Mystery - Chapter One

    Jack stood in the doorway. It was a lovely doorway. The frame was a beautiful oak with a glossy dark stain. It was comfortable there. One step forward would be no good, because then he would be standing in his own vomit. The doorway seemed a little safer. After all, when an earthquake hits, a doorway is one of the recommended places to be. This doorway also had a nice breeze that pushed into the room to combat the stench of vomit mixed with blood.
    Yes, it was comfortable there in the doorway. Far more comfortable than the man lying on the floor, well, mostly lying on the floor. His spleen was actually lying on the table and his eyes where who knows where. It looked uncomfortable to be mostly lying on the oak-wood floor that was steadily becoming a redwood floor. Kind of a shame. That was a beautiful hardwood floor.
    "...dead..." Jack mumbled. The officers in the room kept staring. Many of them were trying hard to commit this moment to memory in hopes of recalling it on a day when Jack felt good about himself again, you know, so they could make him feel bad about himself again.
    "Uh... yep. Can't live too long without any blood in you." That was Detective Prick. Unfortunate name, but he really lived up to it.
    Jack broke his gaze from the man on the floor. "Sorry... I... just..." He bent over, hands on his knees, waiting for blood to reenter his brain like would never be possible for William Booger, another unfortunate name. Not sure how you would live up to that one, though. Why some people don't just change it for the sake of posterity is beyond me. Maybe they view changing their name as a white flag to all those who have made fun of them. I don't know. At least Booger would not be passing on his std-of-a-name... but I digress
    "Okay... I think I am okay now." Jack stood up straight and stepped carefully over his pool of breakfast on the floor. "Is it for sure... Him?"
    "Yeah, either him, or a really early copy cat. We found that," Detective Brand pointed to a crushed fortune cookie, next to the spleen on the table. "and this," he held out his hand, a small piece of paper pinched between his latex covered fingers. Jack almost didn't need to read it.
    
    "See no evil"

    "And the lucky numbers?" Jack asked.
    Officer Brand carefully tuned the peace of paper over.

    175 411 8417

   "Wait! But... th... they're... they're the same?" Jacks eyes met those of Officer Brand, now staring intensely back at him. "But, if their the same then..."
    "Then this is the only clue you get." Brand's eyes followed Jack, who was now pacing the room.
    "But then I can't. I don't have enough to decrypt it. There's gotta be more. Unless it's not an encrypted message. Wait! Hold it upside down!"
    Brand flipped it around and upside down while everyone in the room moved to look over his shoulder. "Mmm... Nope. Doesn't look like anything."
    "What about right side up?"
    Brand flipped the paper right side up again. "Lts... no. Wait. Its all Balt?"
    "Or, its all bait!" Officer Prick interjected.
    Officer Brand lowered the slip. "Well that's a better lead than nothing. We can have a few officers look for people named Balt who may know the victims. Officer Prick, you and I can try to piece together what this bait thing might mean." He then turned to Jack, "Well, looks like we probly don't need your help much now. If we do get a real encrypted message, we'll be in touch."
    And with that, everyone returned to the work of recording the scene of the crime while Officer Brand called the station with the new lead.
    Jack walked quietly to the doorway. Stayed there for just a moment to glance back at the scene, then stepped out into the hall.

The Art of Curiosity

Here is another paper I wrote for art class on an art exhibit I attended in SLC, UT. I feel like I ramble a little in this one, so sorry if you don't like it (or feel free to skip it!):

The Art of Curiosity

    The Earth. The Earth is a powerful, massive machine. Often, we humans attempt to intervene. We attempt to change the workings of this machine. More often than not, we are reminded that the Earth cannot be controlled. Man’s monuments to progress can be brought down in the glance of an iceberg or a tiny spark within the belly of the Hindenburg. These smallest gears of nature retire the Goliath’s of Man to rust on the bottom of the ocean, or fall from the sky in a spectacular ball of fire.

    William Lamson often tries to beat the Earth. While sitting and listening to him talk about his work, I could see that he viewed himself as the defier of the laws of nature rather than a mosquito cloaked in the shadow of the approaching hand of the Earth. Unexpectedly, he did seem to share his “failures” openly. In the exhibit we attended, he had attempted to make the oldest and driest desert bloom with life by applying water to the arid ground. His attempts to prove that he could duplicate the rare occurrence were in vain. Despite his diligence, the ground remained dormant except for a few tiny stalks of green. Now, many artists would have chalked the attempt up to failure. They would have tucked away the videos and burned the film. William Lamson did not do this. William acknowledged his defeat and shared the perceived failure. For William, the art is not having what you expect to happen happen, but sharing the overarching truth discovered through experimentation: that we are but ants. I think this brings home for me the true purpose of this life. This life is not for creating a permanent mark in the sands of time, but for learning to love and be happy on the miracle of this planet. We need to learn to enjoy the present, rather than living in the dust that is the recent past and inevitable future. Eventually, we will all rust on the bottom of the ocean or drift away in the smoke of an ever-changing universe. The molecules that allow you to feel and love will one day return to the void of space. So let us enjoy those feelings while we can.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t explore and push the boundaries of existence. Rather, it says quite the opposite. We must not be afraid to go water a desert or attempt to walk on water. William Lamson’s work taught me that curiosity is art, more so than the discoveries that come from it. As he said himself, much of his work seems like a 5th grade science project. That remark of his reminded me of what it was like being young. I remember filling  notebooks with ridiculous inventions and theories about the world. The unknown was exciting and anything was possible. Over time, we each grow older and the stars get further and further away. With age comes disappointment and the realization that we can’t all be astronauts and ballerinas. William Lamson’s failures seem to perfectly capture this realization. This would be disappointing and depressing for me, but then I see him waltz off to the Great Salt Lake. For William, when the stars retreat further into the skies above, he goes searching for the one that fell to the Earth instead. His art is the journey of curiosity, not the defeat of the Earth. His art is about seizing the moment, not pushing this moment into “the dust of this planet.”

Note: "In the Dust of This Planet" is a book by Eugene Thacker

Recovering From Art Prostitution

This is a paper I wrote for art class. It is not perfect, but I had fun writing it:

Recovering From Art Prostitution

I hate Art.

At least, that’s how I felt for most of my life. How did I get there?

I got there through prostitution.

I don’t mean the risk-ay kind. I mean… well… lets just jump back to Elementary School. I was not always the cool, stunning specimen of a man that I am now. There was a time when I looked more like a tiny troll who took glass bottles and wire and twisted them into over-sized spectacles that were a spectacle in their own right. While looking through my view-warping mask of loneliness, I discovered a cruel world. “Nerds” were not cool at the time. I didn’t have many friends. I was not popular.

Then I met Andrew Prez.

From my spot on the asphalt, near the tether-ball, I could see a crowd of kids amassing. He was new to the school and everyone wanted to meet him. Upon seeing his instant popularity, I was angry. People liked him just because he was new? What an outrage! He just shows up and friends come to him.

“I will never be friends with him,” I told myself. “I won’t even talk to him.”

That same day, I was walking home from school and saw him following close behind. “Oh no!” I thought, “We walk home the same way!” I didn’t know what to do. I decided to cross the street. He followed. “Leave me alone,” I muttered under my breath.

“Hi, I’m Andrew!” came the blood-curdling, bone-chilling, goose bump-raising, warm-sounding, happy-toned, friendly voice behind me. “We should walk home together!” And so, a friendship was born. We walked home together every day of Elementary and Middle school.

“What does this have to do with art?”

Calm down, reader. I am getting there.

Now, Let’s go to Third Grade, where everything went wrong. At the time, Pokemon was just starting to get popular. The kids on the playground who were lucky enough to have a GameBoy and the Pokemon games were the coolest in school. One such person was: The Temptress. This she-devil became popular very quick. Everyone knew that Bathsheba had it all: A pikachu backpack, Pokemon trading cards, the Pokemon games, and, most of all, the ability to draw any Pokemon without looking at a reference. The harlot Isabella was hot! Everyone wanted to be her friend, if not more than that. Andrew Prez fit into the “more than that” category. We began to follow The Queen of Blades and her posse of hell-spawn around the playground every day. Andrew Prez fit in with them like a Dug-Trio. I became The Tag-Along.

To Meggie Riecks and her group of friends I was a scapegoat. They made fun of me for my large glasses, skinny figure, hand-me-down clothes, and lack of drawing ability. I hated it, but I couldn’t just walk away. My best (and only) friend was fully indoctrinated. I decided that I would just try my best to fit in and be cool. One of the things that I decided would get me there was drawing. I began drawing all the time. I drew Pokemon and people during every free moment that I had. I tried hard to be better than Meggie. I thought that if I could somehow be better than her, I could dethrone her monarchy and take over as leader of the group… the group that I was never really a part of.

As you may have guessed, this never worked. After years of drawing and doodling, I began to hate it. I had been creating art in an attempt to become popular and get recognition. I drew for the reward that never satisfies. Over time, I drew less and less. All the recognition in the world could not give the satisfaction that I needed to keep it up. My creative wonderland soon became a barren wasteland.

Years later, I began to rediscover art. This time, I was not getting into art to be popular or famous. I began to discover that I do love it. I learned that I need art and creativity in my life. Without it, life becomes gray. Without art, life is a late-night office cubicle; dim fluorescent lights humming overhead. Without art, life has no meaning -- no depth. I need art to feel alive -- to mean something.

I am still learning to love Art. The temptation is always there to try to get recognition for what I have done. I feel the nagging to show others my work in the hopes that they will love it, and, in turn, love me. Somewhere inside, there is still the little boy hoping to make friends through art. I just need to ignore that little boy and take comfort in my true friend, Art itself.