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)
Monday, April 16, 2007
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.
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