Angler

April 29, 2012

Just floating around.

Watching the shiny hooks dangle.

Want to swim but want to get caught as well.

Authentic Interaction

April 29, 2012

“In New York’s Hudson River Valley, craftsman David Rees still practices the age-old art of manual pencil sharpening. His artisanal service is perfect for artists, writers, and standardized test takers. Shipped with their shavings and a “certificate of sharpening,” these extra-sharp pencils make wonderful gifts.”

– David Rees “http://www.artisanalpencilsharpening.com/

Telephone

April 23, 2012

Memory Dump #1

April 19, 2012

Robot Readable World: An experiment in found machine-vision footage, exploring the aesthetics of the robot eye.

Happy Birthday David: Children playing, angels, the universe, robots…

Barbie Transformation Tutorial: This tutorial is going to show you how to look like the perfect plastic Barbie doll.

Tupac Live 2012 At Coachella: Hologram of the dead rapper appeared on stage at the California event.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxgtWVfOGlo

Squarepusher Dark Steering: “For a while I had apocalyptic nightmares about trails of nuclear missiles in the night sky.”

Cosmopolis: Everything in our lives has brought us to this moment.

Videorative Portrait Randall Okita: Using real time access to Wikipedia to infer related emotional states.

Regimentation

April 18, 2012

I caught myself during my morning medical regimen. Taking sedatives from the bottle and putting them on the counter. Swapping my morning with my evening pills. I have relegated this task to unthinking routine. I prefer to leave it to my subconscious. I wonder if I have done this before. A day of sedation.

Cramped

April 15, 2012

I woke up this morning to a tearing pain in my right thigh. My body shook and burst into an immediate sweat. It persisted for about 10 minutes before finally fading away. There was nothing I could do. I’ve been having terribly painful cramps in every muscle of my body for the last several weeks. I think it has something to do with my muscles stitching themselves back together. I hope that’s what it is.

Week 109

April 14, 2012

I wake up in the early morning next to her and lie here awake, sensing her nearness. She radiates warmth and breathes steadily. I sit up in the darkness, peering over her black form at the clock. 3:59 AM.

I slide to the edge of the bed and dangle my legs over the side. She stirs in her slumber and I pray that I don’t wake her up. I sit there hunched, listening to her breathing, before getting up quietly and padding out of the bedroom with a feeling of relief.

My bare feet pick up sand and dust from the smooth floor as I walk into the darkened kitchen. I run my palm over the soles of my feet to brush off the unpleasant grittiness. Outside the window, the streetlights hum and spew forth an unnaturally brilliant orange wash. Parked cars on the street gleam sleekly. I wonder how often people must wash their cars to keep them so immaculate.

A couple strolls by arm-in-arm on the sidewalk, laughing and talking loudly at each other. I bite back a feeling of revulsion at them, at their drunken carousing. Enjoying the good life, heading somewhere private to press their genitalia together, fait accompli. These are not my people. I feel no affinity towards them. And it bothers me.

I envy them. Their position in the world seems certain. I want to be certain like they are. But I can never be satisfied. I can’t enjoy my happiness. I can never be carefree.

I run my fingers along the counter, feeling the cool surface beneath them. I know this. I know this room. I know these objects. My mind wanders to her, sleeping in the bedroom. She is safe. I hold all the cards. I grasped at her to clutch at the escaping concept of belonging.

Two years ago I started on this path. No, I was always on this path. I did not know it at the time, but this was written in my mind from the moment I was aware of having one. I was constructed by a broken god.

The only option is to let my fate play out the way it will.

If you ever felt that you didn’t belong, that you existed in a society that abandoned you, that there had to be a place for you yet never found it, then you need to listen to what I am going to say.

I am an outsider and a prophet of the unheard.

My name is Matthew and today is my last day with her.

It’s four in the morning and I am picking up my parents to bring them to the airport.

I love driving at night when no one is around. I feel free when I see streets devoid of people. It is as though I am no longer being seen. Evaluated. I worry about what people think about me. I want to appear as though I don’t care what people think about me. How ordinary.

My parents tell me fragments of dreams they both had. My mother tells me of a dream where her boyfriend is a black singer. She says she felt like she didn’t fit in with his friends. That she heard the women around him talking about her, wondering who she was, and where she came from. My father tells me his dream of holding a tiny baby, a newborn. The baby is red and wrinkled and hairless and my father thinks that it looks like a penis. He and everyone around him are amazed when the baby starts babbling things at such a young age. The baby, suddenly aware of this new attention, becomes more vocal and grandiose.

I don’t know what to make of the dreams so I do not comment. We drive in silence, my stereo crooning quietly. I manipulate uncomfortable thoughts of phallic signifiers in my father’s dream and my mother’s dream of a new lover, an emotive man. Ordinary World comes up on my iPod and I wonder if my father can make out the faint voice of Simon LeBon.

Papers in the roadside
Tell of suffering and greed
Here today, forgot tomorrow
Ooh, here besides the news
Of holy war and holy need
Ours is just a little sorrowed talk

And I don’t cry for yesterday
There’s an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

I drop them off at the airport and help them load up all their huge cases on a trolley in the bitterly cold wind. I hug them both and tell them I love them.

On the sedate drive back, a memory flashes in my head, one that has been lingering at the edge of my thoughts for a few days now. It is an old memory, I would guess from when I was around 10 years old. This was a time when I was probably a bit of a bad little kid. Not following rules, staying out past my curfew, not eating my veggies, and so on. I remember this in strange detail. My mother told me about something she read in the newspaper.

“I read about a man on death row. Before he was to go into the chair, he asked to see his mother. And when he saw his mother, he asked if he could suckle at her breast as his last dying wish. When she allowed him to do so, he then savagely bit off her nipple and spit it on the floor.”

My mother then went on to tell me how she didn’t want to be that mother when I grew up. That she didn’t want to be the one who gets punished and violated by a vile son filled with hate.

I’ll never remember why she told me this story. But I’ll always remember it now. And I know that I remember it clearly, for a reason. But why?