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.

I've Seen Better Day

(Noch, from Noch, 2009-)

A few steps closer, a few steps back, you'd be safer, a few too many, and we'll feel the wind rush by our ears. I close my eyes and say, there will be no sound, there will be no fall, there will only be...

The sad thing is they'll bury us in separate lots, that I probably won't even be in the same state, and that my ghost would have to hitchhike to come see you. The saddest thing is that you will never see me again.

A few too many, we could've had more, but it was never enough. I'm hurt, my face feels stupid, and I can't seem to get my head out of my ass. I swear, each and every time, that these are my saddest days of my life, just like every time I get sick I think I'm going to die. Just this one time, I know I think it every time, but just this one time. And puff, I disappear.

And so do you.

I awake to find my bed empty, my blood still red, and my face still stupid. Damn. Daydreamer come find yourself some breakfast, and it was the same thing I had yester. Come downstairs, put your hat on and cover those ears, it's a cold one out there, you'll lose them, as I point to my ears (a passerby looks at me talk to myself and a pauses for a moment). Step by step, without a slip, and I take to the ground like baby's first steps. I put a smile on, I like the way it feels, I jump ahead, and I hit the ice but no falling here, not today, because today I'm not going to die, and today isn't the saddest day of my life.

A few blocks down, thieves wait for an idiot. They see a Tag Heuer, it's my fathers, it doesn't matter, it's worthless, no it's not, but there's scratches, now look at your face.

Pity is something only one person in the whole goddamn world can ever understand, and right now, I feel lonely. I made friends, or rather, I made A friend, his name is my own, his height is the same, he talks slightly different, but it's all the same. I look behind and he is not there, for no shadow follows me, for the sun passes through me, it kisses each and every cell, and leaves without saying goodbye. I am the phantom as I call out to my kingdom, I would roar, but I pose no threat, I am here to stay, and will not disappear. Disappear. Disappear.

Puff!

(P.S. I got my watch back, oh that, well you should see the other guy)

To Fall, and To Hit Hard, But To Touch A Bit of Soft (Again)

(Swampthang (test shot for TOMB, of Barking Wall), 2010)

I am not alone.

I am not alone.

I am not alone.

I am not alone.

(and can I get a goddamn somewhere in there)

...alone, goddamn!

When the sherif and I arrived to my place there was nothing left, it was all gone, everything, my undies were all over my neighbor's yard, my books covered in animal pee, and bit and pieces of familiar looking things all shattered across 4 acres of land. I was homeless, and nothing, I'll tell you, nothing really hit me. I missed the shockwave of devastation, I dodged the face of terror, I lived a shotgun blast to my entitlement, and I felt nothing changed. The sherif opened my door as I just sat there, looking for a face to make it appear I was concerned, but by the time that door opened I just got up, and said thanks in the straightest voice I had and proceeded to walk with him. I gave a hotdamn, and said something funny, and heard a silent shit from the sherif, a sorrybud, and a long and quiet wellllll(sigh). He went over to his car, reached into his glove compartment, and walked back to my side, he said here, I looked down to his hand, and there it was, a 6oz flask, with the words, "GRAND MASTER FLASK" written on its side. I took a few swigs, and nothing hard could slow me now I said to myself, and with that I finished the whole damn flask. When I was done, the sherif said his goodbyes, and left me before I can return what was his.

In the summer of 89', I was homeless, and decided to travel. And so, I finally did, with a rush of goodbyes to each and every face I can grab in a day, I took off like a 30 year old fart, puffff.

FYI

(Documentation from Barking Wall, 2010)

A little more than a month ago I started a photo-blog of everyday images from my life. Mixed in there is all the trendy things that are going on with photo-blogs, such as youtube videos, and shout-outs. Anyhoot, it's here:

BRENDANGEORGEKOisTUMBLR

You Beast, You Burden, or I Shall Fall (again)

The end is not nigh, the end is not nigh, please, not now, not tomorrow, not in a couple of years, not ever. I kept telling myself that until I awoke to find myself naked in a field, surrounded by blood, and I could hear screaming coming from the woods. It took me a few minutes to really figure out where I was, and by the time I got on my feet I was running.

The night was like any other, the moon somewhere in the sky, and everything was lit by just the fullness of the moon. I was in my thirties then, I had developed these legs I was finally proud of, and remember thinking to myself, amongst the chaos happening all around me, that I was glad all that training I put into those legs worked out. Sure I screamed, sure I was running, and screaming like the rest, and at times I felt they were running away from me. I slowed down, and started running the opposite way, but they yelled NO!, and I yelled, WHY!?, and they yelled back, just NO!, pause, just doooON'T!. So I looped around and ran back, but just then and there on the side of my vision, I saw it.

The thing was huge, it was mightier than the mountain, it encompassed the sky, with two red circular eyes, our hearts were frozen, our faces ghostly, we were going. to. die.

I swear to God this moment froze, I moved my fingers, they wiggled, I turned my head and it turned. The world was frozen, the beast was gone, those frightened faces suspended, and my legs still attached to the ground. When I awoke, I was moist from peeing myself at some point, all was silent, and I was cold, seeing my breath materialize before me. The ground had stopped shaking, there wasn't a stir in the air, and for a moment, I felt at peace. The palm leaves hissed in the wind, the moon appearing bigger than ever, I told myself I am ready to die.

The next day, I returned to that field, I told the sherif that this was where I last saw it, the more I said IT the more I was losing him. We searched that field for hours, and found nothing more than some rotten pineapples, a dead cat, and a series of gold pebbles. We retired close to sunset, the Sherif offered me a ride, and we both looked at that sunset, knowing that there will never be one quite like that one ever again.

Photorama III

(Black Hole, from Barking Wall, 2010)

Two things, I finally updated my website with new work, click here, and I have two pieces in Gallery TPW's annual fundraiser, Photorama, this year, which takes place this Friday (November 26) and will be up until December 4th. For more info, click here.

That's it.

girls shake it.

This sky used to be full of white, I used to be high up there. I've asked myself what happened so many times it's a response to salutation, meaningless. A box of used memories keeps me company, and my door is firmly shut. Today, I tell myself, will fade into the next, and when it happens I won't be so surprised. I started to take care of far too many plants, and I often forget to water them all. I started to think I'd be better off in the desert, but I'm not as tough anymore. Where my arms used to reach to but never came close enough to touch has become smeared and finger-greased all-too-familiar, I know this place too well, I can feel and smell all I want to but I won't. I put my foot down along time ago, my boots are cool now, and I feel a fire roast in my stomach. I don't have indigestion, everything is fine. I'll dive when the ship hits the bottom of the ocean, I'll see the world burn but not by my hands. I'll be the voice that was left silent for so long it has become a thought, a ponder, and a wonder of where and how, who this be, and what can't be said is what is spoken in words as text, and a stranger to all. Kissing goodbyes, these days, kissing high-fives like smacks and kicks to the groin for my big month. I think I forgot how to lie, and all I have to say is that today is your today, with one kick, yelling this is very much sparta. Into a pit, I hope there are spikes to meet you, I hope it hurts. To my enemies I flash pistols, to my friends I pour forty oh-zee's, so girls shake those thangs, make every rotation count, and if you cry you cry, just carry on, singing that song, in full so this chorus sounds heavy and phat, for anything else can sleep like dirt naps, and I don't sleep, because sleep is the cousin of death. (and I say, ain't that right, and I wait for Nas to respond, right-right-right-one-mic-aight.)

I have full-scale work in the Whodunnit Live Auction this year, come see, it will be firing up the night tonight starting at eight.

I.O.P.W. (In Other People's Words) pt.II

Brooke. You arrived first. No big deal. Sit and write and wait, but please don't drink too much coffee. It will only make you jittery and your guts will hurt and those jives will be mistaken for nerves and it is better to just sit and write and wait, patiently, unnerved and full of boiled truth. Be so truthful. Order gin because you like it. Order what you want. You have been dating people. You have been going on frequent dates. This is a new thing for you but it isn't really hard at all, if you just stick to being yourself. The most difficult part of the whole thing is going home, insomniac'd and wondering how they have just viewed you. That part is a little tricky, especially because it is easy to confuse talking with spouting. People'd, you talk. Alone, you spout. So going home, alone, and thinking about the whole event, knowing you will never really come close to answering the question of how you were just viewed, can lead you to a kick in the gut for even wondering towards something that could potentially be self-defeating. You don't have the answers to questions like this but yet you still ask yourself questions like this. This is your number one downfall of self. Try not to do this when you get home. It will make you feel lousy. Okay. Take this time to go to the washroom and read the back of a stall before they arrive. Close your eyes when you pee and tell yourself that the first phrase you see when you open will be a reflection of the evening's coming events. "Sagan is my nightmare". (Jesus!). Think of making a book about bathroom stall confessions. Wash your hands and stare at your pupils reflect. Wonder what age you look like tonight. Wonder if they will think you look twenty-six or younger or like Brooke, tonight. Catch yourself worrying about it a little and then wonder why you are worrying about it at all. Understand that it is because you hate looking like a 17 year old. Consider maybe upgrading your World Famous backpack to a purse. Wonder if men like backpacks. Wonder if men like purses. Wonder if men really even give a shit about the things women carry around all the time. Love your backpack again. Sit and drink your gin. Don't worry about drinking it slowly, you are very good at maintaining mind and conversation regardless of gin and it's effects. Similarly, order doubles if you want to, don't apologize, order sweet potato fries, don't eat like a girl, if you are hungry just order whatever it is you are hungry for. You will start this correctly and honestly. Don't agree with them for the sake of agreeing. Let your laugh be rifled if it gets there. You won't lie, or stretch truths, though they will think you are because of how you speak about things. Be an open book. Answer every question in earnest and expect earnest answers. Trust that they will give you earnest answers but try, if you remember, to test them and make sure. Actually, maybe don't trust so fully at first, like you always do. Yes, perhaps that's it; Don't come off as incredibly naive. Make them feel at ease. You adore your friends but forget their advice right now and listen to your mothers: Be yourself/You are not charming/You are not a charmer/Look into their eyes and beyond them/Search their soul and ask them what they are not saying/Force honesty/Force it out of them because you deserve it, but mostly because they do too. See if they trust their Mother. Be gentle. Let them know you are wild but also gentle and very good. Try and let them know this upon first glance, without even talking. Before the hello's and creature comforts, before your skull begins awkwardly cracking open towards them in a way they are probably not used to, before you blink, before they do, let them know with your eyes that you do not play games at all. Let them know you respect them simply because they are a body with feelings attached. Let them know you respect yourself too. Try not to apologize so much. You say sorry a lot for things that don't warrant it. Actually, you probably say sorry more than anyone you know. Stop doing that. Please express, somehow, that you are not intimidating. (You really aren't at all. You are… well… all shades of awkward silver and you like it that way. That girl in that booth over there is though. She is what that word looks like. She emits intimidation. Holy fuck she is really fucking beautiful). Okay. Look into their eyes. Do not be afraid to do so, but if they are afraid then revert, because you don't really want to scare them. Try and let them see your mind first. Let them know your heart is as big as Jupiter's or something equivalent and it needs hands the size of the milky way to cradle it's love but you do not expect them to have Jupiter-sized hard-working hands with involved webs of nebula veins and unearthly lifelines able to visit other galaxies. Let them know that you don't really expect anyone to, not even yourself. Say all of these things without actually saying them, just make it known that you have no expectations from this. Give them a hug when they arrive if only because hugging is way better than shaking hands and your hands are always clammy anyhow. Don't feel weird about hugging or say sorry in your mind because you are just being honest, and yourself, and that is just what you do. You know yourself and your tendencies. Yes. And you have absolutely no expectations of this and have trouble thinking about what will even happen at all.

Please try and do all of this within the first 5 minutes, so that you can just only feel again.

-Brooke Manning

I.O.P.W. (In Other People's Words) pt.I

An Introduction:

A good friend of mine asked to place words on here, and I never thought of having features of other writers and thoughtful minds contribute here until his approach. With that said, here is something on the lines of Learning To Love Yourself (More), by Christopher Heller.

grow a beard. definitely. chicks dig it. its masculine not overtly butch. attractive, definitely. wear boots. steel toed. brown, worn leather. dress well. not flashy. keep it simple but high quality. speak softly. with economy. say words as if you have a limited supply. make eye contact. HARD. be first in everything. first to grin. first to touch. but don't let her notice. its all flowing, you're winning. be funny. not laugh at loud funny. make a joke and move on. you've done it before. you've scored a touchdown, now return the ball to the ref and go about your business. Treat her as her. never reveal anything about what you do. go with the flow. most definitely. don't force anything. as in never let your thoughts of 'the future' get in the way of right here, right now. Be instinctual but smart. Never overwhelm. she shouldn't see it coming BUT she shouldn't be knocked back on her heels either. You laugh too. laugh at anything meant to be funny, don't worry, you will see it coming a mile away. Communicate. make faces - expressions that are short-handed for 'had a bad day' - 'we need milk' - that last one might be tough. make negatives into cute. go out with the boys and never say a bad word about her. the will want to date her. she becomes more desirable, but she is all yours. make her know that.

-Christopher Heller, November 7th, 2010

FOR THE PENNIES

Janis, what shall I call you. Like some men are called Tall, Drinks, of Water, I still haven't really learned the meaning of that saying, nor am I applicable for such high remarks, I will call you a tower too high to climb. And Janis, even though your name isn't Janis, and even though these words will come short of your ears, as lovely as they are, I will call you that Tower.

From here, I stand and say from here, and with my feet together I look over the edge and throw pennies down. I see people walking, alive I see them, and I know of the consequences, I know if one of these pennies were to hit just one of them I'd go to jail for manslaughter, but this isn't just any day, and these aren't just any kind of pennies. Today is my day, it is the day I reached the top, where I scaled to a height where I can finally admire the city we live in. Wow!, there's a park over there, and holy moly!, there's diner there, an actual oldschool grease-till-you-stop diner, no way, yes way! Above, high, and mounted with my crotch to the back of your head, with my legs resting over your breasts, and your arms wrapped around my ankles, I see a new world, I am high, yes, I am so out of my mind, yes, and I am in the right place (yes). I think: can't you see how amazing this is, she thinks: can't he feel how heavy he is for something so small. I feel empowered, she feels overwhelmed. I don't ever want to leave, and she is waiting for my decent from the Heavens.

The weight of the world is on our shoulders I whisper into your ear, and you smile, laugh, and lose your balance. We fall, not just from our feet, but we fall off the earth, we float while falling at frightenly-fast speeds into space, there are no stars, just void, and I reach to you, and for some reason, I am fine. You're screaming, and I let your screams fill my ears until I hear the threshold of a piercing pitch. In a violent reflex I grab you by your shoulders, I shake you once, I shake you twice, and I hold you deep and dearly, and with my muscles I tell you, everything is going to be alright.

...

The truth is, even though your feet are on solid earth right now, we're still falling. We will never be safe. But at least we'll be safer with each other.

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 16

(For Alex K (the picture, well maybe the words, but it's really meant for everyone, unlike the picture, it's really only for him, sorry, I'm not being an ass, he just really likes cows, and I think he's really great, in fact, you should check him out, not that it will ever substitute him, I'm just saying), 2010)

Sooner or Later

In time, even the devil gets tired. Imagine working day and night (though I think hell only has nights, and those nights are probably pretty well-lit by fires and stuff, which would appear like day), torturing souls, without end, I mean, that's a lot of work, even with a dark army of spiky red minions. Eventually, even the devil has to take a break, and when that happens, God only knows, but what probably happens is; he half-assly asks of his slaves of eternity to torture themselves for the day, week, maybe but not very likely, month. And at this point, the devil isn't this really scary dude you read about in the bible (or maybe you never read the bible, but you definitely heard a few good stories about some evil shit going down). The devil eventually turns into the worst boss ever, and he seems more human everyday. You start to notice he's also balding, and how he occasionally smiles when he gets your blood in his month, or how he is always looking off through his window to the Aboveworld, holding his head by his palm, endless staring and blowing smoky sighs. Hey, you tell yourself, he's not soo bad after all, and then he beats you with a fiery stick covered in bees, and you go, ouch!, but you live since you're immortal, no matter how hard he beats you, and you live long enough to even forget the devil is the devil.

There will be a day that this world isn't so hard, that sure you're still getting beaten down by demons, but it's not so bad, as you pick yourself up, and continue to live. And in all of this mess you call your life, you reach a point where there is hope, to spite all the darkness and blood-sweating walls that surround your everyday, you are relieved for a moment, and you remember something you forgot all about, you can taste it, and this taste sparks a charge of memory, that's it, you think, that is it, oh yes my boy (or girl), that this is what it feels to be in the good, to feel relieved, and just maybe, you are happy. Filled with jellybeans and honey, with powdered sugar lips that concave to all the stress and torment drooling out of your mouth. You are smiling now, donut feel good? and you tell yourself, yes, it does.