Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
I feel like an artist today
Upcoming projects:
I. Historical Anachronisms (A Nostalgic Photo Journey)
II. Untitled Techno Album (with Eric Moll)
III. The Walden Variation (a narrative feature film, directed by Eric Goldberg)
IV. Untitled #12 (an abstract painting series)
V. The Contrived Generation (a novel by Tim Moran, Dan Speciale, & Eric Moll)
I. Historical Anachronisms (A Nostalgic Photo Journey)
II. Untitled Techno Album (with Eric Moll)
III. The Walden Variation (a narrative feature film, directed by Eric Goldberg)
IV. Untitled #12 (an abstract painting series)
V. The Contrived Generation (a novel by Tim Moran, Dan Speciale, & Eric Moll)
Eric & Brazil
I drew these things today. I have a strange fascination with turning my friends into cartoon characters all the time (read: Godmebacom).
Gabe, a.k.a. Brazil.
My roommate.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Birth of Kings
Twilight, twilight, twilight...
What a night. This night. Every night. To walk around this building, lit by fluorescent lights, delighting in the buzz and click and hum of the elevators, to dance down corridors, rubbing coarse carpeting with bare feet, to bathe in heater warmth with eyes near closing -- to be young and awake forever -- what a joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy we're faced with.
If only a blanket of static fell over us. A quilt of night subdued. If the world was the mind, quiet, but racing -- spinning rapidly without a sign of a scratch or a swerve. The hours would blip away one by two by thee by four, but tangled in a web of meaninglessness. The clocks would slow to a stop. Stop to a slow. Rotating back and forth like pendulums.
To be young and passionate and alive all at once. So much good in so little bad.
The feverish hum of the light bulbs. Electricity coursing through a living breathing building with hundreds of sleeping bodies. The few of guardsmen awake. What joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy to be faced with.
We're the lucky few. Those who shed sleep like tights. Or shirts. Or underwear. Who see the strange morning hours. Who notice the clocks which read nothing and everything. Who embrace the reds and blues and yellows and greens like friends long awaited. Who find peace and solace in peace and solace. Who embrace each other tightly, so tightly. Who cling, nails biting skin, hoping that maybe, maybe they did something right. That this joy is ours forever. That morning will never come.
Here passion is born. And never dies. Not ever.
Not ever. Don't you see? We're young and here forever.
What a night. This night. Every night. To walk around this building, lit by fluorescent lights, delighting in the buzz and click and hum of the elevators, to dance down corridors, rubbing coarse carpeting with bare feet, to bathe in heater warmth with eyes near closing -- to be young and awake forever -- what a joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy we're faced with.
If only a blanket of static fell over us. A quilt of night subdued. If the world was the mind, quiet, but racing -- spinning rapidly without a sign of a scratch or a swerve. The hours would blip away one by two by thee by four, but tangled in a web of meaninglessness. The clocks would slow to a stop. Stop to a slow. Rotating back and forth like pendulums.
To be young and passionate and alive all at once. So much good in so little bad.
The feverish hum of the light bulbs. Electricity coursing through a living breathing building with hundreds of sleeping bodies. The few of guardsmen awake. What joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy to be faced with.
We're the lucky few. Those who shed sleep like tights. Or shirts. Or underwear. Who see the strange morning hours. Who notice the clocks which read nothing and everything. Who embrace the reds and blues and yellows and greens like friends long awaited. Who find peace and solace in peace and solace. Who embrace each other tightly, so tightly. Who cling, nails biting skin, hoping that maybe, maybe they did something right. That this joy is ours forever. That morning will never come.
Here passion is born. And never dies. Not ever.
Not ever. Don't you see? We're young and here forever.
Monday, April 2, 2007
The Great Simplifier
There must be some mathematical equation, a logarithm or algorithm (whatever those mean), which describes the progression of friendship.
I know close proximity is involved. And frequency and duration of contact is incredibly influential. Similar preoccupations, interests, et cetera are foundational (and, perhaps, foundational only -- a constant variable or some type of minimum). And context. O, context, yes!
There have to be some numbers hiding in there somewhere. A shape or graph at least (maybe one of those nifty three dimensional ones I consistently fail to grasp cognitively).
And there is subtraction. There is room for dips in the curve. You can know someone forever and then lose touch -- what happens to your friendship then? What number can be equated to it? And multiplication. You can meet someone and subvert frequency and duration -- jump right up the chart or scale or page. Where ten minutes equals a hundred years, but a hundred years doesn't equal ten minutes. And I'm sure addition is simple and division quite complex. What sort of derivatives can tangle themselves into the mix?
I am confident that words and numbers can express anything. I don't believe they have limits. I need to see my life on a page, simple and clean. In neat columns and rows with constants and variables and solutions.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
I know close proximity is involved. And frequency and duration of contact is incredibly influential. Similar preoccupations, interests, et cetera are foundational (and, perhaps, foundational only -- a constant variable or some type of minimum). And context. O, context, yes!
There have to be some numbers hiding in there somewhere. A shape or graph at least (maybe one of those nifty three dimensional ones I consistently fail to grasp cognitively).
And there is subtraction. There is room for dips in the curve. You can know someone forever and then lose touch -- what happens to your friendship then? What number can be equated to it? And multiplication. You can meet someone and subvert frequency and duration -- jump right up the chart or scale or page. Where ten minutes equals a hundred years, but a hundred years doesn't equal ten minutes. And I'm sure addition is simple and division quite complex. What sort of derivatives can tangle themselves into the mix?
I am confident that words and numbers can express anything. I don't believe they have limits. I need to see my life on a page, simple and clean. In neat columns and rows with constants and variables and solutions.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Caesar #12
A few months ago I had an idea for doing abstract painting on unconventional materials -- tablecloths, place mats, napkins, pizza boxes, et cetera. Here is the first finished product:
Caesar #12, November 2006
It's called Caesar #12 because, the table cloth is vaguely reminiscent of a burial shroud and the geometric pattern of the inner rectangle reminds me of Rome.
The #12 is because I'm always making fun of abstract art and experimental filmmaking, i.e. Untitled #12, the photography project I made earlier this year.
Go Play
For four days running, I have participated in some form of sport-type physical activity and it has been wonderful -- not simply in that they were enjoyable experiences, but that the action's reaction has resulted in me 1) sleeping better, and 2) looking at the world through a lens of optimism and pleasure. On Friday, after class, I played frisbee in the park. On Saturday I went to Columbia and played wiffle ball. On Sunday, I pulled out my baseball glove and played catch, and yesterday, Monday, I participated in an all-out sport's night of sorts, including Ultimate Frisbee, soccer, and baseball. For two nights in a row I've gotten a full eight hours of sleep, more or less.
With the warming weather the atmosphere around campus is much more college-like, and I like that my mind combines the world feeling "college-like" and "spring-like" into one globby mass. They are two goods things to be mixed up in each other. College, to me, is impromptu everything. Impromptu soccer games. Impromptu video game duels. Impromptu debates. Impromptu meals. Impromptu everything. Spring has, for some reason, brought out the best of all of these. Recreation is running rampant in the streets.
Generally, I've thought of recreational activities as indulgences, which drew time away from more important, noble pursuits, but, lately, I tend to view recreation as, at worst, a necessary evil and, at best, a necessary joy. For years I've been able to confront my guilt towards recreation by justifying the watching of movies, reading of comic books, and even, at times, indulging in television as useful in the development of storytelling, a craft I am most essentially lusting, but activities like wiffle ball and video games, for example -- those types of activities were harder to explain and the associated guilt reduced the pleasure of said activities dramatically. Now, I tend to justify them through their own practicality. My brain needs to rest, my muscles need to stretch, and, although some would argue that to be a successful writer once must be immersed in misery and stress, I, for the type of writing I wish to produce, desire happiness and comfort. This is an interesting change in philosophy.
So, go to it, O, guilty ones. Whip out those hacky sacks. Lace up your gym shoes. Find your frisbees. Rustle under your bed for those worn out baseballs. If you have to, buy a new soccer ball. The weather is fine and the season is right.
Go play!
With the warming weather the atmosphere around campus is much more college-like, and I like that my mind combines the world feeling "college-like" and "spring-like" into one globby mass. They are two goods things to be mixed up in each other. College, to me, is impromptu everything. Impromptu soccer games. Impromptu video game duels. Impromptu debates. Impromptu meals. Impromptu everything. Spring has, for some reason, brought out the best of all of these. Recreation is running rampant in the streets.
Generally, I've thought of recreational activities as indulgences, which drew time away from more important, noble pursuits, but, lately, I tend to view recreation as, at worst, a necessary evil and, at best, a necessary joy. For years I've been able to confront my guilt towards recreation by justifying the watching of movies, reading of comic books, and even, at times, indulging in television as useful in the development of storytelling, a craft I am most essentially lusting, but activities like wiffle ball and video games, for example -- those types of activities were harder to explain and the associated guilt reduced the pleasure of said activities dramatically. Now, I tend to justify them through their own practicality. My brain needs to rest, my muscles need to stretch, and, although some would argue that to be a successful writer once must be immersed in misery and stress, I, for the type of writing I wish to produce, desire happiness and comfort. This is an interesting change in philosophy.
So, go to it, O, guilty ones. Whip out those hacky sacks. Lace up your gym shoes. Find your frisbees. Rustle under your bed for those worn out baseballs. If you have to, buy a new soccer ball. The weather is fine and the season is right.
Go play!
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