Durgid Tiction » 2008

Hippocampul Scarification

January 31st, 2008 ryan

I was in Tucson, living out of run-down cinder block studio where I composed an award winning series of slash fiction, the culmination of which resulted in a bestselling book. Subject? The two leads from There will be Blood, pictured left. I titled the opus After Dark, the cover sporting a commissioned work of a flying toaster spewing oil.

I recall little else than red, dusty, saguaro-spotted landscapes and a sense of accomplishment at finally being a Professional Writer. My success resulted in acceptable notoriety alongside substantial financial stability, the cost of the subject matter itself didn’t take it’s toll until I left this frenzied nightmare of moustaches, miner’s lamps, and starched collars.

Surely I dream as much as the next insomniatic, periodically stabbing clenched fists to my orbital sockets upon waking in an attempt to purge what technically they have never seen. Retention of these unconscious forays in to the subconscious are few and far between and frankly this is one I’d sooner forget.

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Decide

January 29th, 2008 ryan

It is by no means a stretch to come to the conclusion that my feeble attempts at photography are little more than a sputtering flicker of creativity in a world otherwise composed of blazing infernos, not unlike the oil fields of Kuwait near the end of the Gulf War. Oil rains from above and while the sands shift the towers of flame remain steadfast, biblical images personified among the destruction. One need not travel to exotic locale to view these makeshift geysers, but I’m just trying to keep my fucking equipment from gumming up in the oil.

I round corners mentally prepared for a car to be out of control, steps light, calculated as to lubricate the quick transfer of balance thereby ensuring the maximum number of workable reactions. I sling my bag high– tight across my shoulders, tuck in bootlaces, and the tape used to silence the bag’s hanging straps is matte, non-reflective. For what?

Common banter among my former co-workers invariably funneled in to a voiced desire for the mundane, each simultaneously bad mouthing the status quo and artificially inflating the appeal of being a mechanic, fireman, school teacher.

“Nine to five, shit.”

My intellectual limbs have atrophied. Each day barely calling for even partial extension, low impact like a water-aerobics class for seniors. High contrast typeface earnings, gross profit savings at a decent percent. Hours are converted to digital media allowing… consumption.

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PotD – UPC

January 25th, 2008 ryan

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In which Boundaries are Redefined

January 24th, 2008 ryan

The decision has been made to lift the temporary embargo on feline commentary. While I will be vigilant in my efforts to not flood this medium with his sordid tales there has been a development of late which must be addressed.

Ever the opportunist, Woodgie quickly adapts to his surroundings, thusly expanding known borders as efficiently as one without opposable thumbs can. Cabinets are no match for his wit and many a pathway has been parted by his pressing bulk, spearheaded with a forehead which brings to mind the dense potential of perhaps an ancient battering ram.

While ill-suited to knobs of a more circular nature his rendsome forelimbs have found a fit with this particular fixture enabling casual forays in to the Above.