anti-hero creation

Foreword: An attempt to create a new anti-hero for a series of paintings. Something set in 1900’s Jordan maybe.

 

A blade shined out of the darkness and stabbed him.

It quickly withdrew itself into the pitch black as he fell into

a defensive stance, his arms crossing over his chest, his

legs crouched in a fetal position. He tucked his head in upon

facing the darkness, as it would feel, as it would stop that

pain.

A rising light came to him. Surged from inside a the

corse and pushed away that darkness and surged with

power, surged with light. The darkness receeded, waiting

for the light to lose its’ grandeur. And like a sick joke, when

the flare wavered, it stabbed him again.

and again.

He stood against the tide, trying to summon that light

again. Tried to protect himself, tried to defend. But that

darkness continued. A one-sided fight that would soon

cease to exist.

There came two options. Protect himself with what was

already trapped within him, or push the world away again. He

held his breath, staring at the darkness ahead. It already

affected him, stocked against his body, poisoned his core. A

shake of his head was all that it took before he drew the line

and cut off the worlds’ darkness away from him. Keeping himself

safe, he created a wall that separates his own blood to the world.

But that darkness within him reminded that folly of pushing away

the world, as the moment he releases that gust, it will return tenfold.

It reminded himself of that pain.

Delving into the Insane Dreams of a Dead Man

Foreword: I was thinking about the next few pieces of art, so one option is to illustrate this writing. Each part could fit possibly four paintings, so twelve total? I feel like this would be something interesting to explore, who knows.

 

Delving into the Insane Dreams of a Dead Man.

I

I didn’t mean for everything to disappear as it did. Insanity has no part with the singular mind. But when it becomes a dual sense, a duality with not just me, but with you – questions that would have been raised in one sense are no longer there. The matron of my fears bade me welcome as I walked on the street, wandering and wondering about what happens around me. The matron of my fears – stared at the world and stared at me and asked me those questions that asked me nothing but the insanity that was growing in me.

I took to walking the streets at night. Night, early early morning. Where there is a silence but for the occasional car that drives by. A twilight, a glimmer, of nothingness. That silence I wanted in my head, but had to leave for outside because my head wasn’t enough for the noise of thoughts passing through my head. The silence came with open arms. The streetlights were turning off at one point, and the light still didn’t poke through – leaving the streets in darkness. It is as if you are blind, walking on the street, walking but not noticing the barest surroundings.

The room was no longer a container. It has become an almost yearly ritual, the reason I left the north-east and came to a place closer to the equator. For that would mean I can take in, absorb, the maximum amount of warmth from the sun, yet when that strength is no longer absorbed I feel parched, cold. My sleep would shift, and I would walk these streets at night.

She said that music is a cure for somethings. It kept people in motion, in an eternal graced movement that said nothing of the world, except to yourself. Music, alcohol, semblances of drugs. Food. Nothing. Nothingness. I would fall asleep and go insane and dream and wake up and dream some more. The insanity no longer was stuck to the night world, but became me as I walked around the world in a corpse.

Shower? Why shower a dead man, walking around as if a corpse. Gaunt from the food, or lack of thereof. Spent more time by myself, walking around, walking and staring at the starlight move through the grace of the clouds. Walking on the streets themselves, with no purpose – staring at the walls and people, taking note of nothing but the oblivion that I sought. The walls became smeared of colors, the faces became like that of demons sneering, snickering, talking. Sipping the alcohol in the bars, Groups of them just eating and feasting and drinking their lives away for what? Friendship? Trust? A chance to get inebriated and walk in the world and look through my eyes?

Do you know what happens to a person when their day cycle revolves around the night? The periods were you wake up and see night and sleep and wake up and sleep and dream and walk and dream some more? Dreams that are realities, only to be broken up and controlled by you. A separation that grows and divides. I dream of people speaking to me and I am replying but I would reply with the social conventions thrown out of the window in the madness that seeks nothing but replies and dreams and dreams and dreams.

In those rare moments that the light is about I would be asked for my absence and I would reply with many different things. All of them are true, but none of them are the source. Lethargy, Games, Dreams. The true source of this insanity is the ever growing pressure that I would leave and be left alone and then what would happen? I would continue, seek companionship, grow, move on, move further, dream and build and dream some more, under the gaze of the matron of night.

II

I would notice the ruptures in the silence occasionally. Sure I would grow oblivious, but in reality I would notice. How drivers would move staring at the walls. How that inelegant whore would stare at the passerby with greed – overvaluing herself. How the silence would mix with the platter of rain when the noise was insurmountable. Music. The continuation, the movement. The continuous evils that contained nothing but a ploy. Ignorant children calling something good and another thing evil. We all are evil to the stone. I care nothing for the fellow man, but how to use them to move forwards my own goals. How to set the stones in the passage that I would care for.

Insanity. Insanity, delving into the dreams of a dead man. What is it that counts a man as living or dead? Companionship. Thoughts, friends, speech. Breath, food. There are the figurative and metaphysical rules of living. The moments of feeling, or the moments in which feelings are removed both count as the act of touching perhaps. But would it count? Friends have just became a mirror image of what they just once were. The speech has become rehearsed, day after day with the ignorant forgetting and speaking once again. Touches with the world that was with the living are gone as night after night – walking on the street is just the insanity and movement insurmountable. With the demons walking on the street, with the faze of the night sky becoming something almost unreal. Madness, sadness, laughter, joy, those feelings are given when you are surrounded by people. But at those moments, walking on that street at night, emotions are gone.

What is called emotion then is gone. So yes, I would be classified as a dead man walking. Gaunt and estranged, movements with sound and thought and silence. In a box large enough that can contain the thoughts.

III

Thoughts would roam from different things. From different senses of sanity to the true reaction of obliviousness. Thoughts would move from ideas of something greater to how the day went. How in the morning I went to class, we talked about the ideas of this or that piece. How the reactions of each classmate was the same. How it is always the same with the inner jibes continuing and going on. Insanity and breadth. But none of that would actually happen. That would just be in the dream with the clouds flowing backwards outside of the window. A phone call here or there, but I would swear, I could swear that it actually happened.

I would talk in my sleep. React to questions but never remember my replies. My thoughts would remain to the movements that occurred, that insanity that brings together everything and nothing. Oh how the days will pass in everything and nothing and wondering and thinking and hoping and waking. Dead man walking, the mortification endless in the imagination of life, or what it can be. Life, life and life and movements and dreams and walking and what is the difference between me and the next man in the ever present dream?

Absalom’s Dying Rite

I tend to write about something before I even attempt to paint or draw it. This way I tend to get what images I have in my head out, and construct the creation out of that. For the Absalom series: It is a story about how a young boy had to kill his imaginary friend to become an adult. The reason for this is simply that you usually are not seen as an adult if you have your imaginary friend. In offering Absalom his last request, the imaginary friend requested for stories about the adventures that the young boy underwent.

 

As such, these are the stories of Absalom’s Dying Rite:

 

———————

Absalom you’ve been hiding away

Staring at me and hiding behind the walls of black text.

In this dream you’re sitting across from me,

but masks are the only things I can see of you.

 

A heavy cloak of black,

Darkness, dark strides. Absalom, you’ve been bleeding.

Those tears from your eyes.

Crying heavily, you can tell me my love,

Absalom, what are you hiding?

 

Why are you hiding, when I am here across from you?

You can read me and I will tell you my stories,

Each one. Every little thing. It is alright my dear.

I would tell you the story of the world.

 

My world, my dear. My twisted eyes. Of ferns growing

in the middle of the street. Of how people walk around

them and do not notice. How lovers walk hand in hand

and release their hands. to walk around a tree stalk and

then come back together but do not notice. Have you ever

thought about the nature of the world?

 

Why is it that we each see different things and call it

one name? Absalom, you’re crying again. Don’t fret it

is okay. You’re going to die soon, and your eyes are

closed. So listen to me please Absalom. Death is not going

to make you free. This story is.

 

Absalom, we are home.

————————

Home

 

Absalom, remember the street where we grew up?

The street lights used to turn on and off flickering.

Small gusts of wind blowing them this way and that.

And then the lights would bend and tilt like branches

on the tree. And the lights would shimmer in front of

windows of our home.

 

And home was that small bedroom for us. Remember

how we used to draw on the walls? You were not there

yet. There to guide my hand. As we drew on the walls

stars and stars that would glow in the dark. And then I

would close my eyes and open them in pitch black, the

sheets covering the windows. I was so small then, inside

the bed. Covers over me, giving me warmth. There was

darkness on the outside, that would reach and cover and

overlap and scare me like waves and waves. You didn’t

come yet. But that was my home.

 

I used to be afraid of the dark. You were not there yet.

You didn’t understand. How when I was small I believed

that there were only two ways to protect your soul. One

way was to sacrifice a small bit of it and seal off the room.

That wouldn’t protect me from the things inside it. One of

those things was you.

 

The other thing was for me to seal off my body and protect

me, but that would not stop me from seeing things and I

would become so afraid. So so afraid. And I would close my

eyes and close my ears and cuddle up into a little ball and you

would be next to me and you would speak small words into my

ears. And I would let go and let go, and come back and cover

my ears and let go and let go and come back and cover my ears

and finally let go.

 

And then you came into me and covered my eyes and helped me

see other things. Illusions of grandeur, illusions of make believe

homes. And I would leave you during the day in the teddy bear

form. Home was bigger than that. There were friends, outside.

And inside I began to build another form. An alter ego to protect

me from the world. Not false lies Absalom. Not false worlds. But

to protect me and I left you alone. And I as I lost my old home,

I found new ones.

 

And you’re sitting across the table from me, sitting on those few

books. You are going to die Absalom, as I take back my soul.

But I introduced you to him. The alternate me. Remember Absalom?

It was on one of the king roads.

———————

King Roads

 

Have you visited the King’s Road

my Love? A journey through the mirrors.

Treacherous roads, darkest of shadows

creeping or receding like.

Small tides. Black Tides. A forgotten thing Absalom.

 

The first time I came there was by

mistake. I held your hand, a long

wispy black hand that stretched further

than what the mirror would allow you.

I clambered on the dresser and fell into

the world. Strange skies with strange

stars. Absalom we came back together

hand in hand. Explored your world

properly. Remember?

 

I went there more by myself. I left my dream

there Absalom. I left him there to

move and go. And he told me about

a beauty. Some unknown goal hidden

in the books and books in the language

of dreams. And the books were filled

with corruption. Of kingdoms and empires

burning to find this being. Absolute

and deadly Absalom. Don’t blame me

for leaving you to go on the quest.

 

I learned so much without you my

love. I hurt you and explored the

world without you. And let me tell

you a secret, my dream. You cannot find

her, only parts. And we combine the

facets to create the being. Our imagination

killed the empires and Kingdoms, Absalom.

 

And that is why this search is for imperfection.

The search for my Lotidia.

——————————–

Lotidia

 

I have never told you about Lotidia, Have I Absalom? I was scared before to do so. You have always been the jealous one. Just like a woman who you tell is not the one – but insist of dating her anyways.

Lotidia is that perfect woman. I mentioned that earlier right? She is as real as that flower. As real as the notion of perfection. I have met facets of her on my travels. Away from you Absalom. The sets of universes I have made in my mind. Setting off like a god a single spark of existence. And from there I would speed up the time and watch the forms blossom and grow with the probability that one form would come out. And then he would visit them, like Zeus and the swan.

He would take those forms, the battle ready men and women and draft them into his collection. But there was another woman who would do the same, Absalom. Inara and Tenebrae – each depicting a good and bad. They would join together to form me, Absalom. My id and ego. The third part is Lotidia, she would be the last remaining part.

Absalom, have you ever seen their battles? They would wage wars so huge it is beyond the limits of my imagination. I would create a new dimension just for them, and all the facets would fight and die. And there was that chance that she would birth, and I would see this beauty called Lotidia. But it would be an illusion and fade away like a mist.

Absalom, stay awake my friend. Keep looking at me with those beady eyes of yours. It is not the perfection that I need, my love. But it is to collect the facets that tell me “Imperfection!” Imperfection! Imperfection! And with that, my love I could finally find true beauty bit by bit. I would collect the facets myself, and keep the memories safe with me and move on. And these collections would form and become bigger and grow. But in going through this adventure, my love, you lose parts of yourself on the way. And lose them, and lose them some more. It is in becoming jagged and jaded that we are lost Absalom. And that’s why I need you to become whole.

———————————–

Absalom’s Dying Rite:

 

Absalom, you’ve been given the dying rite.

Words as unfriendly as the man at night.

Street lights awake, twinkling slowly,

Flickering to make the beggars believe they are stars.

Absalom, you’ve been moving so slowly.

Through the pages of dreams unsure.

Would you like to stop a bit and drink a cup of coffee?

Tell me of the stories you’ve heard?

Absalom, you stand before the gates to

a force fed destiny. The stands of people

above you hold. Why do you not cry? My

dear dear Absalom?

Why don’t you cry, as fleeting as your life?

The streetlight flickers, Absalom, so slowly.

I never noticed it before. It is night.

Absalom, the morning comes and you

will not be here with me.

Absalom, goodbye and goodnight.

Sektor 83. Jupiter Space Colony.

Some things you don’t want to forget

Mohawk

Oracle

Oracle. Mixed media on canvas and glass. 100 x 150 cm. Smoke series.

A young warrior approaching a dragon oracle for advice. Smoke on canvas, outlines of form on glass.