried to drown it out in the din of music that surrounded me, but it was to no avail. I took a sip from my water bottle. It was not Evian, but I did not really care. Water bottles were sort of standard fare at raves because Ecstasy dehydrated the body so much so that ravers needed to be constantly drinking water to keep from overheating like radiators.
> The music filled the air, and the stage lights created a cascade of colors as they swung back and forth and in every which way. Opposite the stage, where the DJs were located, the eerie nighttime darkness cast the absence of light through the massive steel garage-style doors. I watched some people enter then I caught sight of Avery. She entered with her usual entourage of friends and stood there for a moment looking around her body already gyrating to the beat of the music. One of her friends caught me staring at her and whispered something in her ear, Avery whispered something back. She turned to look at me, and our eyes locked. Suddenly I felt like a nerdy teenager admiring the most popular and most beautiful girl in the school. I felt so inadequate at that moment. To me, she and I existed on two different planes. Her friends left her while she picked up a water bottle from one of the ice chests.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar figure talking to two of the ravers. He was tall and slender with a clean-shaven face and light brown hair. It was the Skunk. The three of them were standing by a metallic staircase that led to the catwalks above. The Skunk handed something to the other two. I knew it had to be drugs. I was startled by a sultry female voice. I whirled around and found that Avery was standing only inches away from me. She had on the carefree smile of someone who was caught up in the euphoria brought on by Ecstasy…or at least it could have been Ecstasy. Now there was a new club drug on the market known as R-486 jokingly named after RU-486 the famed “morning after pill”? The drug R-486 was highly addictive and left feelings of euphoria in the user for a period of twenty-four hours. Anyone who wanted to get the drug in West LA had to go through the Skunk to get it. The drug looked like ammonia and the Skunk had been known to make the switch on people who had not paid him, thereby killing them.
Avery continued gyrating to the music “Ive seen you before, havent I?” she asked.
I shrugged and watched her dance for a moment, “Maybe at one of the other raves.”
Avery paused, the light show dancing across her face. She shook her head slowly, “No, I dont think so. It was at my show at the Troubadour this past March.”
I remembered that show The Troubadour was one of Los Angeles established nightclubs where many musicians performed while doing the circuit on the LA music scene. I sat at one of the tables in the back a few moments before Avery performed. As she played, she seemed to glance in my direction as if she was singing only to me.
Avery smiled her blue green eyes gazing directly into mine, “You felt it didnt you?” she asked >
For a few, brief moments the rave disappeared and it felt as if it was just Avery and me standing and talking I had felt like that at the Troubadour as well. Each time she looked at me while performing I felt a connection that was so intense it transcended the physical realm. We stared at each other for a moment Then Avery rubbed her forehead. “I dont feel too good,” she said.
“Maybe you should sit down and drink some of your water,” I suggested.
She nodded slowly, and together we started to walk towards some benches near the entrance that had been set up for those needing to rest from dancing Avery never made it to the benches. She collapsed about halfway there. I quickly knelt down beside her and checked her pulse. She barely had one A few of the ravers had gathered around us euphorically grinning. I glared at them as I began to perform CPR. “Dont just stand there, call the paramedics.”
One of them laughed, “Theres no emergency services around here.”
I barely noticed as Averys two friends came running over to where I was performing the CPR I did not notice their crying as I stopped pounding on Averys chest, for I was too lost in my own misery to take heed as her friends cried out her name, All I could hear in my mothers waltz echoing eerily in the recesses of my mind.
The Great Maestro had put away his baton and the music was no longer playing for Avery Norris, leaving only an empty silence in her wake. I was left without a chance at love and would have to wonder what might have been. For me, Love had died, and all that was left was the uncertainty of Chaos. My life truly was an open wound.
My life is an open wound. This story is not about the past although it does play a big part. This story is actually about the future. I am not going to begin with the contrite saying this story begins whenI would not do that to anyone who happens to be reading this.
Parts of this story were related to me after the events had transpired. I do not have the ability to be omnipresent, but it was necessary to state all the events that had transpired because some of them were beyond my scope and the scope of humanity.
Before I begin, I must explain who I am and what I meant by the very first sentence. My name is Eric Cromwell, and I am the proverbial jack-of-all-trades. I seem to be blessed with the gift of being good at everything I do, and I can do a lot of things. My past shaped my life, and events led me from the innocent childhood I once had listening to my mother play the piano to a jaded law enforcement officer who was part of the Special Investigations Bureaus Rave Unit. My job is to go to the raves in Los Angeles and monitor the activities of those selling drugs to the ravers. The most notorious of these pushers is Benny “the Skunk” Carlisle. It has become my mission in life to destroy him. Because of his bad drugs, many people have died, including someone very close to me, but for some reason law enforcement does not want to go after him.
I always know at which raves he is going to be. He only goes to the big ones. The Skunk is not the only reason that I go to the raves although he is the reason I came back to them. About a year or so ago I caught sight of a young woman who had the face of an angel and a very sensuous body that must have aroused an immeasurable amount of jealousy in Aphrodite. I had never met her in person but I knew who she was. Her name was Avery Norris. She was a pianist as my mother had been and was the utter embodiment of Love.
Growing up I used to sit in the living room and listen as my mother practiced for her performances. Every time she made a mistake she would look at me and we would laugh. The best times were when she would teach me how to play. Sometimes we would play Chopsticks together.
I was twelve years old when my life was destroyed, and all that I have left is my mothers piano, which I refuse to play. When my mother was killed, her body was so badly charred by the fire that destroyed our home it was unidentifiable. The only things that survived were the garage and my mothers Wurlitzer piano, which was inside. Anyone who knows anything about pianos
would not keep one in the garage. My mother did. She had just gotten a grand piano, but it was turned to ashes in the fire, like her dreams of one day playing at Carnegie Hall. She was working on a piece that she called “The Waltz of Death.” Despite, its macabre title, it was sweet and lyrical. I can still hear her playing it, while my imagination envisioned an orchestra conducted the Great Maestro (Death). Everyone dances this waltz from the time our birth to the time when the conductor waves his baton for the very last time. My mothers dreams of playing her waltz went up in smoke during the fire that consumed my childhood.
I never played the piano after that day. I have taken up painting and drawing. I have to do something with my hands. The funny thing is that we as human beings try to run so far away from things that we end up running right into them. That is the way it was with pianos and me. I seemed to be always caught in a vicious circle trying to shadow box my memories without realizing I
was perpetuating the very thing I was trying to avoid. Life is like that.
I have never tested the veracity of my beliefs, but I know they are true, which is why I find myself attracted to Avery Norris. She played with such skill and passion that it seemed as if the Angel of Music herself was playing Averys piano. Averys playing reminded me of the ghosts of my mother. Full vicious circle.
All of this was running through my mind as I watched the dancers at a rave in the San Fernando Valley. The rave took place in an abandoned warehouse and it attracted many of the young, local denizens of LA. Including Avery Norris. The warehouse had been abandoned for at least a good ten years. In the year, 2032, nobody in his or her right mind went into the Valley. Ravers were never in their right minds, which is why they chose the Valley to hold all their raves.
Those SIB agents who monitored them were even crazier. Many of the monitors were ex-ravers like me, so they knew how to play the game. The warehouse was large. About twenty thousand square feet of youths, music, and drugs. The whole place was illuminated by thousands of tiny lights powered by electric generators. The DWP had long since cut off the utilities to the Valley, which had been completely abandoned in the years following the Third World War.
A rudimentary stage had been set up where the DJs worked their magic and created the hypnotizing beats of the style of music known as trance to which the ravers danced. Many of who moved like people caught in the rapturous sensations of sexual intercourse. In fact, some of them were doing it in some form or another. The others were just too caught up in the sensations caused by the Ecstasy that they had taken to give a damn about what their bodies were doing.
I had the sickening sensation that someone was going to die. My mothers waltz echoed softly in the recesses of my mind. I tried to drown it out in the din of music that surrounded me, but it was to no avail. I took a sip from my water bottle. It was not Evian, but I did not really care. Water bottles were sort of standard fare at raves because Ecstasy dehydrated the body so much so that ravers needed to be constantly drinking water to keep from overheating like radiators.
> The music filled the air, and the stage lights created a cascade of colors as they swung back and forth and in every which way. Opposite the stage, where the DJs were located, the eerie nighttime darkness cast the absence of light through the massive steel garage-style doors. I watched some people enter then I caught sight of Avery. She entered with her usual entourage of friends and stood there for a moment looking around her body already gyrating to the beat of the music. One of her friends caught me staring at her and whispered something in her ear, Avery whispered something back. She turned to look at me, and our eyes locked. Suddenly I felt like a nerdy teenager admiring the most popular and most beautiful girl in the school. I felt so inadequate at that moment. To me, she and I existed on two different planes. Her friends left her while she picked up a water bottle from one of the ice chests.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar figure talking to two of the ravers. He was tall and slender with a clean-shaven face and light brown hair. It was the Skunk. The three of them were standing by a metallic staircase that led to the catwalks above. The Skunk handed something to the other two. I knew it had to be drugs. I was startled by a sultry female voice. I whirled around and found that Avery was standing only inches away from me. She had on the carefree smile of someone who was caught up in the euphoria brought on by Ecstasy…or at least it could have been Ecstasy. Now there was a new club drug on the market known as R-486 jokingly named after RU-486 the famed “morning after pill”? The drug R-486 was highly addictive and left feelings of euphoria in the user for a period of twenty-four hours. Anyone who wanted to get the drug in West LA had to go through the Skunk to get it. The drug looked like ammonia and the Skunk had been known to make the switch on people who had not paid him, thereby killing them.
Avery continued gyrating to the music “Ive seen you before, havent I?” she asked.
I shrugged and watched her dance for a moment, “Maybe at one of the other raves.”
Avery paused, the light show dancing across her face. She shook her head slowly, “No, I dont think so. It was at my show at the Troubadour this past March.”
I remembered that show The Troubadour was one of Los Angeles established nightclubs where many musicians performed while doing the circuit on the LA music scene. I sat at one of the tables in the back a few moments before Avery performed. As she played, she seemed to glance in my direction as if she was singing only to me.
Avery smiled her blue green eyes gazing directly into mine, “You felt it didnt you?” she asked >
For a few, brief moments the rave disappeared and it felt as if it was just Avery and me standing and talking I had felt like that at the Troubadour as well. Each time she looked at me while performing I felt a connection that was so intense it transcended the physical realm. We stared at each other for a moment Then Avery rubbed her forehead. “I dont feel too good,” she said.
“Maybe you should sit down and drink some of your water,” I suggested.
She nodded slowly, and together we started to walk towards some benches near the entrance that had been set up for those needing to rest from dancing Avery never made it to the benches. She collapsed about halfway there. I quickly knelt down beside her and checked her pulse. She barely had one A few of the ravers had gathered around us euphorically grinning. I glared at them as I began to perform CPR. “Dont just stand there, call the paramedics.”
One of them laughed, “Theres no emergency services around here.”
I barely noticed as Averys two friends came running over to where I was performing the CPR I did not notice their crying as I stopped pounding on Averys chest, for I was too lost in my own misery to take heed as her friends cried out her name, All I could hear in my mothers waltz echoing eerily in the recesses of my mind.
The Great Maestro had put away his baton and the music was no longer playing for Avery Norris, leaving only an empty silence in her wake. I was left without a chance at love and would have to wonder what might have been. For me, Love had died, and all that was left was the uncertainty of Chaos. My life truly was an open wound.
Liebestod
Liebestod
The lantern danced with the devil
Singing liebestod forever.
What a pair they were
Whriling and twirling in their ghastly delight
Lebiestod!
Liebestod!
Forever!
The devil was in the details of the dance
The lantern was is in the beauty
Round and round they went chanting their haunting song
While the lights cast an eery glow on the floor
Where their feet never seemed to touch
But in the end the dance must end
This ode to liebestod
Even the dance has to unite with the one it loves
And then they will spin the night away
In that waltz of life and death
Life and death are lovers
Who as they dance,
Can never touch the floor
And they cry liebestod forever!
Beauty and Madness
Beauty and Madness
see beauty
you are mad
see madness
you are beautiful
see nothing
you are dead
see the beautful lights
you are blinded
see hope
you are alive
alive you see beauty
but does that not mean that you are mad?
A Poem About Nothing
A Poem about Nothing
This poem has no point
It is not trying to tell a story
Or convey an emotion
It just IS
And that is all there is to it
No reason no story
No grand design the scheme of things
It just IS
And that is all there is to it
This poem is not trying to occupy space
Or take up anyones time
It has nothing to say
It just IS
And that is all there is to it
Dont expect it to reveal the meaning of life
To do that the poem would have to have meaning
It just IS
And that is all there is to it
This poem really is about nothing
Or rather the absence of nothing,
Which is really an abstract concept
That is impossible for our minds to fathom
How can this poem be about nothing?
It just IS
And that is all there is to it
And The Days Go On
And the days go on
The sun sets as
The past gives way to the night
And the period of searching and wondering begins
The objective hidden in the cloud of the heart
And the days go on
What the future brings no one knows
And the night fades away
As the past gives way to the present
Constantly searching for the answer
As the isolation of the past sets in
And the solitude gives way to quiet thought and reflection
And the wondering leads to thoughts and decisions
That both frighten and embolden
And the days go on
What the future brings no one knows
And the night fades away
As the past gives way to the present
Still the thoughts of regret nip at the heels
But with each step they fade like the past
And as the uncertainty looms
The wayward spirit knows
That the days go on
What the future brings no one knows
And the night fades away
As the past gives way to the present
The future may frighten
But it is being scared of change
Is better than than the cowardice of the past
And standing at the gates of uncertainty
The first step is taken
And the days go on
What the future brings no one knows
And the night fades away
As the past gives way to the present
The Value of Time and Money
People often criticize me for not donating money. I see money as an object that has no value and can be replaced. I donate time. Time is more valuable to me than anything else. it can’t be bought or sold or traded. To me money is a material object and its rewards are only fleeting. When you spend time with someone the rewards last a lifetime. This may sound like a cliche but perhaps its something to ponder. Spending time doing something has the possibility to create lasting relationships and bonds that can’t be broken. What can money get you but the temporary satisfaction of something accomplished or done for someone? That moment is short lived and soon forgotten. Time is the most valuable gift we as human beings have to give. Don’t waste it. Once its gone you can never get it back.
Staying on Track
Staying on Track
For many the New York subway system is the lifeblood of the city as it takes people to and from their destination. Yet, for those who are not familiar with the system it can be as confusing as trying to figure out Einstein’s Theory of Relativity without the E or the C2.
Having been two New York twice before, and having ridden public transportation in my native Los Angeles, I was not completely unfamiliar with how a public transportation system worked. Still there is nothing like a New York City subway. I realize that by referring to it as the subway I am marking myself as an Out of Towner because I learned from someone that the subway is referred to as the train. When I think of trains, I think of Amtrak, not a metal tube speeding through the underbelly of a city.
The system was a little daunting to learn because knowing where each stop is is only half the battle.
In Los Angeles, all the rail lines are named after a color, the red line, the purple line, and so on and so forth. Here in New York the system works a little differently. Instead of the Los Angeles rainbow New York has the alphabet soup. The lines are named after letters and numbers, and to make matters worse depending on the destination a color. The 4, 5, and 6 trains are green. The N, Q, R and W trains are yellow, the A, C, and E trains are blue while the F, J, and V trains are brown. At first that made my head spin but then I realized that the train numbers and whether or not they are express or local are what matter. Local trains like the 6. the N, the Q, the R, and the W trains will stop at every station. Express trains like the 4, and the 5 trains will not stop at every station. The stations while conveniently located near most places in the city can be confusing particularly since they are more like freeways for people especially during rush hour when people are disembarking from the trains en masse. After having gotten off at the wrong station and not to mention the wrong train at least four or five times during my first week in New York I realized after being helped by some other riders that the stations are marked with signs telling people where they need to go to transfer trains or exit on the right street.
The existence of signs was not as surprising as the willingness that some New Yorkers have towards helping others find their way on the subway system. I guess when you are standing on the platform looking around and walking in circles trying to make sense of the signs with a rather wide eyed look does indicate to people that you are not from around here.
I had heard many times never look a New Yorker in the eye especially while on the subway. After being helped various times on the subway and successfully managing to navigate to my way on the train my starry-eyed wonderment and confusion now somewhat dissipated I began to notice that while I was spending my time trying to not look at the other passengers I noticed out of the corner of my eye that is exactly what is what the other riders were doing. If they were not reading, a newspaper, a book, texting on their phone, or listening to their Ipod they were staring at the floor, at the walls, or at their feet with this rather blank look on their face like statues that only seemed to move when the train hit a bump or came to a stop. When that happened, people would do whatever they could to not fall on the person next to them because they were tightly packed in the cars like sardines. Looking at the other passengers I felt that there was this huge divide because we as humans place so much intimate value on the simple looking people in the eyes that sometimes when I am on my way to work I feel a slight sense of disassociation. They say its easy to get lost in the city. Now I see why no one can see you if they are not looking then when the train stopped and the doors opened it was like peeling back the lid of a can and letting some of the pressure out. The passengers would literally tumble out of the car and move like a giant wave in the same direction: the exit.
Comm 334 Profile
Robert Moran
Comm 334
Profile
Service and curiosity. Those two ideals are the best way to describe Sarah Paulsen. Paulsen is a print journalism major at Cal State Fullerton. Although it is her major it is not her calling. In high school Paulsen went on several mission trips. She traveled to Chile five times and to Mexico four times all the while balancing her classes and her work for her high school newspaper.
Now in her early twenties, Paulsen sat down for her interview with the Daily Titan wearing a light blue sweater and a light gray hat with a short brim that almost was similar to the design of an engineer’s cap. From underneath her cap brown hair gently flowed down the sides of her head well past her ears and just past her shoulders. Her clear skin seemed to glow in the flourescent lights as she spoke.
Beneath her wire rimmed glasses her brown eyes suggested a deep self-confidence and sense of purpose because her eyes never seemed to waver as she spoke, but her eyes became animated and her voice hinted at a sense of excitement as she talked about her writing.
Her non-wavering love of writing has helped her in her forward trajectory from a high school missionary to journalism student.
Her love of writing was, in fact, the primary reason for her decision to major in journalism. Even though Paulsen is majoring in journalism, she is not a student at CSUF She is,in fact, a student at Hope International University a Christian school, which resides across the street from CSUF. She is attending classes at CSUF through a cross-enrollment agreement between the two universities. Paulsen originally did not major in journalism instead she studied the ministry because she originally wanted to be a missionary but her love of writing got the best of her and she changed her major.
“ I started going to different countries, but I changed my mind and decided to stay here and write,” Paulsen said.
In her first two years of college Paulsen served as both copy editor and features editor for the Hope International Tribune. Of the two she loved feature writing because of what she could do with it.
“ I felt I wanted to write stories about people and things that have a positive impact,” Paulsen said.
Still, she is not picky about the stories she writes about as in everything she does her love of writing has influenced her in this area as well.
“ I love writing, so I could write about anything…even something small. Even if its not a popular story I would write about it,” Paulsen said.
Mihaylo Courtyard: for Comm 334
The light dancing off the windows gives off this joyful and majestic salute to those who happen to pass under the archway at the north end of the courtyard. Like the opening scenes of a grand ballet the archway increases in its majesty as one approaches it between the buildings on the north side of Steven G. Mihaylo Hall.
When one does enter the courtyard the grand opening of the ballet descends into the subtle and tranquil sounds of the second movement. A bronze statue of Mihaylo himself sits patiently on the as if waiting for more grandiosity to come from the Sun as it reflects off of the glass which covers most of the buildings. Or perhaps he is staring at his own reflection and admiring the modern architecture with its large window that seem to welcome anyone into the building.
Or maybe he is waiting for the year-old tree in the courtyard to grow slowly and spread its branches like the knowledge of the students who pass by the courtyard and glance at the statue as if to say thank you.
Still, the moderness of the buildings is as inviting as its windows are large with its fresh paint that has not turned a beige color with the test of time.
Staring at the entrance to the southern building, the north building and the south building can be seen reflecting in the glass. Perhaps due to the oval curvature of the buildings which create the semi-circle in which the courtyard lays. As one walks around the building one cannot help but feel surrounded or better yet protected by the buildings until one leaves and with one last look watches as the archway slowly shrinks in the distance.
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