no time

I've been wrestling with tense. Tense about tense. Unintentionally when I started writing September 10th I was working in the present tense then somewhere along the way I realized what I was doing and had to question it. There's a reason for it. Time compressed into a single moment--a metaphor for the compression of Brian's life--how the magnitude of a single event can implode an entire life. In pursuit of anonymity the past doesn't matter anymore and the future doesn't exist.

The mechanics of doing this have been problematic. Like a cinematographer shooting live I was capturing it documentary style yet I (the omniscient narrator) was no longer present. So how can the conjugation change midstream, the tense reverse course? I go back and forth and in the editing find myself constantly adjusting. This is my dilemma. The dilemma of invention, I guess.

BlackPrintsSeriesNo.28

Conceal Me

Electro Shock

"There’s all this electromagnetic current," Gracie explains. "The kind you can test with devices that make skin contact. You know, like EEGs and EKGs and that sort of thing, but what I want to know is where does all that energy go when a person dies, the field around the body, the one that intersects and surrounds us, the vibrational field…”

She says, "People didn’t vacate lower Manhattan because of the toxic residue. They didn’t vacate out of fear. They vacated because of the massive amount of electromagnetism unleashed into the atmosphere by 3,000 dying and deceased people.”

MeAndMyShadow

she's gone

a major inspiration in my life has died. my shadow of 20 years. my cat, my daughter, my loved one, the one who taught me how to love, who slept on my desk beside me as i labored over words, ideas, structure, subtext. my muse... how to transcend the depths of despair? how to go on without her? writing is so insignificant right now. i remember another time when i felt like that. when my father died. to the spirit, may it soar.

Social Studies No5

that flawless image

Vanessa is probably better off without him, deeper in love with the prospect that he suffered a tragic demise, like the fate of all great artists who never enjoy recognition or the fruits of their labor while they're still alive. Yes, he decides, death brings with it all the benefits promised but undelivered in life. All the myths… pure, unadulterated happiness, unconditional love, charged flashes of memory altered subconsciously to make within the survivor’s mind a permanent place for that flawless image that never truly existed. And of course the ultimate advantage to the deceased, total liberation from the constraints of ordinary life.

don't point

If not for love or adventure, family or cause

what would be the point?

That is the point...that having one doesn’t matter,

defending one doesn’t protect it,

protection isn't necessary

nor is the point

because there is none.

Social Studies No.4

top editor

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BlackPrintsSeriesNo.27

when process is a luxury

i don't know about all you artists and writers, but i'm getting the feeling that "the man" (i'm not imposing gender here - it's just an expression) is closing in. soon art, the creative pursuit, a work-in-progress will be considered a luxury. you know you hit bottom when this occurs. it's all about work, concept, spontaneity, accidents, and after enough years, a certain lack of intention. it is not about art as investment. we can't expect too many people to understand this, i guess. it's the imperfect storm. time to step back, reassess and then let go!

unable to resist

"Instincts don’t fail you, honey." His mother’s refrain, as if she’d observed what transpired and is once again offering too much advice. These instincts spell trouble, what kind of trouble he isn’t sure but all the same he knows if he doesn’t protect himself no telling what will happen. A cackling seagull distracts him, circling the rooftops, dipping and diving as if silvery fish flicker in and out of the surf. As he reaches the next intersection he sees a heaping pile of paper, plastic and spilled Chinese takeout where more gulls have gathered to pick through the refuse. Prix fixe. Unable to resist, he approaches the next bin like a hungry account executive on his way to a power lunch. Nothing like a half eaten perfectly encased sandwich of mozzarella, arugula and sun dried tomatoes. He can’t help noticing the contenders, meals barely touched, the ones he would rescue from the garbage before they’re shipped off to the landfill, ones which rejuvenated his undernourished body when he has nothing but a cardboard box, holey tennis shoes and too much time on his hands. He has to stop looking through the trash.

fall from grace

The snap and crackle of the bacon grease doesn’t capture her attention but when Brian drops the jar of mayonnaise on the kitchen floor Gracie wakes up.

“What the fuck!”

He turns around and waves before unraveling paper towels to clean up the mess. She protests the disturbance of a good night’s sleep even though it’s 4:30 in the afternoon and she has the look of a street urchin after a two day bender.