Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Mat Collaboration with Domestic Construction
The girls from Domestic Construction have taken some of my Social Studies strips and used them to design one of the new rugs in their collaboration series. They are available in two sizes for purchase on the website.
CLICK THIS LINK TO CHECK IT OUT!
CLICK THIS LINK TO CHECK IT OUT!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Chapter 5: BIG BRIDGE (Excerpt from Killer of Killers)
It's morning and the sky is pinkish, the tear in the sky orange and speckled magenta. It is magnificent. I can't remember my dreams. I've apparently been sleeping against a mossy tree for some time. Next to me is my supplies, the double, knife and mutt included. Dillinger is just awakenening as well, with the necessary routine of yawns and stretches. Flashes of last night and the fake young girl. A smile overwhelms my face. I gently push my hand down my jeans and feel that I'm still a touch touchy. Dillinger looks hungry, so we eat some more of the jerky. I take in a deep breath and am hit with the urge to snuff. I like it best in the early morning. The colors keep willowing as they burn brighter and brighter. The witch or the young girl is gone. The fountain is dried up and deeply cracked. Vines are dead. Woofers patrolling in the distance. Two seperate packs from the howls. Dillinger looks into the expanse, standing proudly, wanting to know more about what he hears. I snap out of my daze and stand up ready to push ahead to Tully's.
Two tucked toots as we further ourselves.
The rest of Chinichillia Vento is calm, only the horrible birds to edge me. They drift along with their nightmare mouths and they look at you from their high perches as you pass. Screaming to alert the others of a weakness or threat of any sort. They always seem to be smiling. They are the top of the food chain around here.
I make it to the big bridge before the pink has even redened. The tear blemishes the natural sky like a captured flicker of fire, by now stretching across half of it. It's been a time since the last tear, maybe it's stopping.
The big bridge is scattered with burnt-out autos with their melted rubbers. Searching them would be pointless. I'm uncomfortable being in the open like this, so I'm walking briskly. The air is crisp, cutting in from the sea. Dillinger is practically galloping, he's excited to see so much water. He loves to swim. I hate this bridge because there might be snipers, or bombers. I remember snorting two squares of some of the dirtiest brown snuff I ever had under another giant bridge with Ramananda. I was never scared with that kid around. I wish Ram was still alive.
Dillinger stops to lift his leg and it strikes me as a good idea. I watch my stream of piss break apart on it's descent down to the bay. The drop-off dizzies me. Down in the water I can see a massive figure swaying along rythmically. I see hundreds of fins that run in parallel lines. Electricity is bouncing all over it in subtle hops. It lets out a deep moan that shakes the world and another responds somewhere far away. From the piece of it I can make out I'd say it's bigger than this entire bridge. Dillinger is squeaking at it. I tell him we need to keep moving and so we do.
I pass families of the melted, some with melted dogs. I always feel worse about the dogs.
Almost to the end now a large man steps out at the end of the bridge with an axe over his shoulder. With him is a bald woman with an uzi trained on me. I think these two will underestimate me, so I continue towards them without slowing. When I am within twenty feet the large man yells, "HAULT!"
His voice booms through the air. It made Dillinger sit down in place. I remain motionless. He continues, "everything you've got son, or your going over. The mutt as well."
Whether he means the mutt goes over the edge as well or he wants me to hand over the mutt as well I don't know. Both ways, I respond, "how about a fair fight instead. Winner stays on the good side of the edge. I promise not to hurt your betty, if you lose fair."
The man is a touch shook by this. He and his betty look at each other for a moment. She jerks her head back to eye me, the uzi still locked in place. She has metal-spiked eyelashes around big violet eyes. They're saying she might hop the buzzer on me. He puts the ax in between his legs and spits on his hands before saying, "you've got a deal son, toss that double down slow and any other guns you got. What's your fair weapon?"
"My mutt."
The man looks to his betty once again but this time she doesn't look back. He says, "that's fine by this one. When I kill him you'd better not run or reach. I'd hate to have to put this ax into your back."
I lay down the double and my pack. I lift my shirt and do a quick spin to show that there is nothing in my belt. But there is a bulge in my back pocket that they miss.
"Don't worry about that. Tell your betty to put that uzi on the edge. That gives me a fair chance at my double if she should feel vengeful when my mutt kills you."
He knods and she places it on the edge next to her after a flicker of resistance. I can see that she knows she'll get to the uzi before I reach the shotgun.
He stretches out his huge tattooed arms and then loudly pops his spine. He takes a swing and then twirls the handle in his hand, "Whenever you two are ready, son."
I kneel next to Dillinger and look into his brown eyes. I whisper, "throat" and clasp my hand onto my throat to signal. Then I point at the man. Holding his collar I ask the man if he is ready to die. He raises his axe and focuses on my mutt. The axe is lightly swaying, hovering over his shoulder. His betty looks a finger nervous. Dillinger is bucking as I hold his collar. He is growling his raspy shrill. Foam drips to the ground. Almost every time Dillinger lunges the bald betty jumps slightly. I continue to hold my mutt back. A line of sweat begins to drip down the man's red face. Bald betty clenches her fists. The siren in the distance starts up. I start to laugh at them. My veins are pushing, clearing off the walls. My heart is laughing too. What a spectacle for us to share!
"Let the fucker loose already!"
I continue to laugh. Tears run down my face. I am laughing. It feels rockets. I am full with glee. Most thrilled with what has become of the morning.
She yells, "Let him loose!"
The man is showing his teeth trying to remain focused on the mutt as he's becoming eruptious with my behavior. I stare into his eyes. They are small for his head. He breaks his focus and looks at me, with those tiny eyes, to yell, "Let your-" He stops his plea as Dillinger is suddenly bursting towards him. The betty screams as Dillinger closes on him fast. I catch her in the side of her face and she flips over the edge, taking the uzi with her. The man looks over in time to see her legs disappear in an instant and tries to scream "NO!" as Dillinger shoots, ripping out his throat in one brutal tug. The man looks at me astonished, still trying to scream with blood spouting out of his exposed throat. He drops the axe and collapses to the ground, with a fading gargle. Dillinger proudly trots back to me still holding the flap of skin and I kneel down again, giving him another piece of the salted meat. I give myself one of the suckers, lime.
I decide the ax is much too heavy, so I toss it over into the bay. I can't believe she nabbed the uzi on her way over, I thought it was mine for sure. The man has a box of matches, which is tizzy, because I'm almost out. That's it though, nothing else of use. Twenty one pistol bullets now. I replace the empty. Flick that shell and the ones from the park off the bridge one at a time wondering how many people I've killed. I ruff up Dillinger's fur for a moment and then continue across the bridge into Prittsco, pondering my chances of scoring.
Two tucked toots as we further ourselves.
The rest of Chinichillia Vento is calm, only the horrible birds to edge me. They drift along with their nightmare mouths and they look at you from their high perches as you pass. Screaming to alert the others of a weakness or threat of any sort. They always seem to be smiling. They are the top of the food chain around here.
I make it to the big bridge before the pink has even redened. The tear blemishes the natural sky like a captured flicker of fire, by now stretching across half of it. It's been a time since the last tear, maybe it's stopping.
The big bridge is scattered with burnt-out autos with their melted rubbers. Searching them would be pointless. I'm uncomfortable being in the open like this, so I'm walking briskly. The air is crisp, cutting in from the sea. Dillinger is practically galloping, he's excited to see so much water. He loves to swim. I hate this bridge because there might be snipers, or bombers. I remember snorting two squares of some of the dirtiest brown snuff I ever had under another giant bridge with Ramananda. I was never scared with that kid around. I wish Ram was still alive.
Dillinger stops to lift his leg and it strikes me as a good idea. I watch my stream of piss break apart on it's descent down to the bay. The drop-off dizzies me. Down in the water I can see a massive figure swaying along rythmically. I see hundreds of fins that run in parallel lines. Electricity is bouncing all over it in subtle hops. It lets out a deep moan that shakes the world and another responds somewhere far away. From the piece of it I can make out I'd say it's bigger than this entire bridge. Dillinger is squeaking at it. I tell him we need to keep moving and so we do.
I pass families of the melted, some with melted dogs. I always feel worse about the dogs.
Almost to the end now a large man steps out at the end of the bridge with an axe over his shoulder. With him is a bald woman with an uzi trained on me. I think these two will underestimate me, so I continue towards them without slowing. When I am within twenty feet the large man yells, "HAULT!"
His voice booms through the air. It made Dillinger sit down in place. I remain motionless. He continues, "everything you've got son, or your going over. The mutt as well."
Whether he means the mutt goes over the edge as well or he wants me to hand over the mutt as well I don't know. Both ways, I respond, "how about a fair fight instead. Winner stays on the good side of the edge. I promise not to hurt your betty, if you lose fair."
The man is a touch shook by this. He and his betty look at each other for a moment. She jerks her head back to eye me, the uzi still locked in place. She has metal-spiked eyelashes around big violet eyes. They're saying she might hop the buzzer on me. He puts the ax in between his legs and spits on his hands before saying, "you've got a deal son, toss that double down slow and any other guns you got. What's your fair weapon?"
"My mutt."
The man looks to his betty once again but this time she doesn't look back. He says, "that's fine by this one. When I kill him you'd better not run or reach. I'd hate to have to put this ax into your back."
I lay down the double and my pack. I lift my shirt and do a quick spin to show that there is nothing in my belt. But there is a bulge in my back pocket that they miss.
"Don't worry about that. Tell your betty to put that uzi on the edge. That gives me a fair chance at my double if she should feel vengeful when my mutt kills you."
He knods and she places it on the edge next to her after a flicker of resistance. I can see that she knows she'll get to the uzi before I reach the shotgun.
He stretches out his huge tattooed arms and then loudly pops his spine. He takes a swing and then twirls the handle in his hand, "Whenever you two are ready, son."
I kneel next to Dillinger and look into his brown eyes. I whisper, "throat" and clasp my hand onto my throat to signal. Then I point at the man. Holding his collar I ask the man if he is ready to die. He raises his axe and focuses on my mutt. The axe is lightly swaying, hovering over his shoulder. His betty looks a finger nervous. Dillinger is bucking as I hold his collar. He is growling his raspy shrill. Foam drips to the ground. Almost every time Dillinger lunges the bald betty jumps slightly. I continue to hold my mutt back. A line of sweat begins to drip down the man's red face. Bald betty clenches her fists. The siren in the distance starts up. I start to laugh at them. My veins are pushing, clearing off the walls. My heart is laughing too. What a spectacle for us to share!
"Let the fucker loose already!"
I continue to laugh. Tears run down my face. I am laughing. It feels rockets. I am full with glee. Most thrilled with what has become of the morning.
She yells, "Let him loose!"
The man is showing his teeth trying to remain focused on the mutt as he's becoming eruptious with my behavior. I stare into his eyes. They are small for his head. He breaks his focus and looks at me, with those tiny eyes, to yell, "Let your-" He stops his plea as Dillinger is suddenly bursting towards him. The betty screams as Dillinger closes on him fast. I catch her in the side of her face and she flips over the edge, taking the uzi with her. The man looks over in time to see her legs disappear in an instant and tries to scream "NO!" as Dillinger shoots, ripping out his throat in one brutal tug. The man looks at me astonished, still trying to scream with blood spouting out of his exposed throat. He drops the axe and collapses to the ground, with a fading gargle. Dillinger proudly trots back to me still holding the flap of skin and I kneel down again, giving him another piece of the salted meat. I give myself one of the suckers, lime.
I decide the ax is much too heavy, so I toss it over into the bay. I can't believe she nabbed the uzi on her way over, I thought it was mine for sure. The man has a box of matches, which is tizzy, because I'm almost out. That's it though, nothing else of use. Twenty one pistol bullets now. I replace the empty. Flick that shell and the ones from the park off the bridge one at a time wondering how many people I've killed. I ruff up Dillinger's fur for a moment and then continue across the bridge into Prittsco, pondering my chances of scoring.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Morning Commute
The morning commute brings out the truth
The selfishness
The bitterness
That one feels when put at odds with the rest of humanity
at a disadvantage
The selfishness
The bitterness
That one feels when put at odds with the rest of humanity
at a disadvantage
New Article for Working Class Magazine
This is an article I wrote about my friend, the incredible artist Brandon Friend, which will be in the November issue of Working Class, the Boy issue. Check it out:
CLICK HERE TO READ ARTICLE!
Friday, October 7, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Bus Driver
On the weekends I opened, so I would get there at 8 and she'd already be there. She was enormous and dark as asphalt. I never learned her name. She was there for the QuickDraw. She was there to stare at the blue screen and the white lines, hoping for the 3D ball to land on her numbers. It was a liquor store, but really it was sustained by the QuickDraw worshipers and the scratch off ticket junkies. At first I found it odd that she spent so much time there but over time I became acclimated to her presence as though she was a velvet painting or some ornate lightswitch cover. I would watch her thick fingers scratching in her numbers with the plastic halfpencils. I found myself staring at the huge mole on her cheek. The mole was darker still, achieving true black, and it hung from her skin like a marble attached with a dab of epoxy, like it might break off and roll away any moment. She never brought anything to eat or drink and I don't recall her ever using the tiny bathroom with its woodpanel wallpaper. Harvey let her run her own cards into the machine. This was the same man that checked my bag every time I closed, trying to act as if it was more of a joke than an accusation. She worked longer hours I did considering I at least got two days off. In the lot outside would rest her little yellow school bus. What kids call the short bus or in more extreme cases, the tart cart. I asked my boss Tom one day what he thought she would do if she hit all her numbers and found herself a millionaire. He said, it's better if you don't think about such things.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
design.plot
New video I edited for the girls at Domestic Construction for their crazy new endeavor, design.plot. Check it out!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
An advertisement for nothing
I don’t fit in this world
I’m confused by it
I look around and I see things that make sense
but at the same time don’t make any sense to me
I look up at the sky and can’t see a single star from my rooftop
I look at the freeway
and just see a stretch of cars fading into blinking lights
as they pass the many high poles
and I know this will never end
One strip white as they approach
one strip red as they retreat
all going to different places
all important
all unique
all busy
In one direction I see the city that I have to work in every day
a mass, stacked circuit board of people in a rush
that are getting in my way
kindness stands out in the city
it is the exception to the rule
and when it’s viewed in passing it is a miraculous thing
look to the children when you are in the city, if you want to see real people
because everyone else is just too busy
or homeless
In the other direction I have what people from the country might consider a city
low lying stretch of yellow lights
blocked out by the occasional square, unimportant building
sometimes topped by a small tower that no one will ever shoot a rifle from
This rooftop is my sanctuary
it’s my escape from the box, inside of the box
it’s where I smoke my mostly cigarettes
it’s where I record myself speaking into my phone
and it’s where I breathe the freshest air I can get
as it swirls in from that busy city and mixes with the air from the BQE
I look down at the windows
the many rows of parallel glowing rectangles
all with their own colors
some with patterns
and I rarely see any people
and if I do
they are either doing the dishes
or setting their alarm for the next morning
In the distance there’s a billboard
A tall suspended white rectangle
there’s no advertising on it
there’s nothing on it
it’s just a white rectangle
It’s an advertisement for what I'm talking about
Nothing
The nothing that used to occur on long trips with horse drawn buggies
the nothing of a day
the nothing of fishing
and of listening to insects
the nothing of a sunset
or laying in the grass and looking at the stars
the nothing of a day without spoken words
the nothing of a life lived normally and naturally
this advertisement goes unnoticed by both the white strip of lights and the red
and soon it will be covered in a poster for a 3D movie
and before long that advertisement will be in 3D
and after that maybe they’ll send up artificial lights
to compensate for the thick smog that obscures our stars
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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