The Grasshopper
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
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| Tuesday, June 14th, 2005 | | 6:43 pm |
Park the car. Open the door, lock it, step out. Close door behind self once completely out of car. Check handle to make sure doors really are locked; While checking handles notice that important belongings in backpack are still on the car seat. Unlock doors, remove the back pack and place it on roof of car. Lock doors, close door, check lock by pulling the handle. Place back pack around shoulders and begin walking north. Once the street has been reached walk west for four blocks then continue east for four blocks. Before then, step up curb and walk, one foot in.... HEY MAN Look over left shoulder. A man wearing only underpants sits on a park bench and gestures to come closer. Walk toward man keeping back straight. Check posture. HEY MAN CAN I BORROW A QUARTER OR FIFTY CENTS OR SOMETHIN Put left hand into left pocket removing two quarters two dimes and one penny. Place in right hand of man on bench. OH THANKS A LOT MAN YOU WANT A CIGAR? I GOT A SODA THAT I CAN'T DRINK. I'M DIABETIC. Graciously accept soda and check the label. Sugar Free. Ask the man if he has seen the art work up the street. OH YEAH MAN, THAT'S SOME NEAT SHIT UP THERE. FUCK MAN, DON'T GO INTO THE PARK THOUGH. FUCK THEM, THEY'LL TAKE ALL YOUR FUCKING MONEY. THOSE FUCKING CARNIES UP THERE THEY GOT THERE RIDES AND SHIT. HEY HEY COME HERE TRY THIS OH NO YOU LOUSY BASTARD IM NOT GIVING YOU SHIT. HAHA, YOU KNOW? GO TO DISNEYWORLD FUCKING WHATEVER ELSE YOU WANT MAN BUT DON'T GO UP INTO THAT PARK, DISNEYWORLD WHATEVER SHIT. Open soda, take a sip. It will be warm, don't drink too much. Write that down, don't drink too much. I'LL TELL YOU MAN, I GOT THIS GIRL, DONNA. MAN FUCK, SHEESH ITS CRAZY SHIT. I LOVE HER SHE'S MY GIRL FUCKIN TWO BY FOUR AND BAM RIGHT IN THE THROAT RIGHT HERE. HAH, YOU WOULDN'T EVEN BELIEVE THAT SHIT OUT COLD FELL OFF A HORSE. I WAS IN DESERT STORM MAN, THAT WAS SOME CRAZY SHIT TOO. FUCKING GEEZE. I GOT THIS GIRL, HER PARENTS WANT ME TO MARRY HER. SOME GERMAN GIRL MAN, HER OLD MAN IS A BAKER HE IS ALWAYS ON MY CASE. WHAT WAS MY LAST JOB? I'M A BAKER TOO MAN. OH YEAH WHERE HAVE YOU BAKED? LAST PLACE WAS RIGHT DOWN THE STREET OLD MAN? I DON'T BELIEVE THAT? WELL SHIT POW HEH HEH. BELIEVE THAT? YOU UNDERSTAND THIS SHIT MAN? Offer the man three dollars to take a photo of him. Hand the man three dollars and remove camera from back pack. Open the lens and be sure that the flash is turned off. Aim the camera at the man and be sure to be close enough. After the picture develops be sure to allow the man to see it. OH THAT'S A GOOD FUCKING PICTURE MAN. Shake the mans hand and continue north. Once the street has been reached walk west for four blocks then continue east for four blocks. | | Wednesday, April 20th, 2005 | | 12:58 am |
The immanent nature of polaroid film. | | Tuesday, April 5th, 2005 | | 2:21 am |
Just good enough for the C. Ben Atwood Tracing Change response When creating a body of work the physical surroundings can greatly impact the finished piece by the artist. This holds true for any artist no matter what medium is used. In Tracing Changes, the most recent show by Edward Mayer, the idea of the surroundings impacting the work is clearly shown. Through his work Mayer both works with and against the boundaries of the gallery given to him. The clearest example of a work that reacts to the boundaries of the gallery space is Bioculus (2005, steel tomato frames and plastic ties, 10 sq. feet). In this piece tomato cages were tied together to create a large cube in the center of four poles. The top of the cube is level with the second floor of the gallery and it is placed so that the four sides do not run parallel with any of the four walls. With form of the cube alone Mayer is showing an acceptance of the material aspects of the gallery while reacting against it. Generally speaking, a room is given windows and painted white in order to give an illusion of a bigger area. This is an idea that Mayer understood well when creating this piece and, through material, he was able to increase the percieved space of the room. When the viewer looks into the piece itself the lines created by the tomato cages creates a deepening of the space of the room itself. Also, due to the nature of metal the highlights on the cages create focal points for the piece which pull some areas of the work forward further creating a distorted sense of space. These percieved phenomenon are created in whole by the physical characteristics of the tomato cages themselves. Eight Part Sequence (2005, steel tomato frames and plastic ties, varying sizes) is another work in Tracing Change which embraces the physical characteristics of the materials and uses them to then describe the surroundings of the work. Eight Part Sequence is a series of eight sculptures created out of tomato cages each slightly larger than the last. The pieces point, from least developed to most, out of the gallery to a building outside which is under construction. By creating a reference to something that is outside of the gallery Mayer is completely reacting against the architecture of the gallery itself and drawing the attention of the viewer to something that would rarely be seen as important to a body of work, the outside world. The material of tomato cages strengthen the work in this case by creating an "unfinished" look of a building frame. By turning the cages upside down the cages begin to take on the look of a construction site. By working with and against the natural physical phenomenon Tracing Change becomes a body of work that can not be properly created outside of the specific gallery. Through both form and materials Edward Mayer was able to create a body of work that discusses the area of the gallery and the area surrouding the gallery itself. | | Wednesday, March 30th, 2005 | | 1:42 pm |
| | Sunday, March 20th, 2005 | | 7:44 pm |
School essay.
She nestled the bottom of her chin into the groove between my neck and shoulder. It's convenient how our bodies fit together. Her arms find their way around me while her fingers dig into my skin. The pain is terrible, but I don't really mind, so I don't let her know. I remember looking around this room before. Her drawings pinned awkwardly onto the walls around us, there was a painting I had given to her with dented edges. Thanks for taking good care of that one. She really needs to get something to put up for a ceiling. These cobwebs - something is bound to happen I won't have time to finish this thought. On cue, she squeezes just hard enough to pull the air out of my lungs before letting go again. God, I'm so bored - but she's smiling and she's happy, this is okay. Those eyes, though. It's cliche, yes, but I can only think of them as burning through me. The classier readers will be appalled by the hackneyed phrase, but whatever works, works; they only read for the social status anyway. Don't mind the jumpiness of this peice, I allready told you I'm bored with this girl. Nothing exciting ever happens when me and her get together for a day. You're not missing much. Maybe her flipping her hair and laughing when I remark on some random person we saw earlier at a restaurant. I still remember that lady too. This ugly blue dress, I really liked it though, and her face looked like you could stretch it. I wanted to try, but we talked about the dress instead. Something about a prom. But, you see? You're really not missing anything. She's still just staring into my eyes, looking for something. There's nothing there. She takes a deep breath, I know what this means. She's gonna ask if I want to kiss on her bed again. It's the same routine everytime we meet. She doesn't ask about kissing this time, though. "I love you." Wow. "Hey, I love you too, kiddo." So, I lied to her and now she's here crying into my collar and hugging me because she thinks I told the truth. And here I am, just putting another inch of myself into this relationship that is only going to end eventually. But, hey man, maybe it won't, I mean, maybe I can keep up this masochistic boredom for the rest of my life to keep this girl happy. That's why we're here right, just to make others happy? I'll keep this lie up for as long as needs to. Maybe she'll get as bored as I am and cry to me again about how it isn't going to work out. And I'll cry again, and I'll lie again with those "sorrowful" tears. Then things could be fine, we'd both move on and start living with excitement. Worst case scenario, I'm with this girl for the rest of my life and I love our child and have an amazing time anyway. | | 12:57 am |
It kinda just goes to show you that you're all drinking so much soda in all of the parking lots | | Wednesday, January 12th, 2005 | | 2:35 pm |
| | Thursday, January 6th, 2005 | | 11:01 am |
| | Sunday, December 26th, 2004 | | 12:08 am |
Mark washes his hands in listerine. | | Sunday, December 12th, 2004 | | 10:34 am |
fuckin' open mic today.. and i didnt' prepare anything!
North, northeast, east, southeast, south. This apartment surrounds my body. I don’t known why I even look at what I have anymore. Maybe I’m just looking for something I’ve missed on these nights. A new possession waiting to be found. Hell, even a book of matches could make this heart race now; anything to remove this decaying landscape of dust-covered furniture and closed blinds. A soft light pours over the furniture. The way the light plays against the dust in the air is poetic. A war is waging between the shadows of dust and the light from the lamp. The light doesn’t want to leave the lamp. It wants to stay above the telephone. The shadows wait in the corners to overcome the light. I wait in the corner for a call. I’ve lost all perception of hearing. The announcers on television are captivating thousands of insomniacs across the country. All I can hear are these damned telephones. Words flash across the television screen followed by unindentifiable numbers. I would call if I remembered how to use the damned telephone. Knees extend beneath a body; feet bend out at the applied weight. The cushion once beneath the body hasn’t adapted. I can realize a past this way. The indent marks that it have been. The telephone is who I was, my body, my arms, my legs. Weight drips from these bones. It's become a skeleton. I’ve been like this for months, days, years. The body moves around the room, I decide to follow it this time. All of the doors are locked and closed. I haven’t been able to find a way out of this mess, neither will it. It’s a curious way to pass the time. A hand moves across a desktop. I remember picking it out thinking it was beautiful. The hand regains control and stops itself from doodling. The word “MICE” appears engraved in dust. Do I have mice? Do I want mice? The body continues to the corner of the room. Its damp flesh presses against the dry wall. I dissolve into the plaster. I move freely without the constraints of modern physics. The room smells of wet saw dust and mold; the stench of a thrift store basement. Pipes run over my head; power explodes through metal. Light flows to my surroundings through a hole in this narrow hall. A man is standing outside pressed against the corner. I feel no larger than his foot; I climb on top of it. Weight is applied to the right foot. It doesn’t think that weight was shifted. Concentration is pulled from the bare wall to the creature sitting on my foot and clawing at my pant leg. My body jumps back in panic. This is the first time I’ve been with another living being. My legs give away from underneath me and my body falls hard onto the cement floor. The last thing I hear is the dull sound of my left temple cracking as I reach the cement. Wake up Mr. Musculus. My eyes fail their first attempt of opening. I sprawl across the floor and lift myself onto the couch knocking the telephone off of its stand. I realize my surroundings again as my eyes adjust to the light. The mouse works its way up the side of the couch and on to my lap. “Now, Mr. Musculus… there is no need for such alarm.” Mus… Musculus. Mr. Musculus please take your seat now. And do you, Mr. Musculus, vow to love and to cherish… Right this way Mr. Musculus, down this hall. “I’ve been watching you from these walls for a while now, two years now to be exact.” The voice of the mouse distracts me from the tides of memories. My hand lifts to my left temple and wipes away the pain. “How rude of me… my name is Parus Inornatus, but you may call me Inornatus; everyone else does.” My speaking is clumsy as words stumble out of my mouth and scatter like marbles across the cement floor. My ears understand what I’ve said and I attempt to rearticulate the meaning. “But of course, Musculus, I am here and as are you. I’m very pleased with you. Your attention to this room has been very well documented. We’re all very pleased with you so far. However, I’m afraid to say that your work here isn’t quite yet finished. There is a matter that still must be attended to.” My focus breaks. “For now I’ll call it a lesson in assimilation.” “What was that you said? Something about disintegration?” “I’m ashamed, Musculus… you were chosen because of your attention to details. Assimilation Musculus, assimilation. You see that phone on the floor over there? I want you to pick it up. There will be someone on the other line for you.” I walk to the phone, stopping between steps to take in my surroundings. Something feels different but I cannot decide what it is. I place my hand on the back of the phone and pause for a breath. I look around the room and back at Inornatus. He gestures to pick up the phone. “Musculus… I am here to inform you that your time is officially over.” The voice on the other side of the phone is rough and almost fatherly in tone. “While we thank you for your participation, your ties with reality have become drastically severed. Someone will be in shortly to let you out.” In a flash, memories begin to flood my mind. The opportunity to take part in a new study based on human behavioral patterns. The white men in black suits showing me the way to my new home in a sincere sort of manner that made me want to vomit. Agreeing to leave my family and loved ones for this extended "vacation." Jesus, their plan worked brilliantly. In only two years I had forgotten everything. My memories had been forged from the objects surrounding me. "Inornatus... Inornatus." My eyes sweep across the room. "Inornatus..." I replace the telephone back onto its hook and crawl back to the couch. My mouth continues to form the words "Inornatus." The lock clicks as men enter my room. My eyes glaze over as the men reach out to grab me. My head falls back between their hands and lands hard against the corner of the couch. Everything goes black as they take me away. I wake up laying alone. The television is on while other people look for murderers and cure diseases. I pull the blankets half way up my body. I try to focus on the the dancing lights. The movements lull me into sleep. I yearn for the understanding of what makes television so captivating. My body turns to the side and my head falls. I stare out into the white walls and watch the shadows play until everything becomes black. A sharp pain drills into my gut. The murderer from television must have escaped to find me. I don't care about his fate and he wants revenge. I can sense his hot breath and scarred face in the dark. A knife is repeatedly plunged into my stomach as the escaped convict releases his frustrations against the world. I can feel the movement of his hands against my neck as he begins to squeeze the life out of me. I attempt to stand up and examine the source of the pain but double over crippled by the feeling and the fear. The knife falls from my side and disappears into the floor beneath me. I touch my head to my knees as I hold my now swelling mid section. I must be having my first period. This is what every middle-aged man well into adulthood looks forward to. I crawl across the wooden floor into the kitchen stopping every few feet to recover from the pain of moving. My hand gropes across the counter top as I search for something to calm my stomach. I grab a banana that I had bought a few weeks prior. The banana, now soft and black with rot, split in half as I removed it from the bunch. I dig into the flesh with my fingers and put the first piece into my mouth and try to chew. Even this soft rotted banana is too much for my weakened body to handle. Chewing takes minutes to perform and the banana clings to the sides of my esophagus refusing to go down. I gasp for air as I try to stand back up. I fall back onto the hard wooden floor splitting my lip open as I reach the ground. Death by asphyxiation on a banana. I grab a dirty cup out of the sink and fill it with water. Earlier in the day I began to do the dishes but was interrupted mid way to tend to more important things. Now, the hot taste of soap and water fills my throat. The banana, which once lined my throat, is replaced with bubbles which blow out of my mouth as I breath. The bubbles release soap into my eyes and nose reminding me of the pain in my stomach. My body sends me sprawling across the wooden floor. Bubbles are excreted from mouth and float to the ceiling. This is not how I would like my kids to remember me. Laying half dead on a wooden floor picked out by their mother. Bubbles in my mouth, stomach swelling like a balloon ready to burst, and rotten banana covering my bloody lips and hands. I work my way falling and groping to the bathroom door. My mouth fills with blood and saliva which is spit into the toilet. Immediately follows the bubbles then the banana. Within seconds the remainder of my stomachs contents are released into the shimmering white bowl. My body heaves and jerks with each new resurfacing of old food. My throat closes back up and now burns with stomach acid. I try to breath in but all I can hear is the sound of a vacuum pinched shut. The pain in my stomach subsides as I grab the water faucet turning it to full blast. I fill my mouth with the cold water and swallow hard bringing back down the remains of supper. I look at my battered face in the mirror. I didn't have a mirror when I was still with Inornatus. I didn't have problems either. All I want now is to go back there. I'm a structured man now, I can't have anyone else. I just want to go back. My eyes fall as blood and saliva smears down the wall and back onto the floor. The television remains on while I sleep now. Deepset eyes pierce into the back of my skull. A mouth rattles like a machine gun filling my torso with holes. The barrel of a musket portrudes from the mouth filling a gap between two front teeth; light shines brightly. My feet lift from beneath me and my body is thrown back from the impact of the words. Shrapnel of linguistics have embedded deep into my flesh. I pick a sentence out of my side and a thick congealed black blood forms along the surface of the wound. Sweat fills my pores and accompanies the blood running down my thighs. My flesh boils as I lay against the now warming cement. The heat of my body turns the ground beneath me into a liquid mess of melted rock and my own excrements. The liquid flooring flows into my ears and mouth cutting off any form of me crying for help. Thank God for my nose. Now, I am able to live longer through this excrutiating game. Heavy breath acts as an ominious foretelling sensation over my dampened head. A scarred face is hot and filled with an empty form of relentless contempt. The kind of face that makes grown hardened men grind their teeth. Gruesome enough to murder small children with a single glance. Milk curdles at the site of this monstrosity. And now, by some cruel twist of fate this unnamed horror has reduced me to a shrivelling rot on the cement floor of my apartment. Through words and heat I've become as useless as the nights garbage. The blood drains from my face as regret sweeps over my body. Inornatus... where is Inornatus? Who is this and what are they saying? My eyes pour over the words strewn across the floor. A group of people alone together unrealizing of their existence on a street. A poor man lying in the muck and grime of the gutter while mice rob him of his only possesions. My eyes move free of my control back to the face above me. "God not Inornatus." The words stumble out of my mouth and join the others on the cement. The face grins releasing a foul hot breath into my skin. Another man, the same man only years before stepping over himself. A half life bent on finding starvation in a city street. His future laid out in front of him that he is unwilling to accept. Mice follow him along the street. "INORNATUS.. INORNATUS." The words form again, this time larger. It can't be Inornatus he wouldn't do that to me. My arms and legs begin to join my face embedded in the cement. The man walks. There is a child screaming on the street, still connected to it's mothers womb. A child, the same child, the man. The child forgotten fighting to release himself. A mother unaware of her child, forgotten after years of anguish. Mice gnaw. Words float into the air and land hard infront of me. The face studies the words at its feet unable to comprehend what it's reading. I can tell by its changing look that it understands but refuses to believe what it's seeing. The waxing and waning of the face in front of me excites a dormant spark. A composer within me begins to direct a choir. Bows readied and swinging, horns raised and blowing, fingers moving across strings and keys, words falling. Notes fill the air as the concierto within my lungs fill the remaining air with expressions and grandoise thoughts. The face falls under the pressure of the surrounding atmosphere. Its form decreases as it shrinks back into the depth of the television. I stand centered before it shouting into the screen. My body stiff, unmoving with anger. My face hot and red with embarassment. | | Tuesday, December 7th, 2004 | | 11:28 pm |
mission accomplished
I just made the best mix tape in the world. And it's not even for me. I want it. I'm jealous. | | Thursday, December 2nd, 2004 | | 10:48 pm |
| | Wednesday, December 1st, 2004 | | 9:12 am |
school stuffs
Ben Atwood Towering stone giantskeep watch over the awakening streets below. Mice run through the street gutters bent to a half life based in starvation. A man lies in the muck and grime of the streets. No cars will strike him down, he is safe here. This street has been used taken for granted and spit back out. "We live in a cold world," echoes through the alleyways and bounces off of the rising sun. Down the block a man turns a corner in his life and now resides in this barren haven for the poor and the wretched. This man has lived. He began his life as a deli. Willing to help and to serve anyone while still watching his own back. He would close shop and fall asleep at night knowing that he is comfortable. He grew and learned of greed. Greed controlled his life and brought him to the top. Wall Street was his playground and he became a reservation only french restaurant. No suit, no tie, no service. He refused the ones he loved and pushed them away for his secular happiness. The stock market brought its own sense of crippling karma down onto this man and stripped him of everything he found important. He drove his family away, life drove his money away. Now under this rising sun and changing street he feels nothing. The cold biting wind attacks at his flesh and his senses. He's a 24 hour diner. He won't and can't afford to refuse anyone anymore. He is unable to close up shop for comfort. He's bound by this street. As he stumbles he trips over a baby still connected to the mothers womb. Uncared for and unsupervised. Dropped into a basket and dragged along the street as the mother walks. She's moved on but the baby remains attatched and longing looking for life on this street. The lying man continues, "You think we're just getting flurries now?" Deepset eyes pierce into the back of my skull. A mouth rattles like a machine gun filling my torso with holes. The barrel of a musket portrudes from the mouth filling a gap between two front teeth; light shines brightly. My feet lift from beneath me and my body is thrown back from the impact of the words. Shrapnel of linguistics have embedded deep into my flesh. I pick a sentence out of my side and a thick congealed black blood forms along the surface of the wound. Sweat fills my pores and accompanies the blood running down my thighs. My flesh boils as I lay against the now warming cement. The heat of my body turns the ground beneath me into a liquid mess of melted rock and my own excrements. The liquid flooring flows into my ears and mouth cutting off any form of me crying for help. Thank God for my nose. Now, I am able to live longer through this excrutiating game. Heavy breath acts as an ominious looming sensation over my dampened head. A scarred face is hot and filled with an empty form of relentless contempt. The kind of face that makes grown hardened men grind their teeth. Gruesome enough to murder small children with a single glance. Milk curdles at the site of this monstrosity. And now, by some cruel twist of fate this unnamed horror has reduced me to a shrivelling rot on the cement floor of my apartment. Through words and heat I've become as useless as the nights garbage. The blood drains from my face as regret sweeps over my body. Inornatus... where is Inornatus? Who is this and what are they saying? My eyes pour over the words strewn across the floor. A group of people alone together unrealizing of their existence on a street. A poor man lying in the muck and grime of the gutter while mice rob him of his only possesions. My eyes move free of my control back to the face above me. "God not Inornatus." The words stumble out of my mouth and join the others on the cement. The face grins releasing a foul hot breath into my skin. Another man, the same man only years before stepping over himself. A half life bent on finding starvation in a city street. His future laid out in front of him that he is unwilling to accept. Mice follow him along the street. "INORNATUS.. INORNATUS." The words form again, this time larger. It can't be Inornatus he wouldn't do that to me. My arms and legs begin to join my face embedded in the cement. The man walks. There is a child screaming still connected to it's mothers womb. A child, the same child, the man. The child forgotten fighting to release himself. A mother unaware of her child. The child forgotten after years of anguish. Mice gnaw at the face of the child. Words float into the air and land hard infront of me. The face studies the words at its feet unable to comprehend what it's reading. I can tell by its changing look that it understands but refuses to believe what it's seeing. | | Thursday, November 25th, 2004 | | 12:25 pm |
Newest work in progress: Deepset eyes pierce into the furthest back section of my skull. A mouth rattles like a machine gun filling my torso with holes. The barrel of a musket portrudes from the mouth filling a gap between two front teeth; light shines brightly. My feet lift from beneath me and my body is thrown back from the impact of the words. Shrapnel of linguistics have embedded deep into my flesh. I pick a sentence out of my side and a thick congealed black blood forms along the surface of the wound. Sweat fills my pores and accompanies the blood running down my thighs. My flesh boils as I lay against the now warming cement. The heat of my body turns the ground beneath me into a liquid mess of melted rock and my own excrements. The liquid flooring flows into my ears and mouth cutting off any form of me crying for help. Thank God for my nose. Now, I am able to live longer through this excrutiating game. Heavy breath acts as an ominious looming sensation over my dampened head. A scarred face is hot and filled with an empty form of relentless contempt. The kind of face that makes grown hardened men grind their teeth. Gruesome enough to murder small children with a single glance. Milk curdles at the site of this monstrosity. And now, by some cruel twist of fate this unnamed horror has reduced me to a shrivelling rot on the cement floor of my apartment. Through words and heat I've become as useless as the nights garbage. The blood drains from my face as regret sweeps over my body. | | Saturday, November 6th, 2004 | | 10:43 am |
Critsism or whatever is always appreciated, homeslices. Who am I to claim a chapter in the book of anothers life? If I were to fill a once empty space, others will be denied the opportunity. "Allow others to flourish and meddle in lives," I say, "For such greed is ruthless and unstoppable." They so eloquently respond, "Life isn't full without the support and love of others," "You will leave no legacy behind, no story to tell." "Ah," I respond, "it would seem to be so," "But you are unaware of what lies within margins." And that's all that will be said. They will shrug and sigh then go home to kiss their bored wives. They will think of their own great fortunes that I will never possess. I think of the great ideas that they will never comprehend. They will never know, but their descendants will be amazed. My name will remain unknown lost under years of happiness and anguish. No one will find the specifics of my life, saving my dignity. I could become the 8th wonder of the world. I, the one who never claimed a chapter of his own. I, marked by an asterix, only to be found within the loose margins of the pages. I, the greatest sidestory of all time. I will be refered to as "the boy that I had once known." | | Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004 | | 6:18 pm |
I continued working on my short story and may have brought it to a finish. I still have to spend a lot of time editing and re writing parts of it though. Any comments would be appreciated. Ben Atwood Short Story North, northeast, east, southeast, south. This apartment surrounds my body. I don’t known why I even look at what I have anymore. Maybe I’m just looking for something I’ve missed on these nights. A new possession of mine waiting to be found. Hell, even a book of matches could make my heart race now; anything to remove this decaying landscape of dust-covered furniture and closed blinds. A soft light pours over the furniture. The way the light plays against the dust in the air is poetic. A war is waging between the shadows of dust and the light from the lamp. The light doesn’t want to leave the lamp. It wants to stay above the telephone. The shadows wait in the corners to overcome the light. I wait in the corner for a call. I’ve lost all perception of hearing. The announcers on television are captivating thousands of insomniacs across the country. All I can hear are these damned telephones. Call me flashes across the television screen. I would call if I remembered how to use the damned thing. My knees extend beneath me; my feet bend out at the applied weight. The cushion once beneath my body hasn’t adapted. I can realize a past this way. The indent marks that I have been. The telephone is who I was, my body, my arms, my legs. Weight drips from these bones. I’ve become a skeleton. I’ve been like this for months, days, years. My body moves around the room, I decide to follow it this time. All of the doors are locked and closed. I haven’t been able to find a way out of this mess, neither will it. It’s a curious way to pass the time. My hand moves across a desktop. I remember picking it out. I was told it was beautiful. I regain control of my hand and stop it from doodling. The word “MICE” appears engraved in dust. Do I have mice? Do I want mice? My body continues to the corner of the room. My damp flesh presses against the dry wall. I dissolve into the plaster. I move freely without the constraints of modern physics. The room smells of wet saw dust and mold; the stench of a thrift store basement. Pipes run over my head; power explodes through metal. Light flows to my surroundings through a hole in this narrow hall. A man is standing outside pressed against the corner. I feel no larger than his foot; I climb on top of it. Weight is applied to my right foot. I don’t think that my weight was shifted. My concentration is pulled from the bare wall to the creature sitting on my foot and clawing at my pant leg. My body jumps back in panic. This is the first time I’ve been with another living being. My legs give away from underneath me and my body falls hard onto the cement floor. The last thing I hear is the dull sound of my left temple cracking as I reach the cement. Wake up Mr. Musculus. My eyes fail their first attempt of opening. I sprawl across the floor and lift myself onto the couch knocking the telephone off of its stand. I realize my surroundings again as my eyes adjust to the light. The mouse works its way up the side of the couch and on to my lap. “Now, Mr. Musculus… there is no need for such alarm.” Mus… Musculus. Mr. Musculus please take your seat now. And do you, Mr. Musculus, vow to love and to cherish… Right this way Mr. Musculus, down this hall. “I’ve been watching you from these walls for a while now, two years now to be exact.” The voice of the mouse distracts me from the tides of memories. My hand lifts to my left temple and wipes away the pain. “How rude of me… my name is Parus Inornatus, but you may call me Inornatus; everyone else does.” My speaking is clumsy as words stumble out of my mouth and scatter like marbles across the cement floor. My ears understand what I’ve said and I attempt to rearticulate the meaning. “But of course, Musculus, I am here and as are you. I’m very pleased with you. Your attention to this room has been very well documented. We’re all very pleased with you so far. However, I’m afraid to say that your work here isn’t quite yet finished. There is a matter that still must be attended to.” My focus breaks. “For now I’ll call it a lesson in assimilation.” “What was that you said? Something about disintegration?” “I’m ashamed, Musculus… you were chosen because of your attention to details. Assimilation Musculus, assimilation. You see that phone on the floor over there? I want you to pick it up. There will be someone on the other line for you.” I walk to the phone, stopping between steps to take in my surroundings. Something feels different but I cannot decide what it is. I place my hand on the back of the phone and pause for a breath. I look around the room and back at Inornatus. He gestures to pick up the phone. “Musculus… I am here to inform you that your time is officially over.” The voice on the other side of the phone is rough and almost fatherly in tone. “While we thank you for your participation, your ties with reality have become drastically severed. Someone will be in shortly to let you out.” In a flash, memories begin to flood my mind. The opportunity to take part in a new study based on human behavioral patterns. The white men in black suits showing me the way to my new home in a sincere sort of manner that made me want to vomit. Agreeing to leave my family and loved ones for this extended "vacation." Jesus, their plan worked brilliantly. In only two years I had forgotten everything. My memories had been forged from the objects surrounding me. "Inornatus... Inornatus." My eyes sweep across the room. "Inornatus..." I replace the telephone back onto its hook and crawl back to the couch. My mouth continues to form the words "Inornatus." The lock clicks as men enter my room. My eyes glaze over as the men reach out to grab me. My head falls back between their hands and lands hard against the corner of the couch. Everything goes black as they take me away. I wake up laying next to my mothers leg. The television is on while other people look for murderers and cure diseases. I pull the blankets half way up my body. I try to focus on the television. The lights dance across the screen and lull me into sleep. I yearn for the understanding of what makes television so captivating. My body turns to the side and my head falls. I stare out into the white walls and watch the shadows play until everything becomes black. A sharp pain drills into my gut. The murderer from television must have escaped to find me. I don't care about his fate and he wants revenge. I can sense his hot breath and scarred face in the dark. I can feel the movement of his hands against my neck as he begins to squeeze the life out of me. God, I thought, This is how it is going to end. I allow my eyes to open and looked at where the knife should be. It wasn't there and neither was my mother. I attempt to stand up and examine the source of the pain but double over crippled by the feeling and the fear. I touched my head to my knees as I hold my now swelling mid section. I must be having my first period. This is what every middle-aged man well into adulthood looks forward to. I crawl across the wooden floor into the kitchen stopping every few feet to recover from the pain of moving. My hand gropes across the counter top as I search for something to calm my stomach. I grab and old banana that I had bought a few weeks prior. The banana, now soft and black with rot, split in half as I removed it from the bunch. I dig into the soft flesh with my fingers and put the first piece into my mouth and try to chew. Even this soft rotted banana is too much for my weakened body to handle. Chewing takes minutes to perform and the banana clings to the sides of my esophagus refusing to go down. I gasp for air as I try to stand back up. I fall back onto the hard wooden floor splitting my lip open as I reach the ground. Death by exfixiation on a banana. It would make a wonderful news article. I grab a dirty cup out of the sink and fill it with water. Earlier in the day my mother began to do the dishes but was interrupted mid way to tend to more important things. Now, the hot taste of soap and water fills my throat. The banana, which once lined my throat, is replaced with bubbles which blow out of my mouth as I breath. The bubbles release soap into my eyes and nose reminding me of the pain in my stomach. I'm sent sprawling across the wooden floor. Bubbles are excreted from mouth and float to the ceiling. This is not how I would like my kids to remember me. Laying half dead on a wooden floor picked out by their mother. Bubbles in my mouth, stomach swelling like a balloon ready to burst, and rotten banana covering my bloody lips and hands. I work my way falling and groping to the bathroom door. My mouth fills with blood and saliva which is spit into the toilet. Immediately follows the bubbles then the banana. Within seconds the remainder of my stomachs contents are released into the shimmering white bowl. My body heaves and jerks with each new resurfacing of old food. My throat closes back up and now burns with stomach acid. I try to breath in but all I can hear is the sound of a vacuum pinched shut. The pain in my stomach subsides as I grab the water faucet turning it to full blast. I fill my mouth with the cold water and swallow hard bringing back down the remains of supper. I look at my battered face in the mirror. I didn't have a mirror when I was still with Inornatus. I didn't have problems either. All I want now is to go back there. I'm a structured man now, I can't have anyone else. I just want to go back. | | Tuesday, October 19th, 2004 | | 11:02 pm |
This is a work in progress that I need to move to my computer downstairs. I was going to make this a private entry but if I can put essays on here I might as well put more personal work also. Ben Atwood Short Story North, northeast, east, southeast, south. This apartment surrounds my body. I don’t known why I even look at what I have anymore. Maybe I’m just looking for something I’ve missed on these nights. A new possession of mine waiting to be found. Hell, even a book of matches could make my heart race now; anything to remove this decaying landscape of dust-covered furniture and closed blinds. A soft light pours over the furniture. The way the light plays against the dust in the air is poetic. A war is waging between the shadows of dust and the light from the lamp. The light doesn’t want to leave the lamp. It wants to stay above the telephone. The shadows wait in the corners to overcome the light. I wait in the corner for a call, any call, your call. I’ve lost all perception of hearing. The announcers on television are captivating thousands of insomniacs across the country. All I can hear are these damned telephones. Call me flashes across the television screen. I would call you if I had your number. But you took mine; you took me. My knees extend beneath me; my feet bend out at the applied weight. The cushion once beneath my body hasn’t adapted. I can realize a past this way. The indent marks that I have been. The telephone is who I was, my body, my arms, my legs. Weight drips from these bones. I’ve become a skeleton. I’ve been like this for months, days, years. My body moves around the room, I decide to follow it this time. All of the doors are closed. I haven’t been able to find a way out of this mess, neither will it. It’s a curious way to pass the time. My hand moves across a desktop. We picked it out. You said it was beautiful. I regain control of my hand and stop it from doodling. The word “MICE” appears engraved in dust. Do I have mice? Do I want mice? My body continues to the corner of the room. My damp flesh presses against the dry wall. I’m dissolving into the plaster. I move freely without the constraints of modern physics. The room smells of wet saw dust and mold. Pipes run over my head; power explodes through metal. Light flows to my surroundings through a hole in this narrow hall. A man is standing outside pressed against the corner. I feel no larger than his foot; I climb on top of it. Weight is applied to my right foot. I don’t think that my weight was shifted. My concentration is pulled from the bare wall to the creature sitting on my foot and clawing at my pant leg. My body jumps back in panic. This is the first time I’ve been with another living being. My legs give away from underneath me and my body falls hard onto the cement floor. The last thing I hear is the dull sound of my left temple cracking as I fall. Wake up Mr. Musculus. My eyes fail their first attempt of opening. I sprawl across the floor and lift myself onto the couch knocking the telephone off of its stand. I realize my surroundings again as my eyes adjust to the light. The mouse works it’s way up the side of the couch and on to my lap. “Now, Mr. Musculus… there is no need for such alarm.” Mus… Musculus. Mr. Musculus please take your seat now. And do you, Mr. Musculus, vow to love and to cherish… Right this way Mr. Musculus, down this hall. “I’ve been watching you from these walls for a while now. Two years now to be exact.” The voice of the mouse distracts me from the tides of memories. My hand lifts to my left temple and wipes away the pain. “How rude of me… my name is Parus Inornatus, but you may call me Inornatus, everyone else does.” My speaking is clumsy as words stumble out of my mouth and scatter like marbles across the cement floor. My ears understand what I’ve said and I attempt to rearticulate the meaning. “But of course, Musculus, I am here and as are you. I’m very pleased with you. Your attention to this room has been very well documented. We’re all very please with you so far. However, I’m afraid to say that your work here isn’t quite yet finished. There is a matter that still must be attended to.” My focus breaks. “For now I’ll call it a lesson in assimilation.” “What was that you said? Something about assassination?” “I’m ashamed Musculus… you were chosen because of your attention to details. Assimilation Musculus, Assimilation. You see that phone on the floor over there? I want you to pick it up there will be someone on the other line for you.” I walk to the phone stopping between steps to take in my surroundings. Something feels drastically different but I can not decide what it is. I place my hand on the back of the phone and pause for a breath. I look around the room and back at Inornatus. He urges me to pick up the phone in the only way a mouse can. “Musculus… I am here to inform you that your time is officially over.” The voice on the other side of the phone is rough and almost fatherly in tone. “While we thank your for your participation, your ties with reality have become drastically severed. Someone will be in shortly to let you out.” In a flash memories begin to flood my mind. The opportunity to take part in a new scientific study based on studying human behavioral patterns. The white men in black suits showing me the way to my new home in a sincere sort of manner that made me want to vomit. Jesus, their plan worked brilliantly. In only two years I had forgotten everything. My memories had been forged from the objects surrounding me. | | 12:11 am |
I'm a huge douche bag. I can admit it though. I guess that's one step closer to healing. I saw Joe Caesar the other day at his apartment. It was probably the best thing that's happened to me in a while. Here's a kid that I haven't seen in at least two years and the last time I talked to him I thought he was a complete asshole. So, for two years I felt an unnecessary aggression toward this kid. The first that that I did when I saw him on saturday was receive a hug from him. I guess he's been doing yoga and jujitsu for the past year or so and has really opened his eyes. I started to think about how I've become a different person in two years also. So basically, I feel that I need to say "I'm sorry" to Zach Peek for completely cutting him off for something he did during high school. Yeah, he was an asshole as the time but people change. The past is no reason to hate the present. | | Wednesday, October 13th, 2004 | | 10:45 pm |
it's 1:46 and my essay is complete... garbage!! Ben Atwood Jeff Clemens, a self taught artist out of New York City, has developed a his own unique style of painting wihch takes influence from the works of Max Beckman. However, while Clemens adopts some of Beckman's technique he also adds his own particular mark to his paintings by having very prominent brush strokes. This prominence of brush stroke is best represented in Clemens' painting Monster (2004 oil on wood). Clemens' method of painting continues into the drawing areas of his art where pen stroke becomes the focus of the works. This is most apparent in his Untitled Sketches (2004 marking pen on paper). Monster has focal points of the painting in the middle of the monsters face and along the shoulder. Clemens made these areas stand out from the rest of the painting by using beige and red as the main tones as opposed to black and brown used on the rest of the face. Also these areas have an increased amount of brush strokes which sets them apart from the rest of the face and background. The face and forearm are comprised of vertical flowing lines that give the monster the marked feel of Clemens' work. in contrast, The shoulder of the monster has horizontally flowing lines which clearly defines it as a seperate subject matter from the face. The left edge of the monsters face is a sharp edge against the background while the right side blends into the background more smoothly. The background of the painting is comprised of mainly black with the flesh tones of the monster held in subtley giving the piece a more unified feel. An interesting point to note about Clemens' work is that he doesn't draw out what he is going to paint before he begins. This allows him more freedom to decide what line he wants his brush marks to follow. However, a negative side to using this technique is that many of the figures that Clemens paints become very similar in shape. It seems as though Monster was a way to break from the paintings all becoming too similar. The same principles used in Monster are used in his Untitled Sketches. The sketches are used to represent the different aspects of Clemens' art career. The first sketch is symbolic of his early works with sculpture, the second of his toy making, and the third of the paintings that he makes of the toys. The objects in the sketches are created out of differences in light and dark. The drawing of the sculpture is slightly different than the other drawings in that it has an obvious rhythm to it. The drawing follows a main object from the lower left hand corner to the upper right hand corner and has other objects branching off of it. This is much like the works that he created while sculpting. The other drawings do not have as clear of a rhythm because the paintings and toys that they represent also do not have as clear of a rhythm to them. The techniques used in these sketches are similar to those used in Monster in that the focal areas are given more importance by being lighter. In contrast, though, this allows for less mark to be used in these areas which is opposite of the techinique used in Monster. Jeff Clemens is still a relatively young artist with a style that is rapidly maturing as he continues working. Monster represents a turning point in his work to the future while the Untitled Sketches represent a homage to all of his works of past and present. Whatever the future has in store for the work of Clemens it is safe to say that his own brand of mark in painting will resurface in later works. whatever.. it's just a painting for painting and photo class... even if i get a 60 on it, it will barely affect my grade. Those classes are all about portfolio | | Friday, October 8th, 2004 | | 8:34 pm |
I want to listen to you talk. Writing dialouge is kinda lame and it'd be nice to have other conversations to refer to. |
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