This is certainly my best work. Of course, as artists, we always claim this: that our very last painting is always the very best. Well, this is often true. In many ways it is for this one. I have discovered a form of layering as a technique I wasn’t involved in because of my very impressionist or post-impressionist bent. Now however, I am approaching pure subject matter. Or as they say in the web world, content is king.
My vision is paramount to me: to relay “The Visions” as this is what this painting represents as a brand new series. It is still to be considered “Meta-Surrealism” because it literally is the mind as a landscape. Mine. It’s a way to see inside what’s in my head. This particular series “Visions” has come to me in dreams as singular images. This is how most of my art that really means anything happens to come: as revelations. More over I want to get across is the vision of a utopic world as possible and something so large that we at present cannot comprehend it. Or, like looking ten thousand years into the future.
I am going for archetypal meaning as all my “mythology” and not “monster of the week artwork” tends to be. I try to stay away from any sort of specificity in terms of the subject. I want a world we don’t know, but is perhaps only similar to us in style. I want an epic-as-life universe and sense of life with this one.
1. That an abdication of intellectual life, as one guided primarily by reason in most realms; is an abdication of the right to liberty and the pursuit of happiness. i.e. the right to vote
2. That human social organization is to be dictated by the mental advancement and self-actualization of its constituent individuals.
3. That free will is only free within the known, and therefore, the known must be expanded as a moral imperative for the protection of value, life and liberty and the constuent members of the society, by the constituent members of that society.
4. That not all humans are created equal, by evolutionary design, but that it is the onus of humans to correct this by means of technology.
5. That inassimilable cultures are to be dealt with by means of peace and evasion whereever possible. i.e. the prime directive from Star Trek
6. That disagreements are not the result of preference or will, but of a gap in knowledge. Hence, it is therefore the onus of those disagreeing, to resolve that gap, and never wherever possible, to consent to disagreement.
7. That all presently irresolvable conflicts are permited to remain pending on the basis of ongoing knowledge seeking and reexamination.
I have given up much in the name of my principles. I have seen very few people even hold, when I’m really honest with myself; (other than my fiancé 🙂 to any standards at all other than framed by what can be traced directly to mere survival. I am lucky to be in love with someone who holds to standards outside their mainstream society; a feat far greater than I’d ever imagined for people.
My own betrayal lies in associating myself (in the past) with those who are really despite all facades (and they can be convincing) devoid of culture. But what is culture you might ask? Our postmodern sensibilities tell us it is after all, all relative. I know better, and that the reality is that these are the last vestiges of The Enlightenment we are seeing, now finally disappearing.
The paragraph itself has shrunk in the last 30 years to one fifth its size. Art has become decorative and really nothing more. The idea of introspection is a rumor and conditioned out of the population. Music is on its last legs. Soon, and especially Americans will be nothing more than overly informed savages. People, for the most part work at meaningless jobs that work to no greater end. As Chomsky points out, it is very reminiscent in America of the 1930’s Germany: “People are down and out, not even knowing what to be frightened of.”
At the same time the Military is about to be so powerful in human history, that we are probably witnessing the last days of resistance. It’s going to be impossible soon. Like, actually too powerful to overthrow. The population will spread so thin that we will all be made into Tokyo like cells for rooms. A mob of the unemployed is coming and so are televised executions. We’re looking at 12 Monkeys and 1984 as tame renditions of our future.
Radical action is the only action we can afford and still have a chance and changing the direction of the tide. I only conceive of what is necessary in my nightmares. I remember a time when getting pulled over meant you were innocent until proven guilty. Now we work to prove our innocence. Museums are for show, galleries; ostensible.
The nightmare is here and we are in it. The only thing to do is collect those last people that still care about education, art, culture, wisdom, philosophy…poetry… Collect each other, start colonies, drop out of the vacuum “culture” we live in.
I remember the scene in 12 Monkeys where Bruce Willis’s character sticks his head out the car window and breathes in the air, exclaiming “SO FRESH!” Then, putting on a little music, lapping the sounds up like honey… see this movie, understand what movies and stories like it are saying. Their real message lies in a premonition: we are on the verge of the total nightmare: WAKE UP.
Organization of people into decentralized colonies is totally feasible, even without the grid due to all the technologies the people now possess. Any participation in the traditional society is about completely meaningless. Peer to peer is what the Internet made possible on a scale never before seen in human history. And no one has really caught on to its true potential. It is my goal to seek those out who also wish to drop out, to drop in. Humans have the ability to predict their fates to a degree far more than the other animals. Make no mistake, there is THEY. Let’s not let Them take that away from Us, too.
“He’s also a member?”
Almost snorting, Camille spat a retort at her. “Of what?” she quipped. “The preferred Homecoming King along with being an aspiring scientist, right Helen?”
“Ah, that’s right Pam.”
She didn’t care, they couldn’t get away with this. So she skipped the doubt she had of any success, and…
He sat down alongside Helen, sliding in. He did have that great long low jaw jutting far from his neck, gracefully, but strong. Eyes, blue, crystal blue like hers, and Helen’s. It wasn’t a coincidence, blue eyes were the CAMBIAN or USC genetic preference for most parents. There was that taffiness again with Andrew though, when he smiled, like with David, but ever so faintly.
She liked him, instantly, despite everything, but she was reproachful and skeptical of what she considered his potential intellect at that point. Or maybe she was just a Louse, a Tramp, a Floozy, a Slut..? Well, no that would be a good thing, she gandered…
Maybe I’m just attracted to like, everybody. I like to feel beauty, or ugliness sometimes…
“I understand you’re Camille.”
Andrew immediately came out with. extending his hand as if to kiss hers, not to shake. They shook hands.
“Where’s Helen?” said Rachael dismissively.
“Oh she’ll be here in a minute…” said Gorsky.
Pam talked for a bit with them, and then…
“Well I’ll let you two get acquainted…” she said in the general-you tone.
Rachael didn’t have much to say now.
Her mom and Nana both slid out of the booth, and they were alone.
“Okay, you seem really nice and all but, I mean first off, I don’t usually date Poles!”
He laughed. “My parents didn’t put me up to this.”
“To what?? For what?” she replied.
“Well, to meet you.”
“Oh,” she said in defeat.
“What, what’s wrong with–”
“–What did your mom or Helen or whoever–tell you?”
“Um, I know Helen, cause Mr. Damiand’s son. Do you know Dr. Damiand? He works with Helen.”
She remembered Helen and Erol or was it, David? -Talking about something like that, but couldn’t pull anything specific out of her memory right then and there.
“No I guess I don’t.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Okay, so whatever, we have to make this sustainable here and now, so okay, what do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a student, I want to be an engineer.”
“The kind that works on stuff,” he said, smiling. His light and candid demeanor were working on her…she had to admit.
There was suddenly, out of nowhere it seemed, a long awkward pause between them.
He came right out with it. “Do you have a Boyfriend?”
“I dunno, seemed like a good starting point to better conversation…”
“Indeed,” she came at him with, still having no idea how to react, looking afraid…
By the time Helen, Pam, the Colonel, and Nana were all back at the table, she and Gorsky were playing footsie and poking at each other, trying not to be seen.
Pam and Helen were glowing synchronously.
Rachael felt that dagger again. And the sensation of eating poison, with enough distraction to want it.
But why is Helen smiling? Smile as you kill I guess, huh Helen?
Just then the taffy man himself came on a levitating View, happening to have stopped at their table to relay ads and information on where to buy things and Tourist attractions too…
Rachael was the only one to look above their booth. She poked her head, trying to get a mental snapshot of everything around her.
There were just as many Views hovering from table to table, each of them a flexible, shape shifting monolith, many translucent rectangular variations floating intelligently around the room. The Huge View before them in particular was a taffy-like man, but out of control taffy, and scary! Rachael thought this, without enough time to make conclusions—
“—Hahahahahaahahahaahahahaha!” The man chuckled, uproariously–at everything. Like a demon with altogether characteristically loose cackling jaw!
“I’m Guy Migger, featuring those tried and true consumer products only YOU deserve!”
She thought seriously that he could any moment be featuring Monster Trucks, and in the next moment, a Nazi rally. The next? Soap. Then…?
He disappeared. Oddly.
Reappearing to replay Monster Trucks, Adolf Hitler speaking softly to a man, then. Then Soap.
Rachael was going to vomit. ‘The fear,’ the dark fear had returned to torture her and rid her of peace of mind once again…
“Ah-hahahahaahahahahahahahaahahahahaha!!!” This discarnate head of a blonde blue eyed suburban mad man was of some generic early 2030’s ‘Epoche’ or period style ‘Characateur’–come-to-life! He had slicked back hair and a sturdy pressed collar. Stylistically, he appeared like a mesh between comic books themselves, and real life. Whatever that was anymore.
“Actually Guy Micker, was the name of the real one here.” Helen said it.
“Who?” Pam came in with, like a doe in the lair of a Gigantic Spider.
The Colonel and his wife were fading into the wallpaper, and fast…a sad tinkering could be heard, of Nana softly letting the spoon drop from her hand onto the Micro tea plate. The Colonel just sat there, staring at the table.
Helen continued over to Pam. “Guy Micker, the ol’ Tycoon maniac? You don’t remember him?”
“I mean, Helen, come now, and how many Cereal Killers have we had in the last few years? Like 30?”
Pam had made a genuinely rational point. Rachael noticed it. So did Camille.
“That’s who this is based out of, and it just happened to actually catch on. Masochistic to me…”
She’d never seen Helen, even the likes of Helen be so intelligent. Rachael lapped it up, then reproached herself for being such a cunt licker!
Guy Migger went on to describe the inevitable product he was no doubt about to shove down everyone’s throats–before which, he could only tell you about the new press for superiority against Utah, and the USC fight to prevail.
They’re using our fear of fear. And wait, why again, why isn’t Helen feeling guilty about torturing me right now? She must know!
Somewhere in her, she was confessing to herself, uncovering her own dirty little secret of wanting to like Helen, and blighting herself. Then beating her head with a mental punishing Switch for giving into it…
“Hey wait, isn’t the USC done with Utah? I mean, isn’t Utah, like kaput or what not???” Andrew asked, urgently. Something intelligent. It had to have been a plant. Of her mom’s, no doubt…
It had to be! Just had to!
Rachael felt more and more just mere Rachael, as if to age, backwards. No more Camille, no more future adult. Just fucking damn regular old Rachael…She was getting desperate to believe herself and hold to Reality.
My reality? NO. Somewhere the word ‘My’ could not go with Reality. No sir, she thought. Only a grammatical article such as THE could fit something so large, finite and yet, vast.
And no respect for it, not anywhere, save from this jack ass hot guy who could talk, and Helen, this demon of a package, with independence inside. From her mom. From CAMBIAN. From Voca’s, and Finally Fourteen…
The Onslaught Toilet-Bowl, Poo Wars, Vast Stone of Flies!
Nevertheless, was she to give in to it?
Never. She’d sworn. Long ago.
It would be so easy if Pam hated Helen. But she didn’t. And Pam liked her back, and golf liked them both. And they were evil, they had to be. Both of them.
It made her want to fuck Andrew while shooting at her mom appendage by appendage, until she got to blow her brains out and cum all over his face.
She came back. To the table.
“So glad you’ve joined us again,” Pam said.
She was getting a heady sensation. And low, so low. Need to breathe…
“Move, please, I’m sorry And–” Her mom gave her a look of no life beyond death.
Shrugging, she decided not to care, as she pushed her own way out of the booth and onto the red carpet, straight away to the restroom.
She was washing her hands and then she came to her again.
Softly, ever so gently…again. She knew it was coming.
“Una,” she stated, gravely.
“Don’t give into them. They’re only skin deep.”
“You’re still talking in metaphors. Clichés again, no less. Seems to make sense though.”
Terror had become visible as a medium to her in that instant.
Controllable. Maybe someday.
“I’ll talk to you some more, and better ways, if you take that injection…” said Una.
It was her, the real Una she had seen long before.
The faint apparition in the mirror pointed softly to her left. There, right there, slightly under the instant hand drying unit, was indeed a cylindrical misty blue syringe.
“Take it in.”
Rachael, I can’t believe you are about to do this.
“Are you really here? I mean, this is real as it gets, Real. But how can I know, and really know that I am not dreaming?”
“You can’t,” said Una.
There was a pause.
“You can’t Rachael.”
“Fine!” She figured her fear of what was out there scared her more, and in that moment, took the needle into her foot.
And in a swarm, she saw the poppy fields. And the Towers. The mirror expanded to reveal an endless field meeting a gigantic seaside and a sky of enormous clouds.
The waves were close and far away. They were playing her music, a long time ago. A phonograph played endlessly into the landscape.
And with that, a vertical torrent of sudden cascading tears, Rachael’s Terror fell out the bottom in streams down her cheeks and neck and chest where they disappeared forever. “No, no no!….Okay, okay, I don’t fucking care anymore! Just show me!” She was wailing, snorting and sucking in her mouth, blubbering with trying to press through the murk of pure fear.
When she was finally calm. Una spoke to her again.
“I can speak now, to you, and it will make sense to you, even though I am really, still speaking like you heard before.”
“Yes. I understand. Why haven’t you come to me before?”
“Wasn’t able to.”
“Okay. Where are we now then? I’m still at the Buffa Grill right? And how much time do I have before my fucking mom or anybody walks in?”
“Don’t worry Rachael, I’ve slowed down the rest of the restaurant.”
“What do you mean, slowed down? Like they’re, I’m guessing, their movement…?”
“Their molecules are moving at a fraction slower, making it effectively–”
“Two different places!?”
“Different places? Yes, you could call them that. Not really. “What happens to the two worlds is important to them.”
“Them, Rachael. Them.”
“Oh GAWD, fine!”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that Rachael, Camille, and Halea.”
“I’m all three, I suppose.”
“No. One after the other.”
“What? What does that mean? Can I be put off a ‘need-to- know’ basis right now, please?”
“No? No, what do you mean, no?!”
“I mean, it would upset the Race. I want to see a true winner.”
She realized she’d meant to say it as a question, but instead, it seemed to assert itself as a statement.
“What race?!” Rachael growled at her.
“No need, really no need Rachael…You must realize you are one in a herd.”
“Don’t–Wha–Not you. Don’t tell me this, not from you…”
“Don’t worry Rachael, I’ll take care of you. Just play my little Game here…”
“Give her over to the Indonesian Client.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
“You’re just telling me, for…”
“You’ll see her.”
Una disappeared in that instant.
“Be cryptic, be that way, you fuckin’ sadistic Bitch.”
Back at the table her mom was recounting newly purchased accessories while Andrew was arriving from somewhere else, at the exact same time.
“Where were you?” Rachael inquired.
“Using the facilities, same as you.”
Why didn’t I see you on the way back then?” she snapped back at him, instantly.
He looked at everyone as if to get permission, then said laughing in a jocular, yet defensive tone, throwing his hands up rhetorically while he spoke further–”I didn’t think it was that big a deal!” He chuckled some more.
She tried to calm herself. Her mom began pushing her a bit further into her seat as she soothed the back of her neck.
“You’re being paranoid, Rach!” he said to her, as if he’d known her for years.
You don’t know me yet, okay?”
She’d said it right in front of Helen, who just seemed to watch with a placid look on her face.
“Okay, okay girl, sure no prob.”
He sucker punched her. Like Kim would.
Right, like Kim would. Nice try Una.
But was it her?
He laughed with everyone else, whole heartedly this time. Rachael looked peaked.
“Do you need to go back to the restroom Rach?” Pam asked, dully.
RD AUTO Message 178: Fri 18, Octobre 2086 — Fairview, VA Main-Line USC – CAMBIAN – SUBURBAN ‘Inner Crust’ Territory: ‘MM-PS 255 Munich District 5’
As it were.
The room was fairly quiet, no one dared to try and make a sound.
Other than their Role Call Voices.
The colossal Gym Room seemed only to crane from above. As if witnessing the long gradual motion of a distant shooting star.
They kept on in a droning, murmuring…faintness. Squeaky voices slipped into the Gym stratosphere, as if sucked up by the lines they thought were probably the roof’s intricate paths of crisscrossing Metal rafters.
Every five minutes or so, you could hear the tiny threads of students running by, flitting past the long slit windows of the four rows of pale blue double doors; repeating off into the Gym, lining nearly the entire course of every wall receding into the big white beige of the Room. Five hundred and seventy doors total. The lines of Gurls were near the first doors of their Section, off to one corner: Exital Orb-Group Section B114, Sqaure Resendo 8.
Somewhere in the distance were the faint suggestions of other Sluts doing acrobatics.
Wasn’t a big deal if you did make a little cough or hand gesture fiddling with a shirt or something, but you weren’t really supposed to. Some people disappeared. No one wanted to disappear.
The Coach cradled a thin old brick slate with actual pen and paper, facing the square grid of five long, distinct rows.
Out of the blue, Camille randomly placed a disingenuous foot outside her Square. For kicks. No one would care, per se, but it was there, her foot. Placed outside the Square. Retracted it instantly when Ms. Steven’s bobbly head peered up again. What is she reading on that damned sheet of paper that takes up the entirety of her attention for that long?
“Jenny??” Everyone laughed. Ms. Stevens smiled at Jenny.
There was something peculiar about Jenny today, though…
Her neck. There was something curling around it, Rachael observed, wrapping around the base or something… Something dark like a bruise. She couldn’t put a finger on it from her range.
It was first Session. Rotating Session, which meant, Gym class at the beginning of the day. Feet felt clammy and hard meeting unremitting tile. So cold.
They’d all pass time with a gradual muted little dance to keep their feet from freezing. Like they were laughing without smiles or sound. All wore faded red short-shorts with darkening white T’s. None of these dress ‘uniforms’ were ever really washed. Just stuffed into lockers day in and day out. Neither Rachael’s, which one could smell of female essence if it weren’t for the boundless space of the enormous Gym.
It would take a solid forty-five minutes for Role Call to finish, and when it did, every one of the seventy or so females had to herd into the locker room.
First, today though, “Basketball tryouts!” Ms. Stevens added, placing the RC sheet and board under an arm. Steven’s uniform was washed.
Sighs and grunts like chimps let out with this last word.
“Okay, okay, let’s settle down girls!” shouted the dikey buzz cut P.E. Teacher with echoes not caught by any Sound Web to mute them, the sharp grating tones, vacant and unpromising.
“See how long you can hold em up girls.”
It was painful. Part of Role Call was that you had to hold up the girl in front of you, then rotate after half of Role Call was finished. No one rotated anymore though. Most of the time it took place to cradle ‘the dead,’ the girls too drunk or high from the night before to even stand. Instead of being sent to the First Aid room, they could at least show up for attendance first. Other Gurls were just doing it to make the rows uniform in appearance.
The object was to see how long you could hold the other one up. It seemed. Or is it a trust exercise? Rachael couldn’t care less to remember all the reasons for the cradling of your front partner in Gym.
“Hold her up there Lindi.”
“Linderen,” corrected Camille, instantly.
“Whatever sweetie, jus’ keep holdin’ her up by her armpits.”
Sally’s pits were wet and cold, but Cam’s fingers bunched into fists that acted as a push-up bra. Camille could feel her finger tips burrowing into the flesh of breasts and underarms. The tips of the girl’s straggly short sleeves appeared to be slightly crusty, the creases nearly wet from sweat stains. Fleshy bruises would be left there from Rachael’s grip, but at least the girl didn’t have to rest outside her Square.
Ms. Stevens was rather weighty and tended to center over where her monumental gut was hanging, though somewhat hidden inside her T-shirt. Like a big billowy bag to catch her guts.
Some kids were just too tired. There was always a TwoKiloRun before any Gym class as well, not every kid made it through. Even at the very start of the day. It’d been way too cold out.
Everyone had to be in five perfect rows, no matter what, for morning Role Call.
Camille was holding up Grace, a tall girl like her, who’d just taken too many Injections the night before…or…whatever… Maybe she’s pretending…
Everyone knew what that was like. She wasn’t the only one, there were fourteen or so girls basically keeling over if it weren’t for the ones behind them, barely holding them to their feet.
“Why do we still have role call, coach? I mean, doesn’t Janus take care of attendance?”
“Look, like I’ve said a trillion times, Janus, eh, Err, UNA–doesn’t always catch everything.”
But that was only what they’d told her. In Reality, Una was Perfect. Everyone knew it, but the instructors had to do role call anyway.
When everyone lined up again for Basketball tryouts, Ms. Stevens had them practice shooting first. The girls lined up, single file before each of the four hoops on each wall of the large Gymnasium. No one got to put on their shoes again until matt exercises.
They all missed, most of the time. About ten balls that never quite seemed to bounce enough, hit the floor as if with one disgruntled thud and bounced maybe halfway to the basket before someone had to help it to the goal. All the balls were a soft white. Some of them kinda deflated. A few girls kicked them, and that seemed to work better. None of them made it to the baskets without being hurled directly by hand from a short distance. To hit the ground most often with nothing more than a…thud.
“Okay Ladies, time to hit the matts! Lie down in five lines here on the five mats!”
The locker room stank of designer perfumes. All actual “BO” was monitored, but some still slipped into the stuffy room, overflowing with steam from the showers.
“Pick your soap and get in the showers, girls!”
She always watched them, Ms. Stevens. Watched them shower. They’d zone her out as she ‘stood watch.’
To make sure soap got over all over the bodies.
Jenny was still squirming her way through the showering bodies when she snuck around Camille and grabbed a boob.
“Woah! Hey, that ain’t free, Slut!”
Giving her that specialty kaleidescope look again, and with a curious little smile Jenny stuck both fingers inside Cam’s vagina. Then in her ass.
“Yeah, stop it!”
“Not much of a CAMBIAN girl, then huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the big push now: everybody’s bodies, are well…everybody else’s.”
Rachael’s face deflated into a precise rest.
“‘Oh, come on, not in the mood girl.” Cam whisked an ever persistent hand away from her pussy. But then Jenny, as usual, put a finger to her lips, slid it in her mouth, and tasted the juices of poor ol’ Rachael…
…Who kept turning to Ms. Stevens with looks of blank contemplation.
Stevens, in her yellow “T” remained stolid as ever there in the background…behind the thick heat. Crossing her arms and parting her legs like a Sergeant.
“Time is slowing,” uttered Cam, softly.
“What, what are you discussing with yourself now?” inquired Jenny.
“She does me favors you know…”
“Yeeeeah, I, –I know Jenny.”
She kept staring while the droplets of shower water fell and slipped over her brow and nose. The sight of Steven’s veiny cottage legs, irregular clumps of flesh and fat, remained the direction of her stare.
“Oh Cam!” Jenny’s intermittent voice seemed to dart around the rushing water, muted from it and chopped up like broken frequencies.
“What now Jenny,” grunted Camille, scrubbing her face with bare hands, accidentally sticking her index digit up her nose. “Ah, shit, what the fuck!”
“Hey, what’s with the weird fuckin’ scar, Jenny?”
“Eh, got some more Knife work done.”
“On your fucking neck? Dude, the thing is like a TummyTuck scar, or well, if you can’t get the more expensive VacuumPress nano shit…”
“You don’t what?”
“Jenny?” Jenny stopped talking.
“Come on bitch!”
Jenny was suddenly, seemingly in a very furtive way, staring at one of the other girls. Rachael scanned between the turning and pivoting whitening bodies, the even brighter florescently glaring, misty tile walls…but saw nothing but matted hair, buts, backs, landing strips, elbows, girls, tile and steam. And Ms. Stevens back in her office now, almost directly visible from the showers, if it weren’t for all the mist.
“I’d like you to meet a good New friend of mine.”
“Her name’s Gena.”
“Gena? Oh hi!” blathered Camille through the spouting ripples covering her lips as she moved from under the tiny spicket.
Camille felt Fear rise again. The Them again.
Gena was a Tranny. That meant, she had a penis, and a girl’s body. Weren’t many of them at Fairview. Yet.
“How do ya do!” shouted Gena in an overtly feminine voice, a tall tan Gurl, or Tranny, shaking her dick, about to show off the distinction between her and The Rest of the Otherly Gurls. It was a large one, and Camille kinda just rolled her eyes. She wasn’t always into dick out of context, but once in a blue moon could make an exception for a Tranny.
“Gena is um, well New, but I’m Sponsoring her anyway, she’s a great Tranny-Gurl.”
Camille knew she’d have to fuck her to break her into The Peer Group, and felt tiresome from chewing on the idea, so went on to do a little small talk while she cleaned her pussy more. She kept a vigilant eye on her own junk and not the dick–NOT the dick!
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America. And to the Republic, for which it stands, One Nation, Under God, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.”
“Oh come on Cam, it’s not like it’s a big deal, just put your fuckin’ hand over your heart…”
Camille could hear the bouncy ball of her mind, shooting around the room, dribbling onto the floor, once again, loosing its momentum…
Breathes in all chambers…
She thought about it, sex with a Nigger. That white pussy being penetrated softly yet hard, by another color.
Why always sex? Always.
She looked at his thighs. His back. The way he stood upright and Mr. Shermer, sitting there, hunched, broken over that old wooden desk with nothing but wood and metal bolts to hold it together…his beer gut flopping over his near invisible belt.
“Arthur. I love you.”
She could say.
Under her breath.
“Turn around. Turn around.”
“Is there something you need Cam?” The entire class turned around. Ah fuck, thinking aloud again, damn!
“Arthur?” Mr. Shermer stood up abruptly. “You are gonna have to exit as well, I’m afraid. An apology is expected.”
Without delay, cordially, Arthur Blina, this tall structure of a Boy in navy and white imperial CAMBIAN uniform, gathered his bag and left the room with hardly a squeek from his sleek, polished jet black combat boots proceeding as if to remain single file, toward the door. It shut gently with the clicking sound of its latch.
NeauBlurbs, transparent video messages from Peer-to-Peer were floating around the room, making sound only to those to whom it was sent…there were a lot of rich kids in History…
She knew she couldn’t exit the class without setting off the UFED alarm and as usual, her mom’s bank account would be chiseled off a hair.
“I think I’m sick, can I have a hall pass?”
Go ahead, Cam, I’ll remove the hallway InSessh Dect. He meant the InSession Detector.
It was a long way to the main office, where she’d assumed Arthur must have gone. This was the second time she’d seen him, and the first time up close. It was a weird to like a black guy, but…not so weird. She couldn’t help thinking how tall he was and what features! The way he spoke…narrow hips, wide shoulders. Egypt. Toothbrushes.
These sketches are the first draft sketches; inklings or the zygote for the Graphic Novel Series Vesper Heliotropic.
This will be issue #2. You can find issue #1, Here.
6. Ein München Mädchen
RD AUTO Message 162: Fri 4, Octobre 2086 – Fairview, VA Main-Line USC – CAMBIAN – SUBURBAN ‘Inner Crust’ Territory: ‘MM-PS 255 Munich District 5’
“Rachael!” shouted her mom’s high pitched voice from downstairs.
“Yessssss, Mother! It’s Camille now by the way!”
There was no answer. And then…
“Don’t forget your make-up!” her mom’s faint voice could now barely be made out.
“Ugh.” Rachael said to herself.
“Okay!” she yelled back, vein and limply.
Rachael sat upright on the edge of her bed, her widish butt planted deep within pillows and Tynker Animals lying about, her legs pretzeled Indian style. There were disheveled bra straps under a Thyn white T-shirt falling off one shoulder as she constantly pulled it up only to have it recede back to her upper arm. Her room was fairly tidy with printed posters, arrays of ads, a large mirror to her right along with bottles and cheap makeup.
Short little mounds of laundry were shoved to the edges of the soft lightly tinted carpet, pink. Pinkish. Large suburban bedroom windows obscured the bright room of its details, shafting a morning glow of dreaming breakfast. Rachael had been fantasizing about strawberry pancakes in the City on this particular day. Sometimes it was boys, other times a nice mental round of fantasy morning sex with a sibling.
A short blonde bob swayed back and forth, back and forth, as she browsed with her hands through multitudes of levitating virtual options; left to right, left to right, her gaze, preceding her arms, crisscrossing over and over…
She was scrolling through dozens of Day-Theme posters, one after another, as each one disappeared, only to have another colorful Pop-Band Day Theme poster reappear in midair.
The silhouette of a factory and some kind of penal institution cut a panorama straight across the blank yellow and blue dawning sky in one poster that read: “FinnLaNDIK, the New Album! DEISANIK CELL BLOCK LINE P344, PRODUCT CO.”
Another: “‘BEAT A BITCH UP FO’ YA SQUIRD ON HA,’ Shokolok, the New Album OUT NOW!”
A slight whopping sound then blossomed a little blonde Whyte Gurl with crystal blue eyes from out of Thyn air. Multicolored signs, banners, and comic blurbs trailed from out her mouth like live flying drool. In a stark yet softly aggressive female voice, came…
“All New Finally Fourteen Perfume, straight from the company that brought you Fexalot Smart-Maquillage!”
Rachael continued to page through the transparent spherical depth of the floating View like she were swatting at flies she could never catch. Each poster retracted in a circle upon moving to the next like a moving clothing line. The receding Posters disappeared behind the one she was Viewing in a half-circle. Band after band, soap bar after soap bar flew by, NeauDolls, Cereals and ‘Biono-Lymbs with All-Free Cosma-Surgery When You Buy Two!’
“KENSON AUDI DAY!” one of them read with an absurdly blunt solid pink and purple border with shimmering translucent photo of the band, focusing especially on its front man, Gary Sake next to his one and only Hoe-bag, Merry-Eight. It was a kind of Great American Autumn scene. Sun shot through the profile of an inner city alleyway, buildings climbing up the sides of the lucid shot. The three other band members stood obscure next to the two ‘partners in crime,’ gusting steamy breath in kissing each other next to a dumpster as trash fell like leaves from tenement roofs. A caption imbedded inside a hot pink heart graphic floating on a cartoon cloud suspended below the poster, read: “Pick your Fexer ‘Day-Theme’ from any Movie, Musician, Artist, or Media Fyle!”
“Put together a Soundtrack for each emotion and event with Emo-Life Readers!”