How Can You (Meld A Broken Heart)

(Alternative Image for Aquarius, 2011)

Looking over my fire escape, I see a couple arguing below. The view is mostly of the top of their heads, hand and arm gestures are the only physical signs of distress as one moves closer and farther away from the other.

"What, NOO, I'm not leaving, I got my own things to do", says the man as he crosses the street.

"But we're not done here", says the woman as she points down to the ground where her feet rest.

"We're done talking."

"NO. No, we're not. You're coming back here." (points to the ground)(again)

(Man fishes through his pockets with as much grace as he can muster for his car keys)

"We'll,...we'll talk later."

"Oh, no, every time, it's always the same, with YOU."

"What does that mean!"

"Oh, I think you know exactly what that means..."

"You're never going to let it up. Now. Are. YOU."

(The man points his finger to the woman and grins, he appears to using his finger as a weapon, this weapon being a pistol of some sorts and he is pulling his thumb back to load the chamber with a round)

(The woman looks down to the ground, as if in surrender before she jolts both shoulders in a wave-like matter, letting the wave travel through to her arms before it leave through her fingers. She now has two pistols pointing to the man.)

"Whooo, now." (He's sweating in the high noon sun) "No need for that. We're just talking."

"Sooooo, now you F-E-E-L like talking."

"Do I have a choice?" the man says with a hint of sincerity.

"COME HERE NOW", the woman waves her two pistol fingers to the ground as if she was sticking up a bank.

(a pause)

(The man thinks...)

(another pause)

"NO!, not this time, you can't control me", says the man.

"HERE NOW!", she continues.

(not a word from the man)

(the man puts his pistol fingers to the ground then presents his chest with two arms ready for liftoff)

"You'll just have to shoot me."

(A bird flies just above them, it cries out before it drops a white drop of shit between the arguing couple)

...

(A long silence grows, they're both thinking of all the next steps, in every possible alternative universe. The tension is strung so tightly, I climb into my window and look with peering eyes, I am afraid.)

...

"Come'on. This is silly." says the man breaking the silence with his palms flipped skyward.

"How. Do. We. Forgive...." she says just before she turns to tears.

(All while keeping her pistol fingers towards him, there is a strain in holding them to him.)

"Listen..."

(The Man slowly approaches the woman, hands still palm up, ready to give peace a chance.)

"I know, we've been through all of this, our neighbors think we're crazy, they're probably watching"

(With her words I close the blinds and continue to peer through the openings.)

"We're not crazy, we're not crazy like those nuts down there (points to the mental hospital in the distance), no, we're crazy for each other."

"But. but"

(The man is now inches before the woman, her pistols are dug into his chest)

"Shhh...." the man says as he uses his index finger to seal her lips.

(The two embrace each other, and hold still for a moment before gyrating their hips in unison, one moves forward, the other takes them in, then in reserve order, over and over in this odd Lynchian slow dance.)

...

(An hour passes, a few cars honk as they pass by, I return to my normal sitting arrangement on the escape, and somewhere in that time I picked my book back up and resume my business, with them still in that gyrating embrace, close to the middle of the road.)

I look yonder, the birds are chirping, the wind blows through my hair. I decide to whistle my favorite Al Green song.

Seabreeze Fancy

(In The Thick of It, Moloka'i, 2009)

A couple of years ago I looked off into the sunset, yeah, it was a romantic sight. I was alone, standing there, just finished throwing some flat circular stones across the ocean when the sky decided to set fire. If I was someone watching me, I would've seen my humble expression, the sunset burning in the reflection of my glasses, and something change within me like watching a cocoon twitch. It has been two years, I haven't turned into any butterfly, I haven't really evolved nor transformed, and I haven't grown a set a wings. In actuality I find myself at a loss of meaning; what has happened, and what all it means. What it all means, the experiences I had that summer, as a runaway, hidden from familiar eyes, relaxing on the beach. I am only moments before that very place, ready to make my escape, wondering what the future is like. I wonder that for the most part, but I also realize that something in me hasn't fully digested, that I am still processing data. In moments like this, when my ear is pressed up against a noisy air conditioning unit, I ponder the ponderful, look to the past for ideas and solutions, and right now, I think, deep, hard, with a flicker of flame in my torch as I descent to past experience. I am recalling my past summer, and merging it with this summer. I am forming a plateau to roam, to loiter, and if I can, plunder. I see this land as something that can be created, in a vision I have high up here (taps temple). What have you, I tell myself, looking at myself, hey there I talk to myself, my neighbors from across the way probably see me talking to myself, ask me if I care (i don't). I look myself deep in the eyes, I wonder there, get lost there, and then I am swallowed whole.

[Enter the darkness]

It is not the crystal castle, nor the ideal I am after, I look to see the sea gulfs flock in the sea breeze. All I am doing, I repeat, all I am doing is attempting the impossible. Hold for a moment, and release. I would lie, I would entice, but the truth is I don't know, what the future holds for us, what wonders and failures, and everything in-between, the dirt in the cracks, the pebbles in our shoes, I cannot see so brightly into the future, no, I cannot fly, nor can I reverse time. The slow crashing of the waves set the mood, I look to see that the ocean's fire is dimming too, the sky is falling to darkness. What is in my hands is all I have, a few soft stones good for throwing on the glassy surface of water. I spit some taste into the air, it mists into the milk of dreams, I say fantasy, you say roleplaying, I'll change my name if you change yours. I roll with the roughest, now are you rough enough. I kick some hard shit, my toes do bleed but my face show no pain. I am insane, crazed to be, wild as can be, say what I say, and you'll never wanted to leave, you'll always want to stay (hey that rhymed). Pop goes the top, a stream forms from an ending bottle, foam is lost in foam as the sea turned to black-black-black. There's sand between my toes, I got this itching feeling that this is going to be rad, radical, radish.

I look away from my mirror, I look off into your direction, and though you can't hear my words you can read my lips.

Come my lady, come-come, my lady (you're my butterfly. Sugar. Baby.)

rabble walla

(Ghost-like figure doing BLOOD with hands, 2011)

Perhaps it is strange to think of a world beyond my own, a place where I have no influence, nor control at this time of night. I ponder what people do, what they look like. How does the air sound like, is there music playing, what kind of music, is it overwhelming, is it some jazz bar? Of course this is just one place, not the whole thing, if I took that on that in my thoughts it would be a collective rabble-rabble-rabble. In a dark room, with strangers all around, that sound will find its way into you, through your ears, but most of all, your fears. It creates a sound field that acts as a boundary, and whoever is there with you, in the state you are in, is your only companion in the whole stinking world (which isn't so bad, depending on the company). But those dark circles, the nerves that make me nervous are as loud as the rabble-rabble-rabble itself, it feels like my blood is boiling, my face, maybe melting, my company is looking at me funny, she knows I'm freaking out. I am freaking out. Maybe not the word freaking out, but certainly not chilling out. The occasional laughter saves us, NOTHING LIKE THAT I say to myself, she hears, an abrupt WHAT? ensues, I laugh it off, saying, OH JUST TALKING TO MYSELF. (insert dark circle).

Eventually, even I find myself chilled out, this place is still crazy, but I don't care. A quick hip check to see if my company is still here. She's still there. My eyes adjust to the darkness, I look towards the stage, my eyes see but what they are seeing is separated from what I feel. My eyes are only guides to what's really going on. My mind wonders again, but this time there aren't any dark circles, a new plateau forms and I see a flicker. My feet attracted to it, I start to dance, I move with my body disconnected from the world. I look over to see if she is still with me, crazy eyes, that trips me out. I laugh, she laughs, we're good. Moments turn into moments, and a life time later the crowd, the stage, all melted into a pool of life, before is a mirror image of the world I once knew. This world is almost perfect, but it is missing something, we are not there, we are absence, neither looking down from an angle that escapes reflection nor below or aside, we are removed. The sound in the air is gone, the buzzing static fills our consciousness. If we were sleepy, droned, or fading before we were awake now. I check my ego, I am not here, I am not there. She speaks, what I hear escapes me, all I know is that my mind is taking in every detail, for what, I have not a clue, perhaps for moments like this, as I type away from my fourth story height, looking at a city that is sleeping, that I am alone with my thoughts, revisiting a time I wish never ended. It wasn't extraordinary, nor did it need to be made into a monument, it simply was a moment lost from time, those moments shared with another that break down the walls of normal, static, and sound reality. And perhaps in all that rabble-rabble-rabble we were ultimately alone.

Ay Papi

(Natasha Visits Toronto, 2011)

A tall tower used to reign just ahead. You see where those smaller glass towers rise, yeah, right there, that's where it used to be. All brick, with some salty looking writing circa 1940's. It never meant much to me then, when I was growing up, looking at it, wondering who worked in there. It wasn't until I moved back to this city and lived here for a few years when I realized something was missing. I couldn't place it, and for years there was a vague feeling of a phantom upon us.

One day looking through my father's old watercolor paintings I found a painting of that tower, in perfect detail, in the light I remember it in, and amongst the rendition were my own; the scribbling of a child art-destroyer. Somewhere in that reminiscing I pondered the thought perhaps I had never seen this tower as a child, nor did it exist. It just could have been made up from my father's imagination, made to look ordinary so as not to been seen as a fake. Perhaps he put some real studies within the folder I found all the paintings in to throw me off. I wondered if I had misplaced that memory of that painting with reality, both happened in my childhood. But why would I mistaken this painting over the many films, t.v. shows, and photographs I had also seen for reality? I sat at the toilet for a long time, I was dry by then, and the sky was getting dark. I suddenly thought of the memory of my father, how I always thought it was odd he was my father, I spent a whole life time knowing he was, and he treated me like a son, he was a good father, but for some reason there was this odd feeling lingering in the air. Perhaps it is that I know very little about him, that he is often quiet about his life, he talks, but about what's going on in the news (Mr. CNN we called him, he now watches FOX, we don't call him Mr. FOX). I see him every other year, he looks older and older, and that fact always depresses me. I remember my father walking on his hands, doing loops around us as we crawled. Funny how I remember that, nowadays he has knee problems, he's getting up there, and the once strong man my father was is now dwindling. There's a picture of us together, both with our shirts off, hanging out at the beach, it was the first time I was more muscular than him, the legend that my father is coming to terms with reality.

I've never told my father I love him, I think its those words that I feel, and I want to say, and every time I'm leaving to go back to the city I live in, at the airport I look at him, I hug him, and the air in my lungs that I use to form words is gone. It is the same feeling of telling a woman you love her for the first time, that is probably the hardest three word combo in the english dictionary. A man I once met in Moloka'i told me love is life, that you should be able to tell someone you love them without any hesitation, it should be natural. He told me says I Love You in his goodbyes to his friends, he said that you never know when that will be the last time you see each other and that you want them, you need them, to know that you love them. It is very important. And perhaps one day I'll get my head outta my ass and be more vocal about my love, but I'm stubborn and I save that word for the most important moments, when it really hits hard. I didn't grow up in a beautiful place like Moloka'i, and parts of my childhood were pretty rough, without bragging, and who I am is who I am, from all the bits and pieces that been embedded into this rolling stone gathering twigs, small animals, and no moss. I am my failures, I am regrets, but most of all I am my success and evolution. All I want to hear is, oh what's that sound, holler, a pearl, the ocean swelling, the sky is falling, the kids going crazy, the city is burning, what, are, we, going, to, do, do-do-do, AY PAPI.

Wolfgang

(The Hood, 2011)

Moments disappearing into other moments slowly creep down the hill, gathering dirt, grass, and twigs until it is no longer in our control, it is unstoppable. Rolling high, this clustered figure is looking at us all. If you look close enough you can see a face, and upon even closer examination you can see your childhood (just before the giant katamari swallows you whole). You learn as a child never to look at the sun for too long, you'll go blind. Perhaps that's the same about your past. And once blind how can you began to see again?

When I met (name) we were both much more crazier then, not crazy in the way that was bad crazy, but crazy as in wild. We were wild, full of piss and vinegar, hot-damn and hot-dogs, wildness. So much so I felt at home in the crystal castle we made out of our time together. Every moment creeped into a new one, leaving the last one behind in a bittersweet. Now, in the present, I look to each place we spent time listening to the landscape change, discussing the past, present, and future, I look and see a flicker.

Oh there it is, or rather, there you are (and then it is gone).

Those places will never make sense again, not a photograph can bring a meaning or memory to them, they have become dead. Or rather, the living dead (spooooky).

Hey (name), I called. Do you remember a blanket so holy?

Both looking up to the sky we stared endlessly into the black abyss. The silence started to hurt my ears and just when the static of motionless air became too much you cried out in a coyote-like howl.

Hhhhooooooooowl!

Still looking up, my mind felt lifted from my skull as it started to hover above my vacant body. I started to cry out a howl myself.

Haa-wooooooooo-wah-wah-wah-haaaa!

I was beginning to understand you, how you look the way you do, why you speak the way you do. We stood there in this transcendental state for what could be hours, occasionally howling, with our thoughts growing deeper and deeper. Our mouths moved in murmurs without disernable meaning, and yet we understood this language we had created. The word, "never" kept entering my thought, how I had never done this, felt this, lived this, and yet it felt strangely so familiar. For most of the night, and months after that moment, I had questioned if moments like that, with connections and harmony as strong as they were, would ever happen again. I was far removed from the world I lived in, I called myself a drifter in those days, as I was neither here in this plane of existence nor in the one we had created. Our next meeting wouldn't happen for years, and yet you had never left my side, or rather we had never left each other. Wolf-pack as I shoot my index and pinky skyward and made my remaining fingers collide with my thumb to form a wolf made of fingers. We are thicker than blood now, we are deeper than my grave G (ain't nobody can save us).

Perhaps, yes, perhaps. I close my eyes with premonition, I have been here before. The walls around us fall apart, the vast and endless room that surounds us disappears, and now our bodies float in space. You tell me this is the first time we met.

No, I doubt that, I tell (name).

But it is, search your heart, does it not tremble?

I feel my heart tremble so, the lack of earth beneath my feet begins to vibrate like a phantom-floor.

But your face. It looks so familiar.

I reach over to (name)'s face and touch it. Flesh met my hand, it is soft, forgiving, and yet it doesn't give to the pressure of my touch, nor does it resist, it is neither creamy nor harsh, it is flesh of a person of dreams.

-Are my eyes closed, I ask (name)?

-No, not at all, you are seeing with your eyes, your real ones, and you can see through me.

-Can you see?

I did see through (name), I looked into (name)'s heart, I could see (name)'s energy flowing throughout (name)'s body, pulsating, yes, breathing, and even blooming like such flowers that have no names, just shades and aromas.

-You have never met me before, you have never lived before this life, so no, to your conspiring thought, you haven't met me in another life, (name) spoke.

For the first time in my life I had no doubt that this life was all but one, singular, and that I was in fact, a fresh soul.

-Upon your death, you should take it as uncertain as to be given another life, you never know about those things, some are born again, some are ready to die and that's that. After all, one should always feel uncertainty with death.

The words, you never know what you're gunna get comes into mind. I wondered about those who live to see another life, or perhaps lives, if they knew they had lived previous lives, especially since folks like me haven't lived another life and yet feel like they had. I dismissed my notion of past lives as product of poor memory, I forgot my memory, and then when they return to me I mistaken them for someone else's, the so-called "past self". And perhaps that is true, that life is long enough to live multiple lives, such as living in multiple places, seeing the world, meeting the world, and living in the world, and eventually, calling this and that place home. Before I knew it I was asleep. My shoes had been taken off, along with the rest of my clothes, and I saw (name)'s hands resting on my chest, as if (name) had been reading me a story till I fell asleep.

You saved my life, I said half-awake. I trailed off into infinity and beyond. My body turned to stone, and I saw with eyes not of my own but with (name)'s. At first I saw her undress herself, (name) dipping into a warm bath, and the vision goes all steamy. During all of this time, I wasn't necessarily blown away at seeing (name) naked, especially in the context of seeing it through her eyes, but the overall sensation of an outer-body-experience. I was inside (name)'s body, seeing and hearing what (name) was hearing. After the vision ended, I sat at the edge of my bed, I could no longer think of anything other than (name). Over and over, I repeated my memory of (name) in absolutely wonder and fascination. I wanted more, but I was left with a cold silence, as if my distance from (name) was a cold thick wall oozing with filmy layer of ice-cold water. I was no longer allowed. Perhaps I had attempted the impossible and hovered in impossibility for a long enough in a moment to feel glory of flight. For a split second I felt that, for the briefest of moments I felt that way. And it was because I felt this way I felt alone at the edge of my bed. (Name) was gone. Far beyond my reach, what echoes in time is memory, memory as I wrote down each and every detail of the sensation I knew was slowly losing it's value. It no longer mattered, my words would become vague and meaningless (if they weren't already), and perhaps even the overall thought of (name) would vanish, into a vault as deep and as dark as a black-hole. The vision of an hourglass filling with sand floated before me, it was a mystery, all that roamed the hallways of my thought was the arrival of (name).

Perhaps, I say, perhaps again.

What's that?

The ground beneath us started to come alive, waking from a million years of slumber. The ground turned to cracks and gapping portals of pure darkness. I wondered if this was a dream, if we could fly away from this mess. Mess as in the whole thing, this place, this planet, these lives, and just disappear. To disappear, to fade out, to beam-me-up-scotty from it all. I wondered what we were running from, why were we in such a hurry to skidaddle and jump tottle-lew into the next.

In the end, with failure just hovering above me, telling me that the grip I have on the things in my life is an illusion at most. That perhaps it all is chaos, chaos to us, for it is a system that is so integet that the level of possibilities of cause and thus effect is too brilliant for our mental eyes. Or perhaps not brilliant, but invisible. The order is invisible. And so, the thread that connects me to this person to that person, and how strung the thread is is invisible, and yet it is right before me. I just can't see it. All I have, all I am, is reduced to feeling the world, for I am blind to its order.

I look over and (name) is asleep. (Name) must've fell asleep somewhere half-way, when I was making more sense and just before I trailed away into ramble. I felt that she was always listening, perhaps responding in her dreams, arguing with me. I have it all backwards. I really did have it all backwards.

Wonderful Folks

Certainly I was asked to be part of a wonderful publication, with really great artists, and I wonder how I managed to get my toes in. These folks put together an absolutely beautiful collection of images, and curate a whatshappening/wicked visual journey. Here's the pdf; click here!

Bustin' the Ads

(Adbusters July/August 2011 getting GOD-Lonely)

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 17

(bye-bye there dear karla, 2011)

Slipping Into Infinity

Cut the bread with a chipped edge of a stone, fashion an axe with a piece of yarn. Crush the earth with your toes, feel the trees breathe (they're breathing). Run with the wildest, craziest, and bravest sons of bitches you ever known. See a million sunsets, live in this moment then live in that moment. Pretend your wings for adventure are heavy motorcycles, and your arms are twice as strong and barely fitting in your current arms. The world is your might, extend it, stretch it, destroy, and rebirth it. Take on giants, fuck everyone (fuck as in screw, I mean, to care not in what they speak of or believe in), and listen to what your dirty guts say. Sure this could be dialogue to a truck commercial, especially when I say all this with an implied southern draw. Now listen! (implied y'all).

The sky bends, stand tall, you've learned how to fall, now learn how to jump, to take a leap, to tower, and to soar, if only for moments, if only for this one time or that one time, and just live in a little. Bite the bullet, do anything that could not kill you, and do a few of those things that can kill you. Do everything you told yourself you would, once you were in a better mood for it, because fuck your mood, this is you, you call the shots, you are your mood, now go jump off something, go marry this guy, or that girl, or that idontknowwhatshehehimher, and just trust in your one only weapon when you are completely naked, lost and alone, in the woods, your survival. Howl if you have to, scream at the top of your lungs, you are wild, we are wild, let's get wilder. Make shit happen. And by all means, if something is holding you back, don't let it, if there's a face to your boundaries, make it the face of your high-school history teacher, why, because (s)he's history! And if that boundary has no face, give it one, not the same one as the last, you gotta be creative here, make it Albert Einstein, why, because he's history, that's right. He was really smart and all, but he was on another level, somewhere I'm not, but I get it, or at least I'm ...REACHING for it. REACH FOR IT. Envision your hand grabbing a pot-bellied fruit full of life and nectar, and juices and seeds, and guts, and squeezing it. At first it holds up against your attack, but then, boom, all of a sudden it explodes, seedlings everywhere, fruit guts all over your hand and clothes, and you feel something give in your hands. You hear a tambourine playing, then a techno beat, then electronic guitar, do-do-dah-nah, do-do-dah-nah, (yeah baby, you know what this is)

I GOT THE POWER!

SHUT UP!

(Barking Wall, from The Barking Wall, 2010-2011)

The demons say.

The dogs down the way bark.

I close my eyes, I don't care (keep telling myself), I don't care.

I walk further, I even disappear. A small grin covers my face, I can't be seen, but this is what's happening. My blood boils, but I am not angry. I usher in a new way. My steps seem to float. The ground is no longer so harsh on my feet, no sudden stop, it gives (the ground that is), I feel my foot go right through the ground and yet I am still on the surface. My pace turns into a run, goddamn I hate text messages. I throw my cellphone. It makes a loud and satisfying crash, maybe the battery exploded, maybe I'll never have to carry a conversation that way anymore. (I whisper to myself, anymore, no more, fuck that, goddamn, it's over, it's not you it's me, I can't stand it (in a softer whisper I say fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck)).

This place is dark, it feels warm, warm enough to go without clothes, but hot enough not to sweat. In fact, it is the same consistency as jumping into really warm water, where your body doesn't feel any shock of entering into a physically different realm. The air fits to your skin here, your holler is muted and yet it holds an echo. This is perfect reverb. I clap my hands and say yeah, no one but me can hear this. I start talking to myself as if there were another person on the other side of the conversation. It feels good. I look up to the surface, I see the moon, it is full, it dances in ripples, I hold this image in my mind, I'm carrying it to the house full of memories like this one, it is falling apart, the paint chips, and the pillars are turning to salt grain. I see faces in this house, none of which I can remember, I feel warm, but strange (a sadness grows in my belly), I want to hold all their hands but I only have two to give. I try to speak to them, to tell them how they make me feel, but my voice only belongs to me. My eyes roll back, and I feel a weight grow in my chest. I have no words here, I say fuck fuck fuck, goddamn goddamn more, my flesh is falling apart, my sweat fills my clothes with a musky rage.

A rip, a lightning bolt, a tornado, a tsunami, and an earth quake tare this house apart. All I can see is a face, she isn't laughing, she isn't even looking at me cry, watching the house of all my greatest hits sink into a well of absolute darkness. This isn't fair I yell, only I can hear. This isn't your world, these aren't your memories, and yet my voice falls within shadow's reach. Not even all the words my mother told me not to say could save me now.

The world grows dark, and darker, then quieter, and quieter. The hum of a living earth below me now can be heard. I've never heard this before, but I always knew it was there. I look around in amazement, is there anyone to share this with I wonder. No, I am alone, this time my world has no man-made structures, just desert plants, it is barren, I know this place too well. This is the place I grew up in. This is where I was born, the person who I am now. I see my shadow stretch into the darkest corners (reaching into the deepest cracks). A negative sun rises in the sky.

I look into the dark well where all was lost, and I see a reflection. And though I see my face, it looks strange. It takes me a few minutes to realize it is me, perhaps what I look like to others. I am somehow separated from this face, I touch it, and without ripples or the glassy surface of water I feel skin. There is a charge to the touch, and I almost feel like falling into the pool but I hold myself together. The sky is now filling with a pink glow. The beating of my heart is audible, and I speak, and now it shoots out across this desert.

I can hear your voice, it guides me through all the shrubs and thorns. I close my eyes, and open them. The world is now full of light. I close and open them again, but this doesn't really change anything. I hold my breath, and I feel my feet lift from the ground. I start breathing from my ears like in that movie, Water World, and before I know what hit me I'm a freaking dolphin. I speak, but all of my words produce are a few cute chippy chips. I see your face, you don't recognize me, and I don't blame you, I'm a dolphin. I try to give you at least a wink, but dolphins can't wink, instead I just close both eyes, and I would smile, but my mouth is always smiling. I blow a few air bubbles your way, and I say, this will just have to do, it will just have to do.

We say our goodbyes in our own way. You're leaving, I'm leaving, you're a human, and I'm something else. In some climatic ending where two people, after experiencing this whole adventure, and lived to tell about it, part ways, taking to separate paths, and though we are going completely different directions, we both are walking to the dawning sun. This dawn on me, I never said told you...

(click click) BOOOOOOOM!

Almost Done

After three months of progress, the completely rewritten bgk.com is almost done. Stay tuned. (and I know it's not too far off from the last, but it's closer to what I always wanted)

Just a quickie here, I have a piece in this year's annual typography show, Creative Type, it opens tonight, at The Palmerston Gallery (800 Dundas St. W).

And in addition, and also tonight, I will be showing for the first time a piece in full-scale and on its special CRAZY paper at Oz Studio, 134 Ossington Ave. part of a large group show.

Both shows run for a month long.

White Loupe Interview

One of the most in-depth interviews I've ever done, and one that really speaks alongside the images, speaking of memories of my childhood, the places I've been, the strange world that hovers between this world and the next, and all those things I can talk storms about.

Can you dig it?

One Man's Dream, Another Man's Lunch

(I'm Almost There. from On The Road to Milton, 2010)

I swear I've been looking at that blinking light off in the distance for the past year. It sinks and rises over and over, it sometimes on foggy nights it forms pinkish clouds. During my time at the cottage I'd just get lost in my thoughts, nothing interesting ever came up, just recycled thoughts, over and over on an endless loop. I see failure, past loves, regrets, and things I want to forget flash before me. Somewhere in all that foggy mess there are some really great moments, some beautiful places visited, some really nice strangers, and if I look even deeper there's oddly familiar, hope.

The other day Charlie and I ran down to the beach, high out of our minds, and dove into the ocean. We both needed to go to the bathroom, and in there, laughing, red-eyed and stupid, I thought to myself this is really great. It was. I looked up to the sky and then back down to the wavy surface of my life, it wasn't so bad I thought. On days like this you can't help but feel good, to be overwhelmed with good thoughts and feelings, to the point where it is ridiculous, in all of its wonder, it's ridiculous. And even deeper down you realize from all those bad days, and even the ordinary days in comparison to these happy moments of pissing and shitting in the ocean with your best bud, and being literally intoxicated in the moment are good times, great times, and you should cherish them. I can hear a voice somewhere in my head telling me that, hey sonny, you should be really enjoying this while it last (while it last) as it echoes off and returning to where it came from. Of course they never last long, and that's kinda of the point, good times aren't just times, they're time, a moment, each different from the last, each requiring different things from you to be good, to be good times. I remember living on my carpet floor for what felt like an infinity, having a staring contest with Florida. I swear I could look into her eyes forever, there was something there, in them, and if I looked hard enough I'd find it. Those days have long past, and did I ever find anything? I'm not quite sure, maybe something that could not be, that was a vague idea, a world not too far from this but there was a boundary line I could not cross (but what told me to stop I pondered). Perhaps it was something with sharp edges, it stings to touch, it aches one's heart, it turns the world upside down (the upside down in the opposite direction you want it), and it is the closest feeling to be shot in the heart with a shot gun or a large sword. In other words, it was the truth I saw in Florida's eyes.

When I first met Florida, she was barely legal, not to sound like a title of a porn, but that she was young, and hell, I wasn't much older either, I just had a few good years out of the house, and had those early adult years under the belt before I first met the girl. Anyhoot, when I first met her, she was wearing an american flag t-shirt, not something that was necessarily patriotic but rather more of a fashion statement, and I was wearing more patriotic looking american flag shirt, and this being Canada, I had to comment, and I knew she had to as well.

-Hey

-hey?

-ah (pointing to shirt, and reflecting finger to her shirt)

-Ha, I know, terrible.

-What! Your shirt is ridiculous! In a good way.

-should I say thanks?

-Well, I'm not really sure what you should be saying that, I wouldn't know what to say back to that either.

(silence)

-I mean, I like your shirt.

-Thanks, I like your shirt too (I think).

-Ha, thanks, I got it here, it reminds me of home.

-Are you American?

-No, not really, kinda, its a long story.

At my home I showed her my card collection, she actually seemed impressed, I then showed her my daily workout, and I was surprised she looked genuinely entertained. As I was finishing my third set of push-ups I thought to myself, is she finding all this entertaining at how strange it all is, I'm sure she's thinking in her head, this would make a great story, I mean, that's what I'd be doing right now in her shoes and that a mental photograph to show to your friends later. I showed her my bed, we sat there for a while, we talked about old significant others, and then I looked into her eyes, and she looked into mine, and this old familiar feeling ignited, catching everything inside of me to fire, and by the time I realized I was on fire we were kissing.

I never did tell her the long story of how I am not American, but kinda am, nor did I think she really care, all I know is that whatever I said, it worked.

It worked, yes, with my belly filled with the pie of life, I hover between a world of happiness and fulfillment, like a nice, full, and long summer day coming to an end with a beautiful sunset. I stand at my post, kicking one leg up and resting my sole on the post as I slowly chew the straw in my mouth. Todayhasbeenagoodday repeats endlessly in my mind as I think of the future. I wonder, what is the future. I tried to give it a form, I even tried to give it a face, and although I have never seen the future, nor have I met it, something starts to form in the cavity of my mind. Like sand being blown away from a hidden object: a figure starts to emerge.

(A few moments pass and I realize something, something that is important and immediate as if I found a lie to the story of my life)

But fuck all of that. Florida, with eyes I don't exactly know yet, with a mouth that says words I can't hear yet, and with hands and fingers that feel like I don't know yet. In the air, in the sand, and in the ocean, emerging, submerging, being blown away, falling apart, and the phantom you are, I can't quite see you but I'm pretty sure I can smell you. Joking I tell you, One Man's Dream, Another Man's Lunch. My head disappears from view, and in the space without echo I can hear a vibration say, you-son-of-a-bitch.

I Miss It

(Man and His Island House, from On The Road, 2010)

(detail)

ramble

(untitled image, 2010)

I can't help but feel this heaviness. It is in the air within me, and perhaps around me as well. In the night, a fog overs the land, and all I can see are the glowing pairs of eyes, big and small, red, white, and yellow, dancing. I feel a calling coming from a deep place in my memory. Often I talk of my time in the desert, obsessing over the texture of the land, the atmosphere that surrounded that place, and perhaps it is because this place, where my feet rest right now is too solid, it is too grounded on facts, and seems to have no myth, no eerie cool air, no vastness that provokes the feeling of endlessness. There is very much a limit here, with non such thing as wild. I seek an opposition, something far removed, with chance, and if there's magic, I'll take some of that too. Perhaps, I tell myself, it is just an illusion, an idea, a fragment of nostalgia that has finally crystalized and formed a face to whom I call my longing. I want to see the red sand desert, I want to walk through the pinto forests, and canyons, I want to hear of the legends the live in such places, hear them spoken not from remote sources, but at first hand.

And if I can, I wouldn't mind seeing Monument Valley again.

PeePee Water

(Man Giving A Conquering Pose in Central Park While Wifey Figure Takes His Photograph, 2010)

As a kid I wasn't necessarily afraid of the ocean, nor swimming, or snorkeling, it was the fact there were these jellyfish-like creatures anchored to the ocean floor and there was only a few feet that separated me from them. We were vacationing to Florida, my mother who was big on scuba had taken her family to Aquarius, one of the first underwater sealabs, and one of the features of this attraction was they let you snorkel here, renting out masks and snorkels. The whole family had their gear on, and I couldn't not get in, I just looked at those jellyfish things, with their pulsating bodies jetting water as if they were digging themselves deeper. My flipper foot would not touch water again for years, in fact, it would well over a decade later I put a snorkel on and nervously float/hover over spiky and stringy creatures. After I got used to the whole thing my only fear remained that someone was going to come up to me when I finally found a place to pee.

I've only gone that one time, and perhaps that might be it for me, as far as I can tell. I dreamed to scuba driving but an early childhood nightmare of dying from the bends still plagues the deep regions of my subconscious. I love the ocean, I want to be near it, in it, around it, and above it. I miss the salt in my hair, the buoyancy it gives my body, how I float perfectly, like my body was a carrot in a salty soap just before boiling point.

Oh My Goodness

(Fallen Tree in Swamp, 2010)

What is before me isn't a vast landscape, nor a narrow hallway, it is simply blindness. I close my eyes to see if they were closed and the action clarifies for me, I am very much awake. In the void of space I float to view a world which has become my life. There is a beautiful, epic, and haunting orchestral score playing, my eyes carry an intense look to them as I stare off into the corridors of my mind. What I seek here are not memories, but what of my future. A shapeless figure appears before me like an apparition, I am no stranger to it. It shines with a brilliance that is painful to the eyes. To spite its overwhelming radiance I cannot look away, it is there before me, sucking me up into a vacuum of its void. My soul leaves me for what could be hours, days, and even years.

Before me is a voice, a face, and hair of a creature that I have hunted as well as it has hunted me. Our roles as hunter and prey often oscillate, with each shift marking its own set of challenges and fruits of pleasures. I am lost to words that give greater detail of this figure which now stands before me, it is haunting in the way that sends chills traveling throughout the flesh. Along the way goose pimples form, and a stock travels from my toes to the ground. The current is complete.

I walk through the air with hands pushing over branches covering my path. I am seeking out an illusive creature, I do not plan on returning until I find it. I am coming to this venture with a full life behind me, with a whole set of codes and conduct that is far removed from the life I am currently living. Inside my shoes are damp socks, and I can smell the rot from here as the hours go by, still quite moist, still quite lost as I travel farther and farther. Today marks an unknown passage of time, with uncertainty growing by the day of how long I have been living like this exactly. I have become wild, enchanted, and perhaps even deranged from the journey. My fingernails bear a permanent blackness, and my eyes hold a yellowish fever, maddening to others (if only there were others). In my mouth grows a thirst that is never satisfied, and this is evident in the foamy salvation that lingers at the corners of my mouth.

I am unrecognizable, I am a stranger to all. I make wild animal noises in the dark, I howl to the moon, I run like a coyote, I am the coyote. My eyes are now pure yellow, the hair on my arms, legs, crotch, and head are now bridged together in a sea of fur. My teeth are also transformed, producing sharp fangs. All while my thirst is increased, a hollowness in my stomach reminds me what I live for.

Somewhere in the darkness of the night my body disappears. Where I go even I don't know. All that remains are torn clothes, a few small dead animals, and blood. Late at night, the occasional local come across their own sightings of a humanoid coyote, some talk of their houses being visited by a creature that chooses to walk on all fours and or two feet. The shadows are thick and endless at night, in which legend seems to be brewing within them, and the eyes and calls of creatures unknown invade our houses in stories of the snap, crackle, and pop of the wild at night. Deep breathing, a flashlight held from one's chest as the light covers the face of a storyteller, the legend goes...

Hey You On The Cliff (looking all sad and such)

Looking off into the landscape I remember how the names of the women I loved but never loved me back. I was swallowing myself in sadness, and just below the cliff's edge I could see my best friend, in a shack with a girl, I think I kinda liked her. Every once in a while, KC, the best friend in this story, would yell at me, not in a HEY YOU WHAT ARE YOU DOING way, but a how are you doing up there, are you ok way? The girl would also inquire, with more sincerity to her question. I said I was fine, and I'd continue to look off. The hills beyond the one we were on were the same, there was lots of yellowish white sand, with shrubs and pine tree, sparcely placed by nature, this was the desert. I could see rain clouds form from miles away from this height, and I remember just weeks before I learned what rain fall looks from a far, it looks like a stringy mist with like milk being poured into a water sink. I loved the skies of the desert, I loved this place, the rock of mountains, the pines, the ghost stories, and the atmosphere. The rain began to fall, and my hair gel started to dissolve. I looked up to the sky and put my tongue out, it was cool in the most refreshing of ways. The couple below seemed to intensify their romance, rain is becomes sexy when you're close to someone of lust.
In my mind, a song plays endlessly in moments like this. The song is one but many, without having different titles, it is a song that is a piece of one song by one artist, and another piece for this song from this artist. Take all those pieces and bits and the one song is formed. When listening to these songs, those parts give me goose pimples, I feel lost, in a good way, finding myself in a dream like consciousness. I see the world around me but I am not here. I speak when spoken to, I react with conditioned response, but am I really there, I am very much not.
It has been thirteen years since I last sat at the cliff, I couldn't find you the exact place, perhaps after spending a few days in the town I lived in during the time, but I could illustrate its exactness to a dime. Also I cannot describe you the feelings that place holds over me, how there is a strange and beautiful feeling that is involve with places such as that of New Mexico. All I know is I am haunted, entrapped, and enchanted. My endless obsession is all I have for you now, please bare with it.

In a Moment

(My sister, Sheenah, for a test shoot for Otherworld, 2010)

The world is swallowed whole by a pink mist, in it, you can see the shades of people dancing with animals. There is a harmony in both the music and the dance moves, each step correlates with each beat, a low bass key makes the crowd go wild, making all kinds of hip movement. The stars turn into beams from a mirrorball, and the general feeling is good, with animals and people that don't normally smile smiling. Mixed with that was a bitter to the sweet, there was a feeling like this moment will never happen again. Someone whispers into a dolphin's ear, "let's cherish this". Another low bass key.

When the planets aline God puts his own cover of Aquarius on loud, heck, he's even singing it himself, and soon after he puts his finger over each great mountain and pressed them down to sea level. One after another the world's population of great peaks is flatten until it appears as if the world is balding. While all of this happening, the earth rumbles, people and animals alike freak out, running wild, the birds try to migrate but they don't even know where to go, the air itself is vibrating.

The shitstorm eventually subsides, and a tumble weed passes by this scene of a young mother giving birth, it is a small barn in Arizona, it is in fact a Nativity stage built by the owner, put up each and every year since 1988, but the birthing is real, and the actors aren't acting. The mother surprised at her premature pregnancy screams and somewhere deep inside her mind she thinks this baby doesn't have a name, it has no name. Jesus was born the other day reads the local news paper, the writers all had a high-five after their editor agreed to the title, to spite the town being in the bible belt, and the potential local repercussion to follow suit, the story and its title ensued. The mother wasn't a virgin, nor was she religious.

A large cargo ship fights a storm in the south pacific. It's cargo is all animals, for zoo's throughout the nation, it was recorded the largest artificial gathering of animals over seas, and the captain was already stressed out. In the wildness of the storm, his mind was somewhere else, his daughter going to college next year, missing his son's baseball game again, and his wife eloping with their neighbor three days before the ship's departure. The sea turned and turned, and the crew were still thinking of their stop-over on Oahu, the warm and sticky air that fills the walls of the cargo bay, how the early morning sun shined through the port side windows as they were departing. No tanned women and large-bellied Hawai'ians waved to their aloha, nor were there lays being thrown with the intention to hook on to one of the bitts like a game of horse shoes. The ship left, and saw south shore one last time. At some point a pod of whales sang by the ship, never too close, but always there, with the song amplified in the submerged hallways of the ship. Tonight will be the last sang a bird, then another one, with a more reggae melody followed along, and soon all the birds of the boat were singing the same song, in all types of different calls. Juan, the superstitious deckhand manoverboard'd himself into the sea, he survived and was all over television for a few days. Some thought the song was peaceful, maybe it was because it kinda sounded like No Woman No Cry, or even something from the Lion King soundtrack. The ship ran to shore at 65 nauts, and though everyone lived, including Juan, all the animals were set free, most escaped, the remaining where released out of the spirit of the moment. During an interview on its tenth year anniversary one of the crew members on site during the act of releasing said, "...it felt like the best thing I have ever done, I swear I had goosebumps all over me". He later gave a detailed retelling of when the birds first started singing in unison, then how the other animals joined in, and how even the captain came to tears, he was smiling like someone being happy to die. The story was called the Weeping Ship, which focused more on the crew member's individual stories rather than the many stories prior that all seemed to tell the story of how the crew set free raging animals, with some stories making the sailors off as criminals, but animal right activists came to their aid, and so the story turned to the miracle of animals, everyone was happy.

When Charlie and I got to the beach, I photographed him holding an eagle he borrowed from a man flying it moments before. Charlie smiled, I smiled, the owner of the bird looked like he'd seen this many a time. Far off in the distance the ships all shimmered, and in the wind was a feeling, it felt like something was about to happen, but it never did at that moment, never then and there. Eventually that eagle was released, by the owner's grandson after this grandfather died.

These Days Will Never Be-Be-Be The Same

(Burn, Baby, Burn, 2011)

When we walked down that road, that street, and hit that corner, we often resented it's declining distance to us, knowing this is the end. Here you come corner, where we both part, and then like a bad dream come true we do depart. And like all departures with you, I'm not sure when I will be seeing you next. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps never.

Can I call you?

Not really.

Can I write you a letter?

I'm homeless.

Can I kiss you goodbye?

My breath stinks.

Ok.

At the end of the album, the record just skips away, endlessly if no gets to it. I wonder what happens when people die while listening to records, will needle skip on and on forever? Even worse, what happens when their needle gets stuck on a piece of the song they died on, and plays that one second loop forever. Will they end up in limbo? Will their limbo be painted with that one second loop in the background, playing forever, and ever?

Jesus, I don't want to go that way, I can't think of any good one second loops that would be good for eternity.

Dreams of flying are pretty awesome, dreams of romance with some perfect stranger that have very exotic names like Akimi or Fila, are even more awesome, though when you wake up you're wondering where they went, maybe I'll run into them today, but instead of some beautiful summer dress it's a starbucks uniform, and their name isn't as exotic as you remember it, hi (reads name tag) Robin, hi Sandra.

Right now, I wouldn't mind dying with the song I'm listening to playing, it's Sycamore by Bill Callahan.

When the air fills with heat, when the trees grow green again, your socks will be less thick or not at all, you will sing the songs of the Beach Boy, and have on your face some really cool looking sunglasses. I can't wait.

Come Be Lonely With Me

(Tomb, from The Barking Wall, 2010-2011)

I will be showing The Barking Wall for the first official time at Angell Gallery, February 24th, Thursday, 2011.

THE SHOW RUNS UNTIL MARCH 19TH, COME SEE, YES?

Accompanying the four squares will be an old classic from Reminiscence as well. I hope to see you there.

Opening 6 - 9 pm

12 Ossington Ave.

Toronto, ON

More info: Here.

Cult Classic

And more, yes, more of my presence on this internet.

I apologize for the lack of stories, and the updates on what's going on art wise.

Here's what CULT of DECAY had in store for me.

LINK

Boooooom!

The lovely folks at boooooom! have a feature on me, you can see it here, here.

Word To Your Mother

(Nathan Cyprys, Dog Barker, Air Kicker, on his Island Home, 2011)

We used to throw gang signs around until the day a bunch of gangsters chased after us in Pete's car, looked at us with eyes peering from bandanas and reversed ballcaps, looking real mean, even evil. Those were the most menacing look eyes I had ever seen, and when their leader spoke, his voice muffled by bandana, it pierced my spine with intoxicated fear, this shit was real.

Eventually we apologized enough and they called us pussies enough that they lost interest in having us had pissed our pants. Our night, which started off as fun and careless, full of shenans was over, filled with battery acid; a byproduct of adrenaline. We couldn't end this night like this, we needed to get these shakes from our fingers and toes out into the ground, we needed to turn this night from it's previous turn and form what is called the flipping a bitch.

When Rufus took off his sock and fed it down the remains of his bottle of JB I never thought he'd light it, yelling at Pete to catch up to those gangsters, and that when we finally reached them that he'd throw it at their car. I remember shitting myself, even before the moment of impact, I started yelling at him, worried that the bottle was going to ignite in his hand, shattering glass, fire, and burning whiskey on all of us. And when that bottle disappeared from his hand, and returned with a smile on his face, it took us closer to him as he whispered to our furry ears that we were gangsters now, some real gangsters that never sleep, because sleep is the cousin of death, and we'll sleep when we're dead. All while this was happening, there was fire all around us, the gangsters' car had ran off the road, busting into flames, and we could see them running with fiery haircuts. I searched myself for any emotion and there wasn't nothing, the field they crashed in was burning too, and smoke slowly filled the scene. The stars were out, the sky was clear, and the wind blew in from the coast. If it didn't feel surreal before all of this, we were in a dream now, seeing them dancing there, yelling a familiar tune, I swear to God they were singing, in perfect unison, and if I listened close enough I could hear Tha Crossroads*.

Eventually even they would fall, our days as kids were gone, and buried beneath the soil they smoldered on. Inside their car we found guns, spare bandanas, a large collection of Bone Thugs and Mack Daddy, and something deeply profound, we knew perfectly well what we were going to be from now on. If I look back to that moment, I never would've guessed I'd become a man like that, with some Aztec princess tying a bandana over my month, giving me a kiss on the cheek, and as she walked off my hand slapping her hind, just before we rolled off into the fog of the night. That would be the last this world we know of me, or at least the me I left behind in that smokey field.

On nights like this, if you listen close enough you can hear my crew and I, from far off and away, the sounds of hydraulic screaming and trunk door slamming, with gangster rap and deep bass, the ground rumbling and the howling men. Word to your mother.

*

Recently I've drawn the interested of a certain gallery, they have my work available for sale, and I'll be showing with them later in the month.

For more info: click this link. click

Death Defying

(working image for, Otherworld, 2011)

I once. There was once. I remember. Back in the day. Everything, (silence)...

Everything was crowded, full of crazies, black & white stripes, flashing red bulbs, and clowns laughing, I remember running away, I remember the taste in my mouth, it was fear.

Since then I haven't been the same, the kid who saw all that, that kid is still in the room, looking at me in a mirror, I'm trying to tell him sorry, he can't hear, I'm trying to tell him he'll get over it, nothing.

His father flew planes until the day he flew one into another, mid air, there was an explosion.

That child would grow up, fatherless, his mother would grow dim, and his sister, well she would just look out through her window, pointing with her mind to every passing plane, there's father, there he goes, (she says goodbye, but the pilot can't hear, he's too far away).

Today I am twenty, I got my first car, it's a Buick, it needs some work, a new coat of paint too, but that doesn't matter when me and my sis are cruising down the coast. I'll have my Ray-Bans on, my sister in her summer dress, the music is on loud, and all we can hear is the sound of oceanwindandpassingcars.

Today they dropped the bomb. A man yells at me to turn down my music, I do, I'm shocked at his tone, but then I listen. His radio is telling me that there was a giant explosion, there are many dead, and that it will soon all be over. My sister asks me what will be over. I tell her, I. Don't. Know.

I don't.

When mother remarried, I left the house, it was under mutual terms, I liked the guy, I didn't like leaving Sal, I knew she was going to be alone, with that new man, and that new look on mother's face. I had to get out of there.

I remember my first joint, I remember Ricky Trufeld's face when he was stoned, it was a face you naturally wanted to punch, I never did punch him that day, I just sat around his dorm, getting high and listening to Miles. I remember thinking that everything is good, things were really good, and I felt my cheeks tingle intensely like new born baby stars in a blanket of pure black.

Once upon a time long ago, I wanted to be a pilot, I wanted to look for my father's body, it was still floating out there, where he exploded, I cried to my mother the day he died, they never got his body, it's still there!

Was it?

Sal grows up, she becomes a woman, goes to college, marries a nice quiet man who sells bonds, they buy an old church, and raise a family in there. I'll never see their house, nor their children. No, I'm afraid I won't be there for any of that.

Carol, my mother, she will live the rest of her life happy, with Thomas F., she took his name, and I wrote her a letter just before I left, I told her I was going and that I loved her, and inside that letter there was another one, this one having the words in all capital:

DON'T OPEN UNTIL A REALLY SAD DAY

(she never opened it)

(but my sister did after Carol died)

The words were,

BE HAPPY,

if not for you, for me, if not for me, for him

[picture of an airplane with a small man standing on the top wing, strapped in, with his goggles there is a smile, his scarf blowing in the wind like a wild animal, and where his hand is is a wave, he is saying ADIOS, I love you.]

Stalagmite And Meteorite

(The Mite and The Rite, from The Barking Wall, 2010)

I remember the time my mother planned this trip out to the Array in southern New Mexico, we even stopped by Carlsbad cavern and Roswell. To a little kid who was into aliens and the wonders of the world, I was blown away, absolutely positively. I wonder why I looked up to that sky, why I thought I saw a star move ever so slowly only to disappear, and why I was so fascinated at things that I could never touch, not even the speleothems of the cavern. I could just look on, seeing them in their wonder, dripping with shine, frozen in darkness. I think I could talk forever and ever about being kid in the desert, how I saw things that even amaze an adult's fancy. There's a feeling, an atmosphere that cannot be captured, but only recreated. It transcends the land, the people, and their traditions, it exist in the earth, above our feet, in the air, and in our words, but where it doesn't exist is in text, in a single photograph telling you this is it, or from any scientist telling you how it is. In the milk of dreams it exist before us, and disappears before our eyes, I can't believe it, and yet I do.

I miss those days, I think one day I'll go back there, only to realize it is all gone, I'm old now, too old to see with my boyish eyes again, too old to believe in such things against these other truths. I can still imagine, I can still dream, and I can still think that I'm somewhere amongst the stars, humming The Age of Aquarius only to break into cry:

Mystic Crystal Releva-a-a-tion, AQUARIUS, Ahhh-Aquar-eee-usssss.

Like Sinking Seas

(Guardian, On the Road to Montreal, 2010)

Once a long time ago explorers discovered a giant rock, it was half the size of Texas, and was able to move at fast speeds. The rock was never seen moving, but the clearings it created, like a glacier, was evident enough that there was something spectacular was going on under our noses. The rock was named, The King Ruby, and to this day, no one has seen this rock move, over the ten thousand miles recorded it has travelled since its discovery a century ago.

We used to go fishing down in that pond over there (points to a glimmer of a sinking lake)[his eyes are sad, with white ghosty eyeballs.] We used to catch regular size fishes in those waters, but for some incredible reason, over the many bodies of waters I laid a rod over, they were the best tasting fish I had ever had. On some nights, when food was poorly made by an honest wife, or we simply didn't have nothing to eat, I thought long and hard about those fishes, with all that flavor, and how we never had to season them, dress'em up or nada, they were just fantastic on their own, like God made them that way. I close my eyes, and imagine those days, I see my wife, by my side, she was a tomboy back then, she fished with her father, she probably saw him in me, and she just stuck by my side, swinging that rod like a pro. I didn't want to admit it at the time, but she was better at it than me, but all the boy in me said she wasn't. It took all the man in me to finally realize that I wasn't any better, I wasn't as much as her, and that she rules the lands of my kingdom, but not by force, and not by invasion, I gave those lands to her, it was the only gift I had.

Somewhere in the field of stars above our heads, on a clear night if you look to the northeast, you can see a star that isn't a star. It's a asteroid, and they say in twenty years from now it's going to come close to us, so close that it's a problem asteroid. Over millions of dollars have been spend, and over many more millions they will keep on spending on making sure it doesn't come here (I point to my shoes, and then part them to show the earth). It's almost strange to think that a rock, in the right place in the sky with big ole eyes that glimmer like all sharks do, in the void, surrounded by darkness, are seen as vicious. They say a bite by a shark is their way of poking you, some what to shake hands, I guess we'll never understand it.

My son asked me if I thought we'd ever think of a way to stop that asteroid, if it can be destroyed, and I told him I didn't know. I thought to myself, I'd have lived a good life up until that moment, and that it was sure selfish of me to have children knowing that this world was going to end. He will only be twenty-eight by then, what kind of a life will that be when you're only starting to get the handling down, at most you can parallel park, but we're talking stunt driving like grandpa. He can't see much, but what he does see is worth seeing.

At some point tonight, I laugh myself to sleep, I tell myself nothing because there is nothing to say, everything is going to be okay (and that's that).

Farewell, with snores and snots, from one rock to another, I'm sinking like thunder, blankets be covers, and the moon sure does hover.