Tag: link

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This Won’t End Well

Day 462

http://gorillaartfare.com/2010/02/dont-finkfeeeel/

She was naked. And halfway in and halfway out of a marble wall.

I was a dog, another species unable to appreciate her beauty. Except I wasn’t. I was as human as she appeared to be.

Of the three of us, her, me, and the marble wall, only the wall responded to her prescense. It swirled and splashed with pastel illustrations of feathers, fronds, and joyous bongols. These happy illustrations radiated from the rose-like flower blooming between her pale breasts. I wasn’t sure if she caused this or if the wall volunteered. Many of the sinuous petals looked to have smiling faces.

Except for her hands, which she tucked modestly between her legs, a crisp angle defined the intersection of her body and the plane of the wall. Her hands though, more her fingers…fingertips really, extended vaguely into a shadow beyond the surface of the wall’s reality. In that deeper world she might have perched on the cusp of a tall tower like a gargoyle or sat on the prow of a fantastic sailing ship. She wore short brown hair.

The body and face of a maiden with the eyes of a matron.

“I am asking you a question,” the maiden said.

She asked me a question? Or will ask? “Huh?”

“I will be asking you a question. You may choose to answer yes or no,” the matron clarified.

“But in the end I’ll be doing whatever you wish of me?”

“Of course,” answered the heart of a crone.

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Timothy Truly Thought

Day 450

http://ffffound.com/image/f360115412698c63e94dac0a50212b0fcdc38a25

Exactly 45% through 1000 days of daily writing. I’d be further if I’d written daily. I think I’d be done. Sigh.

I’m digging through my Evernote finds hoping to pull a charming maquette out of the bunch the way you flip a Beatles LP out of a stand of old records in a atticked box. I’m only finding the Bee Gees though. Maybe some days you just can’t have the Fab Four…

Timothy hunches in the auditorium chair appreciating the stark silhouette his shadow produces on the cement and the stackability of a row of cloned chairs: square chrome legs, orange cloth seats. He doesn’t know why the room is black. He doesn’t know why a single spot light beams into the crowd of chairs rather than the performance-free stage. He adjusts his shoulders to make the outline of his head on the floor distinct from the peaks of his jean jacket collar. Better.

Looking for an escape from the wedding party, he truly thought the door that swung open would lead to the outside and a polite secret smoke in the hotel ally. Instead he got this egotistically lit room. Of course he sat right down in the singular illuminated throne. But, as neatly as it served his mood initially, he still needed that smoke.

A pack of Marlboros appears out of habit. He packs it down and plucks out a lucky one before he realizes he’s decided to smoke in a building. Timothy casts back in the chair to prop it up on its two back legs so that he can fish his lighter out of his jeans.

Some more stuff happened but I ran out of time to write it today.

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Kameel Perd

http://gorillaartfare.com/2009/11/huntress/


I thought I’d have some luck cruising Gorilla Artfare for visual fodder for my textual habit.  I did.

This one is from a favorite of mine: Nonie.  I’ve written from her work in the past and bought a few cards from her site to support her and to say thanks.  Going from memory because I want to stay on target for my writing, she’s a illustrator working for game companies creating character sketches.  I dig that and am jealous.

Got lost in hunting down a suitable name.  I don’t like it the best, but I’ll go with a straight translation of ‘giraffe’ into Afrikaans: kameelperd.  This way I can get moving.  Also, gorget: collar armor; spaulder: shoulder armor.

I may look simple and confident in this picture: my Dam’s hoops gleaming at my ears; my Da’s hand-me-down armguards and turtle-shell spaulder fitting so well I felt like I was donning his pride as I put them on only three hours prior.  However, this is the moment the exhilaration of my [special] hunt stepped over the root to utter fear.

Rose was the assistant.  The photographer’s name was Guy Tetreault, a French-Canadian university student, on a semester abroad.  Stand over here. Your hooves to the bungalow, please. But turn your head to me.  Chin down just a wee touch.  More.  Bien.  Rose can you even out the bird’s tail feathers for her?  Merci.  Still too busy.  Can we lose the bow and quiver? Clean, sharp, excellent.  Now hand her the spear.

He didn’t know what he was doing, he got lucky—in everything.

As I’m back trailing how hard my life has been since that moment I like to imagine it was all his fault.  That he did know what he was doing.  That he purposefully derailed who I was to be and made me who I became.  True path is I accepted that bull’s spear the same way I’ve taken everything hence: arrogantly and willfully.

http://gorillaartfare.com/2009/11/huntress/
I thought I’d have some luck cruising Gorilla Artfare for visual fodder for my textual habit.  I did.

This one is from a favorite of mine: Nonie.  I’ve written from her work in the past and bought a few cards from her site to support her and to say thanks.  Going from memory because I want to stay on target for my writing, she’s a illustrator working for game companies creating character sketches.  I dig that and am jealous.

Got lost in hunting down a suitable name.  I don’t like it the best, but I’ll go with a straight translation of ‘giraffe’ into Afrikans: kameelperd.  This way I can get moving.

gorget
Spaulder

I may look simple and confident in this picture: my Dam’s hoops gleaming at my ears; my Da’s hand-me-down armguards and turtle-shell spaulder fitting so well I felt like I was donning his pride as I put them on only three hours prior.  However, this is the moment the exhileration of my [special] hunt stepped over the root to utter fear.

The photographer’s name was Guy Tetreault, a French-Canadian university student, on a semester abroad.  Stand over here.  Your hooves to the bungalo, please. But turn your head to me.  Chin down just a wee touch.  Marcie can you even out the bird’s tail feathers?  Merci.  Still too busy.  Can we lose the bow and quiver? Excellent.  Now hand her the spear.  He didn’t know what he was doing, he got lucky—in everything.

As I’m back trailing how hard my life has been since that moment I like to imagine it was all his fault.  That he did know what he was doing.  That he purposefully derailed who I was to be and made me who I became.  True path is I accepted that bull’s spear the same way I’ve taken everything hence: arrogantly and willfully.