Tuesday, January 22, 2008
I imagine God, as a little boy who has a new blue plastic aquarium in his bedroom, sitting by the window. Its clear in the bottom with a bright electric blue lid, with holes for air in which to go through. there's small pebbles, river stones. they are red, brown, all shades of brown. and in his little aquarium there's a little tortoise. A small green tortoise, its shaded like a mint leave, like the inside of a plump ripen avocado, with a golden pattern all over its shell. Its frail, its small, I imagine Him, taking the blue lid off, and with his soft perfect hands, lifting the petit creature out of its cage. his little fingers rubbing the ruff green scale-like bumps on the poor creature's back. the tortoise hides his head, his small tail and limbs all cave in, and the small boy begins to cry he changes the water, he makes sure its not too much or too little, he puts his mother's thermometer in and verifies that the water's warm enough for his reptilian friend, and he gently puts him back in. He puts small green pellets in the plastic world, and covers it with its blue ceiling. and as the boy leaves, the tortoise pulls his head out and begins to swim, eat, live. I guess sometimes I am too scared to feel his warmth, to see his gentle hands caring for me, I guess...
Friday, January 4, 2008
Confessions. 0001 There's no seat, well there is but its wooden and poorly designed, its not meant to comfort nor to soften a brutalized corpse. I Can't quite remember when I got that Chair, I don't know when But one thing is certain, its unique. So one day, about two years ago, i was attempting photo emulsion, or to put it in lay terms screen printing. I designed a cesar chavez stencil that was supposed to be photographed into a screen and placed on t-shirts. T-shirts that I would sell at a cesar chavez festival, and make big bucks. See I had the whole thing planned out. It was made in a way that my profits would double my initial buy in; The kind of insurance a pro card player has when he walks into a garage filled with middle aged, beer bellied, blue collared, bald blind men who play once every blue moon. It was impregnable. I would buy one hundred t-shirts at the cost of three dollars each. The screen would cost $45, The chemicals $15, with the paint and everything else it would cost me $500. I would sell every t-shirt for $15, and at the end of the day i would have $1500, One Grand in profit. The story was never like that, I couldn't get the liquids and lighting to work properly. Its been two years, I only made a batch of 5 t-shirts, the design was not detailed, it was just free-drawn with a blue water pigment that bled a lot. Till the day I still say I will make my entrepreneurial career with t-shirts, The cesar chavez is barely noticeable on the chair nowadays (On the chair were I used the stencil to paint; if Aa t-shirt was not its place perhaps the wooden brown chair I sat in every night when I opened the textbooks) the paint is faded, but regardless its still a colourfull thing, with holes punctured through the wood, its aesthetically haunting. So I confess, I've failed, I've given up, I've let a little ignorance stop me from doing what I promised myself one day. I confess.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
I sat there my eyes closing, and then opening, my head falling over, the people sitting scattered through the train. My hands holding on the chilled cold frame, the guy right across from me keeps looking at me with a sort of smirk as to show that he finds my frail body a joke, as I sway in and out of REM while moving on the underground. I feel that visage, someone looking, her eyes are like a crystal ball, like the rain frozen in a movie, some wicked CGI, Its a faded onyx black with a hint of green. She turns over, I lift my head and turn as though looking at the map on the plastic banner, as thought it was my first time on this wretched ride that steals ninety minutes of my day, every day. I lean back, she turns away. Her face is pale white, a hint of red, like that painting in my room I once forged after several hours stuck looking at my easel my last semester, correction i refused to use the easel it was a drawing board leaned back on a stool. Her hair is fine, its black and golden brown on the edges, There's a thin layer of silver outline in her egyptian eyes, Her hair is pulled back and tide in a knot, it falls to the sides, by her ears forming a cascade, She moves from her sit, she turns sideward, leaning her eyes at the dark glass reflecting and the doors on the opposite side. She gets up looks down as she passes, and walks through the doors, they shut and she's gone. Her lean hipster victorian self is gone, A blue navy skirt on top of black jeans, faded keds, a brown burberry jacket, a crossed brown wool scarf, and one of those "Little Brown Bag"s from bloomingdales. what an Idiot, I looked away, at the map again, o yeah I am lost. when its El cerrito plaza, and just across runs San Pablo Ave. I guess thats it, I am still the same shy lad From before. I could have at-least said hi, Deja vu its all a dream; But I guess that its like a miner who lets the diamonds pass through his fingers in the lake, he sees them and sways his hand, for some weird reason he doesn't lift it up, he just sands there as the light flickers bye to the point its all dirt and mud, i guess its the fact that where he's from he's not aloud a diamond, its the blood he pours while digging for the rich man that keeps him alive, and dreams are but a fairy tale told in his head forced to never leave the round walls of his inner membranes for fear of being labeled insane.