The first time I heard "Red Tape" by the Circle Jerks, I was raking huge, circular patterns on the beach sand. It was a project my neighbor Ty and I had been anticipating with relish, and we had agreed to devote two full hours to whatever drawing would emerge. And we were well on our way, when, as Ty and I were fixed on our beach art, Jacob (the biker guy who lived on the other side of the park from me) showed up with his ancient tape deck, and without so much as a greeting plopped down two feet from our design's perimeter and loaded one of his cassettes. What came out was the fastest punk song I'd heard. At first it seemed horribly alien to our Zen-like focus, but as the drums swirled at blistering speed and the shouting became less grating I found myself making enhanced drawings. What had first begun as a tentative, tip-toeing two-step became a mighty dance and violent duel with the symbol in the sand. A mysterious emblem of gashes and rake lines and stamped-down footsteps was taking over the minimalist original. In the final seconds of our onslaught, Jacob jumped up and cheered us on. The song ended right as I swung my last slash, spraying sand across the middle of the design, which looked like the frozen explosion of a galaxy. Finished, I collapsed and immediately fell asleep for a dreamless twenty minutes. When I awoke, the entire beach was deserted; even Ty and Jacob (and his cassette player)were gone. So I promptly urinated on the sand design, picked up my cast-aside rake, and lazily made my way back home.

A short-short story about the nature of artistic creation.