Art as Life/Life as Art

No matter what you may believe personally, it isn't hard to imagine that there is a higher power than ourselves somewhere out there; some god that's had a hand in the creation of the planet and the lives that inhabit it. This original Creator is the ultimate creator. Isn't it true that, (at certain points in their career,) all artists attempt to create something lifelike, something that comes close to measuring up to the ideal? Even the more abstract mediums start with reality and strip away aspects of it piece by piece. Truly the master of all forms, this post takes a look at some of our Creator's passing projects...

Sculpture

Any material can be played with, it all comes down to composition...

Often hidden, treasures lurk in the most unlikely of places...

Stone isn't the only usable resource, some materials are a little more temporary...

And some pieces are gone in the blink of an eye, often made more beautiful due to their brevity...

While others will outlast a millennia...

Crafted inch by inch to reach an epic scale...

Of course, some crafts are more complex despite being only a few inches to begin with...

But there is no sculpture more complex than the reasoning man; no art greater than life...

From The Lab

Show Me The Way or Forgive Me For Being Lost

With each grain of falling sand,
That's another pain I feel,
And I begin to doubt the plan,
That I, at one time, thought so real.

What hope lies for those of us
That want to believe, but can't?
Those who betray, and cannot trust,
All they can do is rave and rant.

There's not a doubt in my mind,
For I know that you exist,
Though I'm let down, time after time,
(So what kind of payback is this?)

Am I cursed to be denied
That which gets me through the day?
Now does it matter that we cry?
Does it affect you anyway?

I cannot help but question
These inhumane, cruel tactics,
'Till I recall the exception,
You'll never be us poor bastards.

Are we made in your image,
Fatherless imitations?
Will we learn it at the finish,
If we reached your expectations?

If this is the best it gets,
If this is all that there is,
It's no wonder we get depressed,
It's no wonder I still get pissed.

So will I always be this
Anonymous scrap of flesh?
See, I'm not trying to resist,
I'm just weary from all the tests.

If these words fall on deaf ears,
It could just add to my hate,
But there are no answers I hear,
Now all I have left is my faith.

From The Lab

A Guide To Stackin Paper

The facts stand clear, the options being few,
Hustle the world to balance crooked scales,
Develop talents, reach levels unseen,
Supply and demand with conscience stripped bare.
The snap of thick rubber bands drives the cause,
Dead presidents ease choices made of pain;
Our fiends, whether it be music or drugs,
Will always crave for tonics to escape.
If not from you, than rivals just like you,
With no such qualms about the game they play.
Dirty paper trails cleanly mark off turf,
Where only one could find a profit cleared;
So stick-up-kids, the moment lies ahead,
Now flip cheddar before the windows close.

From The Lab

A Little Heavy

With words fine as lace and painted with gold,
Drenched in conspiracy, against the square
Restless native, divided, conquer one;
Free to develop strength, nude and untamed,
Product of chemicals, potions and such
Substances crystal clear, murky as night,
Leave the blind vision, to stop and to stare,
At the heart of the flame, the core of truth,
To feed rough the ravenous, hungry dogs.
Repeat the same stories, the lesson sticks
And legends, bored, allow the veils to fade;
Let living keep the mysteries of life,
Absorbed through roots for the blossoming day.

From The Lab

The Spirit of Detroit?

"Blue-collar," "9-to-5," "Work hard, play hard,"
Exhausted, played out phrases, when it comes to
Detroit. Dangerous, desolate, deadly,
Adjectives all too commonly heard,
When it comes to Detroit.
Judge not the inner workings as an outsider;
Accept but your small slice of the spectrum,
Interpret a single experience at face value,
Nothing more.
Every facet reflects
A street corner, a moment, a dinner table's conversation;
The Life, The Death, The Scene.

The Spirit of Detroit?
The so-called spirit is potential;
It is little more than remainders,
Reminders, ghost like traces of history.
A city is many things, a collection
Of current trends, accomplishments, and the mistakes
Illuminated through hindsight's overbearing glow.
A city is individual, accompanied within the collective,
And subject to the same ups and downs an individual experiences.

A city divided against itself can stand,
Though only for a moment,
Solid foundations of character can be reduced in time,
Eroded into shaky blueprints and
Crumbled plinths. Dependency on the past
Is an antique dependency,
A thrown away idea,
Buried beneath the oily gearshifts, tires
Spent metal, rag, and glass of memory's junkyard.
Self made tough times are tough times
Nonetheless.

The needs of the few outweigh the many,
In this diluted, wolf-eat-dog trap/mentality/lifestyle.
Recreating. Thriving in the beginning
Where there was light
And dark. And passion;
Detroit is passion.
Passionate about Lions and Tigers and Wings,
Passionate about music and culture and fashion,
Passion which leads to love and hate. Life and death.
Light and Dark.
Even the strongest, brightest community hides a shadow in the back.
But a truth here is not twisted, as in other places,
It is revealed. Spotlight on the shadows,
Revealing the nasty bits that thrive within.
Knowing where not to step simplifies
An already difficult journey.

From The Lab

slow burn

Blows to the head that fog the eyes,
Lost, long gazes through the atmosphere,
Ticket for a trip through consciousness,
Annual vacation taken all damn year,
Rubber worn thin, challenging to steer,
Blown tires, fused, no brakes in Taylor Classics,
Lungs aflame, brain now in tune, nothing less than something drastic.

Seeking shamanistic cures,
Herbs and spices, blended rums,
Experimenting with the temple,
The earth may worship when I'm done,
Another rising phoenix disappearing in the sun;
Back to the clouds to taste the wind and elevate the mind,
Journeys for the holy grail, that first love left to find.

From The Lab

The Best You Can Hope For

Tested, time and time again,
Challenges met and conquered,
Friends to foes and foes to friends,
Developed back to monsters;
Battles not yet won or lost,
Decisions left in the air,
Lines one wishes were not crossed,
Of course, are no longer there.
The flow of days will travel,
The hours will never slow down,
The man whom built a castle,
Forgotten, is not around,
Built for men greater than he,
So his legend never lived,
But greatness, as like beauty,
In the beholder's eye, is.
Tread lightly down the pathway,
Leave nothing but your footsteps
And blaze the new trail, this day
Is your chance, lest your forget,
Walk upright, suppress the fear,
Not all change the tides of war,
Life was better with you here,
Is the best you can hope for.

From The Lab

Er, Conductor?

Fast stuck in a world of darkness,
Painful blow after painful blow,
Attempting to stay on target,
In bottom of the barrel flows,
Running slow, so we won't die tired,
Choosing paths on a trail surreal,
Admiring, as a trophy case,
As clear as glass, secrets revealed.
Holding on to forgotten strengths
Exploring cold and murky depths,
Of choppy waters, twisting and
Writhing long on the blood express,
Set the destination: Nowhere,
We'll just enjoy the scenic view,
Standing tall amongst the fallen,
All made that way because of you,
They overlooked your tendencies,
Is this strategy more earnest?
We're just as blind with far less fuel
To fill your still starving furnace,
That ancient engine, never seen,
Must we match in lowbrow tactics?
The high road's never seemed so far,
Or is that simply semantics,
And we should always stay on track,
Despite all the alternate routes,
That tempt us all along the way
With wicked whisper's forceful shout.
It's a game; surprised we noticed?
We, the many self-aware pawns,
With numbered seats and tickets punched,
Accepting the location drawn,
You've always had our attention,
Knowingly, the few have kept score,
Sure, you're leaving, but I'll choose to
Ignore that call of 'all aboard.'

From The Lab

Unstable Poet

When that old familiar ennui hits,
To disrupt the local thoughts of mind,
The one-eyed fool must lead the blind,
Through paths of darkness dimly lit.

Where trails were built to lead astray,
And leave the cyclops most afraid.
It matters not. Today's the day.

Despite the stick and stone of hate,
Some crystalline words are too fragile
To ignore the venomous rabble,
But a craftsman builds to dictate fate,

To reflect the world, its hopes and fears,
Twisting lies in funhouse mirrors,
To help their kin understand their tears.

Accepting reactions with nary a care;
All dried ink is a mark of the past,
Shadow truths beneath the looking glass,
Shrouded inside an underground lair.

Imbalanced and unable to see,
The effects of prophets small as he,
Staring down leaves, ignoring trees.

Lost defender of wisdom and wit,
In methods stolen from the first art,
The impact of intent, the frivolous lark,
Stowing skills away from the crypt.

Working in the boundaries of twilight,
Paralyzed by the size of the fight,
Another long day's journey into night.

From The Lab

Dues & Trenches

Drifting, lost in murky depths
Of oxygen and sunshine's bloom,
All around the people dance
In preparation of my tomb.

Their smiling faces, ever-light,
Proud of a day's work well done,
Little do they know I plan
To step in soon and spoil the fun,
O, I am not the only one,
Crushed under heavy-handed Fate,
See my knees pressed on the ground,
The only way to hold Her weight.

The world is just, in secret ways,
So help me just before I lose -
Don't need to win, just stay ahead,
According to my just paid dues.

Armed in shovel, will, and sweat,
Resting in trenches. Happily,
Digging shelters for future storms,
For that's the way it has to be.
In toil, lies worth, that's the key,
The mystery I've yet to learn,
Under the fire of the day
We curse the gods for getting burned.

From The Lab

Lost In Neverwhere

Must a hope always disappoint?
Must spirits constantly be down?
What do the dead do with those coins?
They serve no purpose underground;
And here I am, broken, annoyed,
With all these soulless folks around.

I grow weary through daily grinds,
Half-truths unseen, no wrong or right,
As I, a fossil of the times,
Am stuck within the tar of life,
Is my only worth in these lines,
Never observed by human sight?

My mind is lost amidst the pain,
The agony at any cost,
Where the mere effort of true strain,
Took its full toll upon my thoughts.
The mind's eye picture I had framed,
Was wrong, was gone, and all for naught.

Are artists born just to suffer?
Does tragedy the talent make?
Does every ounce of strength mustered
Leave the soul in a weakened state?
Do all your fears join and cluster
To scare you from your chosen fate?

From The Lab

Patient Things

Waiting?
They can wait forever...
And will.
Tucked away in the corners of the universe,
Biding their infinite time until
We are ready to receive,
And understand.
As of now, our wits are not prepared,
So they wait;
Hiding their secrets, closing their many eyes,
Folding their many wings, and
Waiting to teach the trade.

From The Lab

One Illusion Left

One by one the veils are torn away;

Fragile by nature and giving with ease,

Until one remains,

Settled with the dust of an age,

Standing tough through the destroyers of dreams,

Shatterers of illusion and perception,

(Proven by its raggedy condition).

This lasting mirage fights against the void,

Defiant, until the end it knows is coming

Arrives,

And soon, it too will be torn away

By the expectedly unknown forces.

So stop, stare, and gaze upon the doomed,

And offer thanks for the thin protection it provides.

From The Lab

Critique-Proof

A word to critics, lend your ears,
Your words do little good, you see,
Try as you will, you'll never find
My hidden insecurities,
I know your job, yes, all too well,
And that's why I don't respect it,
If that draws more venom to me,
No worries, for I expect it,
Yet if for some untold reason
You actually like my art,
It makes no difference in the end,
I didn't like it from the start,
There's nothing personal, in words-
It's simply the nature of things;
The critic prays for the talent,
In which God, to the artist, brings,
You may deny it as you please,
That your job is to judge, not hate,
But the ones who can't will critique,
While the ones who can will create.

From The Lab

CLOCKWORK

Setting tired workers for the slaughter,
Who fall in line so the cause will excel.
Who has the rights to superior man?
Tough men bleeding fear in torrents, or the
Fellowship of great minds gathered in a
Safe room? Age-old questions still unanswered,
Still fragile as newly frozen water,
Ticking effortlessly past time itself.
Could the muscles, tendons, thoughts, and choices,
Long inept beliefs, and methods of the
Ancients, (whom would be enraged at what their
Sweat and tears amounted to), become the
Proper execution for the future
All along; that miserable clockwork?

From The Lab

INJECTION

Prep the surface
Ready the mind
               Breathe
                      Relax
Tell yourself it's for the better


A sharp PAIN --
                        --Eases to a dull numbness
                                And a lovely pleasure
The flesh is pierced
                 
        Speared

Broken
As the fluid flows
Trickles through                            and spreads
The key to life
                       Where the lock is hard to reach


Withdraw
   Breathe
       Tell yourself it's for the better

From The Lab

The Vortex of Sin

The vices of life, I cannot defend;
To lie, cheat, and steal is sewn in our genes.
A battle with conscience. One must contend.

Fighting the false need again and again,
Combined with cruelty in endless days,
The vices of life, I cannot defend.

A callused soul is the loneliest friend,
But a friend in need is a friend indeed.
A battle with conscience. One must contend.

Balance is needed, the good/evil blend,
Purity by itself is not a boon,
The vices of life, I cannot defend.

Walk carefully when the pathway descends,
A decline is easily hurried past.
A battle with conscience. One must contend.

The vortex of sin brings most a rough end,
With occasional swirls of brief pleasure.
The vices of life, I cannot defend;
A battle with conscience. One must contend.

The Vial (part 3)

Catch up on the story with part 1 and part 2 


On one of their many outings together, Cassie convinced her mother to go to the local tanning salon, seeing as how beach season was right around the corner. (I could never understand the need to get a tan before planning to spend weeks lying in the sun but I'm told that women can.) Her mother agreed and they bought separate booths for an hour each. Cassie knew that they would have to take off any and all jewelry in order to avoid being burned by the heated metal, besides who would want a semi-permanent ring or necklace pattern on their skin? While undressing she made note of where her mother placed the chain and waited for her opportunity.

After about forty-five minutes, Cassie told her mother she had had enough and was headed off to take a cool shower. Her mother, who always loved lying out in the sun, was determined to stay for the full hour as she expected. She then darted straight for the locker room and pulled her mother's jeans out of their shared locker. Reaching into the back pocket she removed the fragile necklace with the nervous calm of someone about to diffuse a bomb. As she fought to unscrew the lid, waves of guilt washed over her and her conscience promptly ignored them. She'd waited too long and came too far to let such a trifle bother her.

As the lid finally gave way she peered into the tiny opening. Inside it was all but empty except for a small amount of liquid resting at the bottom. Unable to tell what it was she reluctantly poured some of it onto her hand. It was clear, and a few sniffs revealed that it had no scent. It was water. Cassie was more confused than ever. Why would her mother wear this container, complete with nothing more than a few droplets of water in it, at all times? With more questions than answers, she carefully screwed the lid back on and made sure to place the chain in the correct pocket. She put her mother's jeans back as best she could remember, closed the locker, and headed for the showers.

The next few days were both difficult and awkward for Cassie as the newly gained information gnawed away at her brain. What was the practical purpose, if any, of carrying around the charm? More importantly, what secret did the water hold that made her mother react the way she did? Struggling to solve these questions and more, it wasn't until a week later that she was able to get some answers.

There were two ways to get to the bottom of it, neither of them pleasant. Her mother still wrote in a diary now and then, as she had since before she was Cassie's age. As she never grew out of the habit she had a number of volumes. Surely the chosen information would be in one of the older editions, Cassie thought. The only problem was that her mother kept these precious books in a fireproof safe, along with her tax forms and other important papers. Cassie remembered seeing them there once, clear as day, when she needed to get her birth certificate for a class trip. She didn't know the combination and never had to. She and her mother always made efforts to respect each others privacy. She was fairly confident she could figure the combo out, or break into it if need be, but this did not appeal to her. The other way was no less disturbing. She could confront her mother about the charm face to face, and tell how she'd snuck in and stolen a glimpse of her mother's secret.

Good-hearted people tend to do good things, it's in their nature. Thus was the case with Cassie. She would choose the lesser of the two evils. On the one hand she would have to pry into her mother's private side again, piling up offenses and adding to her already considerable guilt; on the other, she would admit to her wrong doings, accept whatever she got coming to her, and hope upon hope that her mother would at least explain things a little bit before going off on her. So she chose the latter, but decided not to reveal the entirety of the setup. She would say she found it accidentally and take her shameful secret to the grave. This was going to be painful enough, why add to it? Sometimes lies are the only acceptable answer, at least that's what Cassie tried to tell herself.

From The Lab

Soul-Atoms

The experiences of day to day,
All the moments when we have lost our way,
Of the lessons that force a bended knee
From professors too kind or cruel to leave,
Our hopes and doubts and the desperation
To improve ourselves, with hesitation.
The oft blurred visions in need of focus,
Long lost teachings absorbed through osmosis,
The paths full of wonders and painful truths,
The blessings that fault and every excuse,
The great refusal of the world at large,
The final acceptance of who we are.

Insomniac's Rules

 

Fight sleep,

Rally against the tyranny of the brain,

With its constant demands and looming threats;

We don't negotiate with terrorists.

Fight sleep,

Dreams impede the progress of your dreams,

Lucidity is overrated,

Health is overrated,

Save rest for the dead.

From The Lab

A Lesson Learned

Life is built with the little things,
A gathering of all moments,
Balms that can soothe the little stings,
The bad friends and kind opponents.
At first sight of this old planet,
(Before meeting new life's teachers,
When the soul is running rampant
Tired laps throughout the ether,
Knowledge is gaining thought by thought,
Without the foresight of wisdom,
Since the first cell gallantly fought
Entry into the egg prison.)
The path is worn and memorized,
And by the time the youth slips by,
The present is lost. No surprise.
Where's the gift for being alive?
Pains discovered with every step,
Are abandoned along the way,
With teenage soldiers, grizzled vets,
Merely taking it day by day.
Growing harder by the minute,
We soon forget the right to play,
And what was once our infinite
Has shrunk back down into the clay,
While we have all lost our purpose,
In daily doses of drama,
Happiness upon the surface,
Layered over cores of trauma
Must be shattered; so little fish,
Don't get caught biting for the lures
Please understand the lesson, quick,
Just live a life, and live it pure.

From The Lab

"In the flickering shadows"

In the flickering shadows
A council of apparitions sit
In a semi-circle around a growing blaze,
Disappearing and reappearing
Within the warm copper glow.
Ghosting their ghastly way,
In chores, routines, destiny.
I do not believe they have spotted me.
(If they cared to notice at all.)
Either way, I'll keep my presence
To myself. For some reason the land won't keep still,
Morphing; eternally shifting into
Some reason. Evolving, the cliffs become
Valleys become
Desert sand dunes become...
It's better not to watch.
A large dog, possibly a Newfoundland,
Ignores me and growls at the council.
To this day I believe the dog to be real,
Animals have heightened senses after all.
The misty figures seemed not to care,
Which angered the terrified creature,
But did not bother the dog,
Who had no apparent issue with the devilish
Landscape; a horizon consistently shimmering
In the distance, behind phantom smoke and mirage flame.

The Vial (part 2)

Be sure to read part 1 first

When Cassie was a young girl she thought her mother was perfect which is a common mistake most of us make until we are old enough to see reality. Her mother seemed perfectly happy and joyful, always walking around with a smile on her face. And to some extent her mother was, but obviously such couldn't always be the case.

Many years ago when Cassie was much younger and still allowed her hair to be brushed by her mother she noticed the rather odd necklace her mother was wearing. (Perhaps 'notice' is the wrong word here since her mother had worn this particular piece of jewelry for as long as Cassie could remember, but at the least she remembered to take notice.) So it was at the point when they were fighting through a particularly stubborn snag together when, for reasons unknown, she brought up the piece and began to question it in the unrelenting ways of a child.

The necklace was an interlaced gold chain and fixed to it was a small and faded golden vial. It looked like a sparkling, miniature urn complete with matching lid. This would be a weird charm for an undertaker let alone a divorcee. Despite the grilling, Cassie's mother gave no answers. She simply tucked the chain beneath her collar and continued to brush her daughter's golden locks. Cassie may have been young but youth can be intuitive and she declined to push the issue. Which lasted for only a few minutes before round two of the questioning barrage began but this time the topic was shot down even quicker than before and Cassie was cut off.

As far as I can figure through my own inquisitive ways, Cassandra's mother and father split up when she was still very young and her mother never remarried. Her father distanced himself from the family and the only contact she had with him was his signature on the support check which, thankfully, her mother received every month until the day she turned eighteen. Cassie swears that this has had no effect on her but I think she's a little too close to the subject. It's been said that a daughter needs a father in her life as much as a son needs his mother. So even though Cassie has grown up successfully and with a good head on her shoulders, it's obvious (to anyone that has known her for some time), that the lack of a father figure has affected her in a number of ways. Especially in relationships.

She grew up a little ahead of her time in more ways than one. At fifteen she had the body of a woman that resembled her mother's killer figure in a way almost startling. Her face has been pretty as long as I've had the pleasure of knowing her, with piercing blue-green eyes framed in sandy, golden curls. However, Cassie was no fool. She was well aware of what she had and quickly learned how to use it. By eighteen no financial support was necessary because she had already mastered the art of the tease and soon thereafter had everyone, from schoolyard boys to married men, wrapped around her slender fingers. Still, when it came to an actual relationship, she was always involved with distant, standoffish, unavailable guys. She never saw this as clearly as everyone else but it's often hard to notice where the trail is taking us when we're too busy looking at the scenery along the way. As her friend I felt obliged to try and warn her a couple of times when the relationships were beginning but I soon learned my lesson. No one listens very well to what they don't want to hear.

As far as I could tell, her tight figure wasn't her only genetic inheritance. Cassie and her mother were alike in many ways. They shared several of the same quirks, and had similar personalities. They even had a number of the same opinions and beliefs about the world around them, something which is rare in the parent-child union. They were often mistaken for sisters, much to her horror and her mother's delight, and their bond was similar in that they could share anything with each other with only a minimal level of discomfort. All of these facts only made this particular instance even more unusual. Poor Cassie, she could never get that tiny vial out of her mind for good, and anytime she began to steer a conversation in that direction her mother evaded it at all costs.

Unfortunately, another thing my lovely friend inherited was her mother's perseverance. I've seen her go out of her way to avoid talking to fellow employees who she felt offended or upset her; even so far as to change her entire work schedule around so that there was no chance that they would bump into each other. Never the type to give up easily, Cassie would become determined to uncover the secret of the mystery chain. It was somewhere around sixteen or so when the curiosity became too strong to ignore and she resolved to solve the puzzle of her young lifetime. The only problem was that her mother rarely took the chain off, if ever, so Cassie designed a small stratagem that would make a super-villain proud.

From The Lab

Her Name Was Melody

She guards her secrets very well,
It protects her fragility,
Locked deep within the beating cell,
She long ago threw out the key,
Determined not to hurt again,
She strong solidified her soul,
And anyone considered friend
Is sure to stay within that role,
Kept at length with the unseen arm,
With all the force of one too real,
Precaution guards against all charm,
The latch is clasped and thus it's sealed.

From The Lab

Words To An Empire

The signs were clear and here comes trouble,
In a form of crumbled dreams.
Clues that will speak beneath the rubble,
Proving nothing's as it seems.

The ancestors learned one lesson late,
When the flag was at half mast,
How could they have seen their own sad fate
Without teachers of the past?

Their deeds and sins sit on the mantles,
Collected with words and page,
The benefit of their example
Guides the plot and works the stage.

What once was great and stood tall, unmatched,
Simply no longer exists.
That perfection which could not collapse,
Has faded and will be missed.

Beliefs that all can weather the squall,
And survive intact, unfazed;
Pride and anger thrive before the fall,
Entombed within the last graves.

With preparation it's plain to see
The price, the ultimate cost.
You'll have paid your debt to history,
In pain, despair, and lives lost.

Changes now delay future's mourning,
Time walks quickly, step by step.
Defiant in the face of warning;
Could you tell me who is next?

The Vial (part 1)

One hot, dull summer day a few years back some co-workers and I were resting in the backroom of a food store of small fame. We were practicing a hobby of ours which was to avoid all work while maintaining the illusion that we still wished to be employed. This was more of an art form than a hobby, an art form where all variables have to be accounted for; can't have too many people congregating in one place at once, don't talk loud enough to draw attention, keep tabs on the manager at all times, disperse of whiny customers in a way that pleases them, pick a topic of conversation, etc. As time would reveal, on this most boring of afternoons, there would only be two true artists in the room.

After any given length of time a manager may decide to wander. It's in their blood. When they do so and there are no employees working the floor they are prone to complain. Especially when they peer into the back of a stockroom and see seven of their employees clustered together and sweeping the same square of tile with the sort of concentration reserved for bomb squad detonators. It bothers them for some reason. However, a boss secretly loves moments like this. Stalking his/her prey in the anticipation of flexing the flabby authoritative muscles they toiled so hard for. Any employee caught catches their fair share of the wide scale attack in this situation. My well-tuned 'manager alarm' started buzzing so I quickly separated myself from the pack and as I did so another individual began floating away as well.

As the boss entered I simultaneously kicked at the hose of the mopping machine, knowing full well that doing so would cause the hose to fall off and unleash its soapy contents all over the floor. Doing my duty, I went right to work cleaning up the mess and repairing the machine while the other artisan ducked away to fake clean the bathroom. The rest of the geniuses never had a chance. Our boss immediately started in on the loafing crew with a speech on free time and responsibility before handing them a list of menial jobs that would take two hours at least. But not to me. Not to Cassandra.

Cassandra's not her real name of course but innocence must be protected at any cost. Even the semi-innocent deserve some. After everyone had gone their separate ways she emerged from the bathroom grinning ear to ear. We had the backroom to ourselves and shared a laugh at our fellow employees' bad luck, Cassie taking a special joy from the sad and defeated looks on their faces. Conversation being what it is this led to a strange talk about the effects of sadness and melancholia. Not exactly light-hearted banter, but I'm sure we all have those good friends in which no topic of discussion is taboo. If not, I recommend getting some. It was while we were happily sharing stories of the bad times when she became deathly quiet all of a sudden. It was obvious something was wrong but I chose not to force the issue, I even offered to change the topic. After all, discussing such uneasy matters can become fairly depressing after a while.

"No, that's all right," she said, quiet as cotton, "I was just thinkin of somethin from a few years back. It fits what we're talkin about, but..."
"Hey, it's cool," I mumbled, trying to reassure her, "If you're uncomfortable talkin about it--"
"Naw, it's not that. It's just, I forgot about it for a long time. Besides, I've never told somethin like this to anyone before. It's not like embarrassing or anything, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone if I tell you. Nobody."

I promised. Unfortunately for her, all writers are liars, plain and simple.
So Cassie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. You will recognize this betrayal but take solace in the fact that nobody else will figure it out. I hope. The story was too good and too human to keep a lid on.

I never had a notebook at the time, (as if I would sit there and record a woman in pain even if I did), so the following isn't word for word. For simplicity's sake, let's call it idea for idea.

From The Lab

A Bitch Named Fate

Shunned, the homeless man turns his face away,
All too weary to face another day,
Days which hold countless paths, locked deep inside,
To diminishing all that fools call pride;
Long past giving up, thoughts of survival
Did not matter. Fate resents Her rivals,
It is she who shall choose who lives and dies,
To scoff at your pain and laugh at your tries.

From The Lab

Flight of Fancy

Confusion is the soul's first step,
When hunting bodies free from stress,
Blood and Muscle and Bone detects
The shades of grey within the text.

The serene blankness of the vivid screen,
Where Nothing is exactly what it seems.

And no one wants to disappear,
Wide awake with old nightmares near,
Potentially, that hope for cheer,
Erodes the face with worthless tears.

Now these lessons learned can be changed if forced,
When man has wandered far off from the course.

Cloaked in silence, draped all around,
Shuts out the world, destroys all sound,
Picks up senses to drop them down,
To break the will and keep it bound.

Tied together with feelings of despair.
Drunk with power, acting without the care.

2010!!!

Welp, here's to the new year. Here at Afro Shamrock we'll take 2009 out behind the shed and fire two shots into its head executioner style, welcoming in 2010 with arms open wide. Expect changes and a few (hopefully) big announcements as we begin to come into our own. This site has already taken its first few steps and is now ready to break off into a light jog headlong into the internet fray. Stay tuned for what (I promise) will be a bigger, better, and bolder year.