Sunday, October 18, 2015

20–21 Christo and Jeanne-Claude RUNNING FENCE, SONOMA AND MARIN COUNTIES, CALIFORNIA, 1972–76 (Pg. 569)
Image retrieved from: Stokstad, M. & Cothren M. (Nov 2011). (Pg. 569). Art: A brief history, 5th edition.
     Christo and Jeanne-Claude were environmental artists that met each other in Paris 1958. Their art usually consisted of a style called “wrapping” where they literally wrapped the object in cloth, usually very large objects like bridges and monuments. In the 1970s, they visited San Francisco, California and fell in love with the landscape of what is known as the North Bay. The couple decided to do a massive art piece consisting of nylon sheets spanning 24.5 miles, crossing two counties, Marin and Sonoma. The piece encompassed land and sea, rural and urban space (Christo, n.d.). The piece was not intended to have any deeper meaning, aside from what was visual represented, but the Fencebroke down many social barriers, as its construction comprised of people from many different walks of life. They called it “Running fence” and spend 42 months, despite resistance from local residents and politicians, erecting it. In 1976, the Fence was completed and stayed up for 14 days, before being torn down for an act of vandalism (Stokstad, 2011).
      I grew up in a little town called Novato on the border of Marin and Sonoma County. I wasn’t alive when the “Running Fence” was created, but I remember hearing about it. I mostly heard it was considered vandalism, and I came to believe that large art pieces like that were considered bad according to social standards; eventually my beliefs would change. Growing up, we used to pass through a little town called Bel Marin Keys on our way to “The City” (San Francisco). While passing through, we always drove by this big mural of Lincoln, Jefferson, Franklin, and Washington painted in van Gogh style on the side of a warehouse called Frosty Acres; later on a huge flowing American flag was painted on the other side. This mural was painted the same year the “Running Fence” was erected, 1976. One day, I remembered seeing graffiti on the mural. It upset me, but what upset me more was overhearing adults talking about it. They laughed and said, “Ironic, graffiti over graffiti.” I couldn’t put it into words then, but I was angry because they didn’t understand the fundamental values art embodies. Art isn’t just about self-gratification; it is about creating something with the idea of inspiring those around us. This piece inspired me to continue my dreams as an artist; it was also what interested me in van Gogh’s style. The last time I saw the mural was in 2000 on my way to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station). I remember looking at, and a flood of happy memories filled my mind. I remember closing my eyes and thinking to myself, when I was done with the military I would return home and pursue my dream to become an artist. In 2004, I came home from war for two weeks, this is what I saw when we pass the mural. 
Words cannot describe how I felt, but I will certainly try.
     "What the hell happened to the ‘Frosty' mural?" I asked my friend.
     "Some people cried about it not being constitutional,” my friend said.
     "How could a mural with our founding fathers and a huge American flag be unconstitutional?” I asked.
     "Oh,” my friend said. “You didn’t know that it is cool to hate America now?”
     Once he said that I stared out the car window wordless and astonished. Is this what the people back home were doing while I was dodging BULLETS in war, protesting patriotism? My blood boiled, I was devastated, and I was hurt. I felt as if my dreams were shattered, not just because the mural was painted over because of some public outcry, but because something I held so dear was so easily destroyed. The feelings I had felt reciprocate my questions of purpose in the war in Iraq and my life in general. My friend and I both remained silent the rest of the ride home.
     Needless to say, I didn’t give up or I wouldn’t be here today posting this story. Thank you for reading this and being a part of my dream.
References
Christo and Jeanne-Claude. (n.d). About. Retrieved from: http://christojeanneclaude.net/life-and-
     work
Find Muralist, Sam Frankel. (n.d.). Frosty Acre’s Marin County. Retrieved from:   
Find Muralist, Sam Frankel. (n.d.). Frosty Acre’s independent newspaper article. Retrieved from: 
Stokstad, M. & Cothren M. (Nov 2011). Art: A brief history, 5th edition.
     Pearson Learning Solutions. VitalBook file.
Posted by at No comments:

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

The Harvester

    My assistant Marco met me at our usual spot, the Starlight Diner on Hempstead Turnpike, to discuss any leads or assignments he found. My name is Giovanni “John” Gazzo and I am a private investigator here in Long Island.
    “Gazzo, d’ya hear?” Marco says. “They ruled that guy’s death in Uniondale as suicide.”
    “No kidding,” I say, “his skank wife was cheating on him. I would have off'd myself too, you seen the broad?”
    Marco coughs a laugh. “Probably the best he could get,” he says. “But, she wants you to investigate the crime scene again.”
     I peered from my coffee cup. “What for?” I ask.
    “She believes he was murdered,” Marco says. He passes me a folded piece of paper.
    “What’s the point?” I ask, pushing it back to him. “He off'd himself, case closed.”
    “Not taking the case then?” Marco asks. “Come on, it pays the bills, right?”
    I take back the paper and unfold it. It reads 3712 Lawrence Street. Uniondale.
    I wasn’t a fan of taking on closed cases, but this one needed my attention.
    “Yeah, I’ll talk to the widow.” I walk towards the exit. “Marco, you got my bill?” I ask. “Great, thanks,” I say before he can respond.
    As I close the door behind me, I hear Marco say, “Wait, what?”
   
    I went over to the residence; it was only 5 miles away from the diner. I saw the vehicle, a black 1967 Ford Galaxie 500, sitting in solidarity. The widow was already outside smoking a cigarette.
    “Ma’am,” I say as I wave to her.
    “Offic’sa,” she says.
    Everyone seems to think private eyes are associated with the police. I don’t even want to be remotely linked to those corrupt bastards. “I’m not an officer,” I say. “At least not anymore,” I muttered under my breath.
    “I’ve seen ya’ down these streets before,” she says through a drag.
    “Yeah well, you got loads of criminals down here,” I say as if it wasn’t obvious.
    “I don’t understand,” she says. “Why aren’t ya’ a cop, if ya’ deal with the same trash.”
    “Because now I do it on my own terms,” I say. I wanted to get this over with. “May I look at the vehicle?”
    She moved her eyes to the Ford. “The car is ova’ there, I left it, blood and all.” The widow took another drag.
    Something about how she answered was off. She seemed nonchalant maybe even cold. I walk over to the car and notice the missing window on the driver side door. I went around and opened the door. There was some blood splatter on the frame but not much. I looked up and noticed blast powder above, probably from a medium to large caliber round.
    I look up from the vehicle and yell to the widow, “What size was the bullet that killed your husband, ma’am?”
    “I dunno, like 38 somethin',” she says.
    “.38 caliber, maybe?” I say.
    She shrugs and says, “Ya, that sounds right, I guess.”
    “Where is your husband’s pistol?” I ask.
    “There is no pistol,” she says.
    “Strange, it seems like he was killed by a .38 Special,” I say while walking back towards the house. “That’s a standard issue police firearm.”
    “Ya’ saying the cops did it?” the widow asks.
    I avoided her question. “The reports says your husband killed himself because you were having an affair with another man,” I say.
    “Who knew the newspaper reported things like that?” the widow says.
    “Yeah well, word gets around,” I say.
    “What’s ya’ point?” she says through another drag.
    “Why do you care if he was murdered or not?” I say.
    “Dunno,” the widow says. She stubs her cigarette out on a one of the pillars of her porch and flicked the butt into the front yard. “What does matta?”
    “Because right now you’re looking like a suspect,” I really had nothing to base that on, but I have met smarter broads before.
    “Alright, alright,” the widow says, “the insurance company wouldn’t fork out any cash because my husband killed himself.”
    “So you are trying to prove it was a murder so they pay you his policy,” I say.
    “Bingo.” She touches her nose with her pointer finger.
    “Based on wha-” Before I could finish a car pulls into the driveway. A large man gets out.
    “Hey, ya’ banging this guy too?” The big guy nods in my direction.
    “No,” she says, “he's the investigata'.”
    The lumbering idiot stood there with is mouth open scratching his head.
    “Well, now that you are here sir, I can ask you both some questions,” I say. “May we go inside?”
    “Sure,” she says. As she steps in, I hold the door open for the boyfriend then I enter.
   My questions for them were arbitrary.
    
    The following week I met up with Marco as usual at the Starlight Diner. He had today’s newspaper in his hand. After taking a seat across from me, he throws the paper on the table nearly knocking over my coffee.
    “So the widow of that guy you investigated and her boyfriend turned up dead, frontline news,” Marco says.
    “Interesting,” I say as I take a sip of my coffee.
    “Double suicide, it seems,” he says. “They drank pois-”
    I stopped Marco. I unclip my holster, pull my handgun out and place it on the table. Marco jumps, but before he can react I say, “.38 Special standard police issue. It won’t leave behind any brass. They’re all right here.” I tapped on the cylinder.
    “Man,” Marco puts his hand on his forehead. “When are you gonna to stop?”
    “When I begin to see hope in humanity,” I say.
    “So, never then,” Marco says.
    “This is my duty as a Harvester.” I take another sip of my coffee, black like my soul.
    “A what?” Marco asks.
    “A Harvester,” I say as I put my hand on his shoulder. “You aren’t ready to know everything yet, son.”
Posted by at No comments:

Monday, July 20, 2015

The Removers


Author's note:
For a lot of you this story may seem familiar if you read Ray Bradbury’s Last Night of the World. This flash fiction piece is part of a continuum of pieces that I wrote to accompany that short story. The other part of this story can be found here on my blog. I hated the fact that Bradbury didn’t end his story, so I kindly wrote an ending for him. This flash fiction piece isn’t so much a sequel, but more so another “version” so to speak. I love pieces with alternate version and ideas. For those to who take the time to read my story, thank you, and for those who take the time to read my other blog story, double thank you. 

The Removers 

       His wife paces in the room clenching her fists. Her stoic exterior is crumbling as she beats her hands into the walls of the motel. 
       “Shhh, they will hear you,” her husband says. 
       “What difference does it make?” the wife says as she walks towards the table outside. “We’re all going to die anyways.” 
       The husband winces at her statement. Though he shares her sentiments, it pains him to witness his wife, the strong one in the relationship, falling apart. 
       “Look, we are safe right now,” he says. 
       “And the girls?” her voice breaks. She is almost inaudible, but the husband is able to hear the underlying venom. She lowers her head taking a seat at the table. 
       Their two daughters and most of the children from the school were the first to go. Someone informed the husband “children have less body mass,” so they were “easier to delete.” He dismisses the memories of the Removers deleting skyscrapers in seconds. Men, women, and children: the Removers acted pitiless to everyone. 
       “What’s done is done,” he says. He strolls to the kitchen, gets a glass of water, and joins his wife outside. He hands her the glass, she accepts it with a trembling hand. 
       She glares at him, “So that’s it, ‘What’s done is done?’” she says. “Our girls were my life, were they not yours?” 
       “I-” Is all the husband can say, nodding in affirmation. He takes a seat across from her. 
       “We have been running and hiding for almost ten years.” Her head slumps and she begins shaking. 
       The husband moves to console her, but stops short when she raises her hand to halt him. “Honey?” he says. 
       She calms herself and with more vigor says, “The agents of Elle won’t quit until everything is gone.” 
       “There is a resistance,” he says, “people fighting.” 
       A bitter look passes over the wife. “Have you seen them fight?” she asks. 
       A shadow passes over the husband’s face as he nods. The resistance, if it can be called that, turns to dust in every fight with the Removers. “I heard they killed a Remover once,” he says. 
       His wife let out a bark of a laugh. “And you believed them,” she says. 
       “They said he turned to a beam of light when he died,” the husband says, “so it must be true.” 
       His wife chuckles again. “Excellent,” she says, “so now the score is one kill for us and three billion for them.” She puts her head in her hands. 
       He was bothered by her sarcasm, but understood she was correct. It was only a matter of time, they will be next. Part of him wanted to quit and join their girls. He glances at his wife, these were already her feelings. He perished the notion acknowledging they had to keep moving. 
       “I am tired,” she says. 
       “We will take turns sleeping,” the husband says. 
       “That’s not what I mean,” his wife says. “I mean I am tired of running, and hiding.” The wife starts sobbing. “I miss the girls,” she says. 
       “But,” the husband loses his words. “I miss them too,” he says in the end grasping her hand. 
       Both their head perk up as they hear the familiar sounds of screams being cut off. 
       “They’re here,” he says. “Quick.” He yanks at her arm but she does not move. Her attitude infuriated him; they did not have time for games. “We have to go,” he says. 
       “No,” his wife says. “I am done.” She stands pushing from her chair. 
       “What?” the husband says. He couldn’t believe it, after staying alive for ten years their story is going to end in a cheap motel with the fabrics of reality disintegrating around them. He loosens grasp of her arm realizing the truth, then pulls her in giving her a hug and a long kiss. 
       In an instant, the front door glows as the atoms that form it accelerate and destabilize. 
       Three men in black suits and bowler hats stand outside the door. The lead man has an outstretched hand as the remaining particles, of what used to be the door, flurries around the trio. 
       The lead man removes his hat before crossing the threshold to their room. 
       “Confirm their identities,” the lead man says in a raspy voice. 
       The man to his right produces an old style notebook. “John and Jane Wilson,” he says. 
       John holds on tight, but Jane breaks free and rushes towards the men in suits. “It’s no use fighting,” she says with tears in her eyes. “Just do it.” 
       John falls to his knees. “No, wait,” he says unable to force his eyes shut. 
       Her bright blond hair is first to glow turning a luminescent white. For a moment he is reminded of his daughters and how their hair shone in the sun. Jane had enough time to turn and smile reaching for him before enveloping in a burst of light and dissipating. John wailed in agony and anger, but before he could rise everything turned a pure white. 
       Now both John and Jane are gone, just another piece of February 30, 1951. 
       The youngest of the three agents averts his eyes when John burst into a ball of light. His head remains down.
       “Son,” the lead man says taking note of his demeanor, “it is good you still have a measure of humanity, but I assure you this job doesn’t get any easier, understand?” 
       The younger agent looks up. “I understand,” he says. 
       “Our work is done, leave the rest to Elle,” the lead man says as he walks towards the door. 

       They travel as intergalactic dust, incorporeal in the swirling abyss. The disembodiments of those lost, now in the care of the universe, awaiting absolution. 
       A fragmented memory of speech passes through the collective, “Who's there?” they say. 
       “I am,” a voice reverberates, shaking the very stars.
Posted by at No comments:

Saturday, July 11, 2015

The Crimson Memory

This is a piece of flash fiction from my Visual Thinking and Writing class at Full Sail University. It contains a heavy amount of research in Nordic Mythology. Here is list of all my research for the story,
The Crimson Memory
     The old man stared at the skyline. It burned a crimson familiarity. He clutches his forearms, remembering days he wishes were forgotten.
     "Afi, look.” The little girl points beyond the horizon at the rising sun. “Sól’s beginning to climb out of the water again.”
     The old man chuckles, “That’s not Sól, child.”
     A young girl and her grandfather strolled from their town of Birka to the Eastern Sea’s shoreline. The water lapped at their feet.
     The girl gave a quizzical look. “I don’t understand, the skalds told us, Sól rises every morning from the depths of the Eastern Sea and descends every evening into Lake Mälaren in the west.”
     “The skalds, mere dreamers,” he says. “The nonsense they sing is myth. Sól collided into the sea and never rose again.”
     “How do you know Sól collided into the sea?” his granddaughter asks.
     The old man lumbers to a dead tree lying in the sand. He struggles to take a seat, wincing when his knees bend. His forehead creases as his gaze focuses on the waves cresting the shoreline.
     “Afi?” the girl asks as she places her hand on his shoulder.
     Startled, he looks up at her and says, “Come sit, I will tell you a story.”
     “Alright,” the girl says. She sits facing her grandfather.
     He starts, “A long time ago, an explorer named Baldr sailed in the upper sky on a ship made of light.” The old man directs his index finger up. “His flying ship was designed like a disk which he called Sól.”
     The granddaughter’s regard tilts skyward, eyes widening in amazement but still silent.
     “Baldr was restless,” the grandfather says. “He visited all the known worlds and yearned to discover his own. One day he journeyed to a new location in the upper sky, and after months of dodging floating rocks and flying in emptiness, he found nothi-”
     “Wait,” the granddaughter interrupted. “How do rocks float in the sky?”
      The old man wrinkled his forehead. “With magic, little one,” he said.
     The girl’s face lit up. “Magic,” she says. “The skal-”
     “Magic is not what my story is about.” Grandfather’s irritation was hard to disguise, but his expression softened. “May I continue?” he asked.
     The granddaughter crossed her arms but nodded her head.
     “Defeated, Baldr chose to return home,” grandfather says, “for fear he would be lost forever in the upper sky. Just as he bowed to return home, a distant blue dot entered his field of view. As he drew closer, he praised the stars, he had discovered a new world. Baldr named it Tera, but today we call it Miðgarðr (Midgard).”
     “Miðgarðr.” The grandfather gestures to the ground.
     “Afi, I know that,” his granddaughter says. “The skalds teach us some useful things, right?”
     The old man places one hand on his wrinkled forehead. “I shall continue,” he says.
     “Baldr flew towards the large blue orb and descended into the lower sky.” The grandfather gestured his hand in a downward motion. “He was impressed when he landed. This world was similar to his own, although he observed his feet seemed heavier. This insignificant detail, however, paled in comparison to his crowning discovery,”
     “Why were his feet heavier?” the granddaughter asked.
     “I will get to that later,” he said, “be patient.”
     The girl began to fidget.
     The grandfather continues regardless. “Baldr became aware that others resided on Miðgarðr. After spending a considerable amount of time meeting the indigenous people, exploring, and gathering data, Baldr decided to return home. Though he enjoyed visiting this new world, his heart belonged to the upper sky.”
     The granddaughter began picking dirt from her fingernails.
     “Baldr started his ship. With effort, it lifted into the air, but he realized something was wrong,” grandfather says.
     The granddaughter’s eyes peered up.
     The grandfather smiles and persists, “The ship was heavier on this world. Fire magic sustains Sol’s flight, but not all the hearths in Valhalla could keep Baldr’s ship aloft. His ship was a bright burning disk arching across the lower sky. The people below watched in wonderment as Sól careened like a dull dagger tearing a rugged slit into the universe. Sól’s light was extinguished as its course concluded in the Eastern Sea.”
     Now attentive, the granddaughter places her hands over her mouth in astonishment.
     “Don’t worry child, Baldr survived,” the old man says. “Sól filled with water as Baldr fought to open the ship’s hatch. Once submerged, the hatch was able to be opened. Baldr swam to the surface and headed towards the shore. Curious people who witnessed his ship crash gathered nearby.
     “Once on land, gasping for air, Baldr threw his hands in the air and cried out, ‘Amen, my Father, please come to my aid.’” The grandfather’s head looks to the sky, the girl’s follows.
     “Baldr’s forearms began to glow a crimson color,” he says. “It was a signal to let his father know he was in trouble. The light pulsed like a heartbeat, but he was too distant from his home world. The crowd stood in awe at the light pouring from his arms, and from that day forth he was known as Baldr the Light Bringer.”
     “That’s an amazing story,” the granddaughter says, “but you’re wrong, Afi. The skalds told us that Baldr’s father was Odin, not Amen.”
     The grandfather shakes his head in disdain as his granddaughter runs back towards the shore. He begins to feel the heat in his arms and rolls the hem of his sleeve. His hands shake, not out of fragility, but from the crimson memory.
     “Come on Afi, I want to see the seals.” Her voice carries over distorted, almost inaudible above the crashing waves and the blood rushing in his ears.
     With his shirt sleeve rolled up, the old man stares wordless at the red glowing beacon on his forearm, still pulsing like a heartbeat from the day he cried out to his father.

     Having lived his life, the old man looked heavenward and says, “I’m ready to leave, Amen.”

Posted by at No comments:

Thursday, May 28, 2015

My ending to Ray Bradbury's "Last Night of the World"


Author’s note- When I read Ray Bradbury’s “Last Night of the World” I could not help sharing other commentator’s feelings about his lack of an ending. So I thought that I would write my own ending seeing as Bradbury died in 2012 and won’t be writing an ending anytime soon. I hope you all enjoy it.


“Honey, you are late for work.” The wife lightly pushed her husband who was still snoring.
He quickly opened his eyes and looked at the time on his alarm. It read 7:12 am. Work started at 6 am for him. He picked up the alarm clock and inspected the lever that sets the alarm; it was still in the down position. He looked up at his wife perplexed and said. “I forgot to set it.”
“That’s strange,” his wife said. “I thought the end of the world would have to happen before you ever forgot to set your alarm.” She smiled and began to walk away. “I have breakfast made already, so you better hurry.” Her voice echoed down the hall.
The husband chuckled and got out of bed. He began to pull out his suit for work, he stopped and thought for a moment, then after some time he neatly put it back. He entered the bathroom and turned on the light. He looked in the mirror for a minute; he couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. At last he shook his head and admonished the thought. He turned to leave the bathroom and just before turning off the light he grabbed his robe.
“Not going to work today?” His wife said from the kitchen sink as her husband entered.
“No,” he said. “I think I will call in sick today.”
The wife laughed. “Don’t you think Thursday is an odd day to take off?”
“No day off is an odd day to take off when I am spending time with my wife and kids.” He came up from behind and gave her a hug and kiss on her cheek.
Just then his two girls ran in from the den yelling “Daddy!” He bent down to hug them. Their yellow hair shone from the morning sun spilling in from the window over the sink.
“Daddy, are you going to work today?” the littlest one asked.
“No, not today.”
“Aww, we don’t want to go to school,” the eldest girl said with a pout, the younger one nodding solemnly in agreement.
“I am sorry girls, but your mother would mad at me if I kept you off.” His wife gave him a feigned accusatory glare. He shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
Both girls were now pouting with their arms crossed.
“I will tell you what,” he started. “Once you get ready and have breakfast I will drive you both to school instead of taking the bus.”
“Yay!” The sisters jumped for joy.
“Now go on, get ready,” he said as the girls ran off towards the bathroom.
“Would you like any coffee?” the wife said while holding the pot.
“Sure, let me just get a mug.” As he opened the cupboard, he noticed the little magnetic calendar on the refrigerator. It still had February’s page on it. He tore off the page to reveal “March 1951”. He turned back to see his wife still standing there with the coffee pot in hand; she was smiling. He smiled back at her; today is good day he thought to himself.
Meanwhile,
One block away two men, in neatly pressed black suits, stood in silence staring down the street. The older of the two pulled out a fedora and gently placed it on his head.
            The younger man spoke first. “Sir, why are we still here?”
            The older one sighed. “I am just making sure everything is in order.”
            “Sir, this sector has been cleared,” the young man said exasperatingly. “I was thorough in making sure everyone’s minds were wiped.”
            “That’s not what I am worried about.” The old man turned to the younger and gave him a look of annoyance.
            “But sir, the boss gave the orders to erase the day.” The young man began to panic. "This has been done before, right?” The older man nodded. “Then why are you so worried?”
            The old man reached in his pocket and pulled out a familiar wooden toy block and held it out to the young man.
            The younger man took it. “You stole one of the blocks those little girls with the yellow hair were playing with.” The young man snickered. “You are little old to be stealing from children.” He turned the block over and thumbed the bright red letter “B” embossed on the face. He looked back up to the older man. “What is the relevance of this?”
            The old man sighed again “That block you are holding is from the day we erased.” He paused. “I took it because it is important for you to understand what it is that we do.” He stood momentarily in silence then turned to walk away. He smiled slightly when he heard the block hit the street. He dropped it, he understands now. The old man thought to himself.
            “Wait!” The young man voice was now panicked. “This block shouldn’t exist, this is impossible. That day was delete and everything…” The young man grabbed his head, then looked up and said, “We have to go back, we did something wrong!”
            “We didn’t do anything wrong, boy.” The old man shook his head remembering the first time he erased a day from the universe. “This is just the way it is.”
            “But those people,” his voice caught in his throat. “The little girls…” He said in a ghostly whisper.
            The old man put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “It is not our problem; we work for Chronos. We only concern ourselves with anything pertaining to the Zodiac cycle.” The old man began to walk away again. “Let Elle and her minions figure out what to do with the people from February 30th.”
            The young man took one last look at the familiar red block now laying on the ground; he closed his eyes to wash away his thoughts. When he opened his eyes again he said, “I need some coffee.”
The old man smiled and said, “Coffee sounds good.”
Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)