YEAH.

Photo

Wed, 22 May 2013 17:16:37 -0400

america is not real

Sun, 19 May 2013 06:09:03 -0400

america is not real

ORANGE BLOOMS (working title)

Wed, 15 May 2013 19:57:51 -0400

This is it.

You wake up and you know.

There’s nothing to give it away. No ominous black dog howling outside your bedroom window. The clocks haven’t stopped. It is 10:34 in the morning on a seemingly normal Saturday. In a minute it will be 10:35 on a seemingly normal Saturday. You turn on the TV, kind of hoping that there will be any news that proves that this is not a seemingly normal Saturday. Hoping to prove your gut feeling right. The screen in front of you flickers from static black to static white. The white holds. In your head it stretches out, the white oozing from the screen. It slimes onto your bare toes and upward. When the white enters your eyes it flickers to a blue background and a needlessly stern looking man sitting at a desk in the foreground. The man stares at you and brings you back to reality. This is you sitting in front of the news. The man tells you about a murder last night, a politician somewhwere resigns, someone won an award, sports teams won, sports teams lost, the weather today will be sunny enough. This is the news everyday. There is no statistical evidence to suggest that today is different to any other. There is merely the anecdotal evidence of a unease in your gut and a minute crackling of energy over your skin.

You look from the television screen to your reflected self in a full length mirror. You keep your eyes on the mirror and watch yourself turn off the television. You gaze deeply into your own eyes as you strip from your pyjamas. Standing naked for a moment you wonder if you are seducing or analysing yourself. Not consciously selecting the items of clothing, you find yourself with an outfit for the day. Still filthy – covered in the dirt of sleep – you forgo showering and dress yourself. Watch as you pull the denim over your feet, around your ankles, over your knees and around your hips. Feel the shirt loosely wrap your arms and tighten over your body as your hands fasten the shirt’s buttons around your chest. Dressed, you switch your view to your bare feet and watch them, step-by-step, as they carry you out the door.

…

The streets seem wider without traffic and fellow pedestrians circulating through them. There are no sounds of children playing or birds calling. There is only the sound of a light breeze as it rushes past you to rustle the leaves of trees in branches overhead. Hearing nothing, not even the voice in your head, you receive an instruction to get a coffee from the nearest cafe and you obey.

The cafe, on the corner of a normally busy and now desolate road, much like its surrounds is abandoned. It still buzzes with the sound of busied espresso machines and clanking and thudding emanating from the kitchen out back, but not a single person can be seen as the originator for the operation of these sounds. You walk through this haunted scene with your eyes down. Although previously seeking an explanation to your inner score of the unusual, you find yourself unwilling to eagerly explore something as bizarre as this. With your eyes still down you approach the counter and make an order.

Minutes later you sit at a table outside. In front of you your hand traces out the word ‘NOTHING’ into a journal you suppose you must have brought with you. Scanning the table you see that your coffee has been brought to you. With the same black ben pen that wrote ‘NOTHING’ you draw crude little stars surrounding ‘NOTHING’. You notice that the coffee is in a take-away container. It is clear the cafe wants you to leave.

You walk away from the cafe consoling yourself about your lack of investigation into its haunting. You tell yourself that it’s okay because it wasn’t the kind of weird you wanted. The breeze that has been gently pushing past you all morning runs out and is replaced with air raid sirens.

…

The sirens have screamed unwaveringly for an hour or more now. The slow rise and fall of pitch and volume makes your movements feel like swimming in a sonic sea. No one comes out from their homes to queery the sound. You are starting to wonder if anyone is home today. More importantly, you are starting to wonder if you will see anyone so you can ask if they hear the sirens too. Your hands tremble in the pockets of your jeans. You walk on into the sirened suburbia. You start paying attention to the movement of all points of articulation in your legs as they carry you on; from the roll of your ankles, to the sudden straighten then gradual bend of your knees – repeating for a million or more steps. As you start to become hypnotised by the rhythmic grind where leg meets hip you become aware that the sirens have halted. You look up and you are back at the cafe. Its doors are sealed and all within lays quiet and dark.

…

Unable to find your home, you drift like flotsam through the streets. The chill that hides beneath the pavement rises as the sun sinks. The wind picks up and carries the heavy scent of smoke emanating from some secret and growing fire. You look upward to the darkening grey of the incoming night. Keeping your eyes to the skies you let yourself blindly stumble toward whatever is next. You find it suprising that you do not encounter a single obstacle. You find no root, rock or ledge to trip on. You walk straight and without interruption. You notice that only looking above, and not ahead, takes away all notion of distance travelled. If it wasn’t for the sky travelling from grey to navy blue then you wouldn’t notice your passage through time either. You carry on watching the skies until you notice a sharp change in the textures below your feet. The rough grind of pavement if over. Shifting from above to below you look around and see the fields of grass before you. The very last of the day’s light reflects off each individual blade. A voice calls to you and you turn your body to it. Looking toward the voice you see a brigade of people. Everyone within this group looks familiar, but none are known enough to spark a name. At the lead of the brigade is your closest friend from childhood, possibly your first ever true friend. Their hair has grown a lot shaggier since you saw them last, their whole aura seems disshevelled. When they speak their voice sounds sanded down. They tell you that they have been waiting for you and that they are glad you came.

Your friend grabs your hand. Until this exact moment you hadn’t been aware of how delicate and smooth your own hands were; until this moment of comparison as your friend threads their rough wedge-like fingers through yours. It doesn’t feels like an invasion, it feels cohesive. Something warm starts in your chest. You feel a smile and look to your friend smiling back at you. A high whistle cracks through the atmosphere. Your friend tells you that it is starting and points over the the ovals of grass, over the points of trees surrounding, to the city in the distance. The whistle grows until it rings into the spaces between everything. You look out onto the city. The buildings; unlit, quiet, dark and barely visible against the night sky. The whistle breaks and is replaced with nothing. The buildings are illuminated and then become silhouettes as an orange light blooms amidst them. The bloom grows and the buildings break apart. The ruins of the buildings look like black snow floating upward into an orange sky.

Your close your eyes, grip your friend’s hand tighter.

You think you hear violins.

This is it.

specialteam: Co-Drawing with seriousyeah.tumblr.com Co-drawing...

Tue, 14 May 2013 08:45:14 -0400

specialteam:

Co-Drawing with seriousyeah.tumblr.com

Co-drawing with Special Team dot friendship dot cool

ghostghost: Murray got his nails did Black Lightening

Sun, 12 May 2013 10:01:38 -0400

ghostghost:

Murray got his nails did

Black Lightening

ghostghost: susiea: Lazy lava lounge Drama of my lounge...

Sun, 12 May 2013 10:00:40 -0400

ghostghost:

susiea:

Lazy lava lounge

Drama of my lounge room

I am good at lazy.

uglylittlehologramchildren: Actually the best boyfran...

Sat, 04 May 2013 02:12:45 -0400

uglylittlehologramchildren:

Actually the best boyfran ev.

Actually the best boy fran f’ev.

misskayvee: Charlie on President Obama Nailed it.

Sat, 04 May 2013 01:45:25 -0400

misskayvee:

Charlie on President Obama

Nailed it.

wnyc: Brooklyn is showing some gratitude to the late Beastie...

Sat, 04 May 2013 01:07:26 -0400

wnyc:

Brooklyn is showing some gratitude to the late Beastie Boy Adam Yauch, known as MCA, by renaming the Brooklyn Heights playground that he visited as kid after the rapper who died of cancer last year.
MORE

hansonohaver: What these guys didn’t know when they threw my...

Sat, 04 May 2013 01:03:40 -0400

hansonohaver:

What these guys didn’t know when they threw my camera out of my hands, breaking it and prematurely exposing the film, is that it would make for really cool pictures.

susiea: Let us enjoy our lives together by viewing snap chats

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 12:30:44 -0400

susiea:

Let us enjoy our lives together by viewing snap chats

Listen and feel blessed

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 05:22:59 -0400

Listen and feel blessed

Now this is solid.

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 05:28:00 -0400

Now this is solid.

YO MAMA SO FAT THAT WE ARE BUT THE CELLS WITHIN HER BODY

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 05:48:18 -0400

YO MAMA SO FAT THAT WE ARE BUT THE CELLS WITHIN HER BODY

n6jlv: open heart glitchery

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 05:09:03 -0400

n6jlv:

open heart glitchery

HR DEPARTMENT: THE MOVIE

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 05:02:57 -0400

THIS TIME IT’S PERSONNEL

DEAR DIARY: THE MOVIE

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 05:02:05 -0400

THIS TIME IT’S PERSONAL

EY BITCH LET ME WHISPER IN YA EAR

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 17:54:17 -0500

EY BITCH LET ME WHISPER IN YA EAR

I’m an art critic and my opinion is I don’t like it.

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 22:00:17 -0500

I’m an art critic and my opinion is I don’t like it.

Photo

Sun, 03 Mar 2013 17:48:38 -0500