Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Art.



“the conscious use of skill and creative imagination
especially in the production of aesthetic objects,”
["Art." Merriam-Webster.com. Merriam-Webster, n.d. Web. 30 Aug. 2017]


It is decidedly not beautiful. That’s your first impression of it. You notice most people are standing farther away from it than you. You go and stand with them. Is it better from afar? Nope. Still ugly. Well, not ugly. Just... You can’t find the word. What’s good about it? It’s... vibrant. Yeah, that’s probably the best thing you could say about it. The person next to you must have read your expression.


“It’s... unpleasant isn’t it?”


That’s the word you were looking for.


“Yeah.”


They nod, looking back at it.


“There’s something about it though, right?”


They’re right, there is something about it.


“Uh-huh.”


They walk away, along with the rest of the tour group. You stay, transfixed there. That unnamed something keeping you there. You think back to what the guide said.


This is a piece we’ve recently acquired. It was recovered intact from a bombed apartment building. The artist’s identity, as well as the piece’s name-- are unknown.


The last remnant of a forgotten artist. It seems a fitting story for what you’re looking at. It’s not that bad, not really. Now that you’ve had time to study it. Still not good, but decidedly not bad either. It’s... interesting. How would you describe it though? Hectic. There’s a word for it. That’s not what makes it so striking though. You can feel it like a tickle at the back of your head. There’s something you’re seeing, but not processing.
You try unfocusing your vision, looking past it. It doesn’t help. You try going up close to it, looking over the wavy texture of the paint on the canvas. That doesn’t help either. You have the distinct feeling it’s not just random, not purely chaos for the sake of it. There were other pieces you saw that felt that way, but not this one. You can sense an order to it. You stand where you were originally. You stare. You sigh. You keep staring. You're almost ready to give up-- but that’s when you see it. Fire.
It’s so clear now. The colors are what threw you off, intertwining in an overwhelming mix of black and red. Now it’s obvious. There’s fire-- and smoke. Thick and choking. Now that you see it, it’s nearly pouring out over the walls of the gallery. It’s bright and flickering, and... hot. Too hot. Scalding. Now you see it-- that something you were looking for. You wish you didn’t. Faces. Making up the entire background. Huddled faces, screaming in pain.
Their skin run a gamut of nauseating shades, from pale and bloody to burnt and black. You nearly retch in disgust. You keep seeing more and more faces. Before it was just swimming colors, but now-- each moment there you see another one between the licking flames. They boil and melt, scream and cry, plead and curse-- you feel the heat against your face, as though any moment it might singe your hair. You try to look away, but you can’t-- because you see something else.
It’s sitting past the flames and the faces. You catch glimpses of its eyes gleaming between the licks of flames and pillars of smoke. Teeth. That’s what those errant spots of white are. The fangs of some perched thing sitting beyond the landscape. Watching the scene. Uncaring-- no, that's not right. Dispassionate. You can’t find it’s face unobscured in the havoc, but what first struck you as evil seems to be closer to... solemn. Not the architect to the mayhem, just a powerless observer.
Now you’re looking at the whole scene. The piece has become so vivid, you swear you can hear it. A miserable muffled wail from beyond the paint and cloth. There’s a movement to the shapes. A kind of strange, rhythmic pulsation living within the curves and lines. A heart beat. You feel like you’re watching something alive-- watching it twitch and squirm. You feel yourself drawn towards it.
You want to reach out and touch the flames. Just for a single, blissful moment. You want to live in the vivid color and lucid emotion. You want to writhe against the bright reds and the deep blacks. You want to scream and choke and cry and--


“Hey.”
You start suddenly as a hand touches your shoulder. You look back.


“I think I’m ready to head out, how about you?”


You look at the piece again. A mish-mash of random shapes and ugly colors.


“...Yeah. I’m good. Let’s go.”


...


You sit in the car, staring out the window. You watch the gray clouds as they slowly drift across the dusk sky.


“Did you find anything interesting this time?”

You shake your head, without looking back

“I’m not sure I get even most of that stuff. Do you?”


You don’t answer. You're looking deeper into the clouds. Watching them as they begin to twist and turn. You hear a low, mournful wailing in the distance. The clouds grow darker. You feel a sudden heat against your face. You see a flicker of red glowing from beyond the blackened clouds.

You smell smoke.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Dreams

When you first wake up from a vivid dream, there is a moment in which you don’t realize you’re no longer there. The world around you feels ethereal and disconnected. All the events from that realm feel as authentic as any experience you’ve ever had. In the next few seconds you blend back into reality, and the greater details of the dream are forgotten by the time you’re out of the bed. However, in those first waking moments... your dreams are still real.
...
You are walking through an endless desert. You feel scalding wind and streams of sand tear at your skin. You look down-- your body is torn and tattered like a paper doll. You feel your feet leave the ground as you’re whisked away by the burning tempest. You wake up, grasping at your body, and running your hands down it-- checking for those holes. The skin feels hot, but there are no holes.
...
There is a sense of profound solace when you reconnect to the real world.
...
Numbing cold. An intense pressure. You are floating deep underwater, the surface a slight glimmer far above. You try to swim to the surface, but never seem to get closer. Your lungs are going to burst. You try to scream, but only bubbles leave your throat. As you wake up you feel your shirt-- it’s wet. You nearly yell out, until you realize it’s not water. Just sweat. You almost laugh. Almost.
...
A wash of relief as the chaos of the dream melts away into the back of your mind.
...
There’s been an accident on the highway. A mangle of steel, fire, and fumes. You reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. You try to dial 911, but keeping dialing the wrong numbers. A scream from the wreckage. An explosion. A piece of metal flies towards you. A sharp pain in your head as you fall to the ground. You sit up. You’re sitting in bed. The pain is dull, but still present. You look for your phone on the bedside table. It’s not there. It’s on the floor.
...
Often, you wish that you could stay in those moments for just a few minutes longer.
...
A cool breeze carries the scent of the ocean’s spray. The water calmly laps against the shore. The sun casts golden light, that warms your skin. A flock of seagulls sound off in the distance. You let out a content sigh as you lay back. You watch the palms sway silently in rhythm to the dance of the wind. The cries of the gulls grow louder, and louder. You look up to see them flying in erratic circles above. Their shrieks continue to grow, until they coalesce into a shrill siren-- you jolt up. You look at the clock. You’re late.
...
Less often, you never want to experience them again.
...
You’re running. Not sure from what, or where to. You just know that you can’t stop-- no what matter. So you just keep running. You turn around to try and see it. You never see it fully, just incomprehensible shadows. You trip. It happens so fast you can’t even scream-- just brace for the inevitable end. You look up. Dawn is creeping in through the blinds. You check the time. You don’t have to wake up for another two hours. You decide to stay up anyway.
...
However, it’s not just nightmares that you want to escape from.
...
You’re sitting in a cafe. You see someone you recognize walk through the door.  It’s an old friend. You lost touch with them many years ago. You smile. They smile back. You talk. You laugh. You promise to meet again. As they start to leave you realize you forgot their name. You reach for your phone so you can add their number-- but it’s not a phone. It’s a clock. You set it down on the bedside table. You try to remember who that long lost friend was. You can’t.
...
Sometimes a dream can be worse than a nightmare.
...

You are lying in bed. You know you should get up, but just want to remain there a few moments longer. You turn over, and embrace the warm body beside you. You feel the warmth glowing from their quietly breathing form. You close your eyes, feeling their heat radiate into you. You reach for their hand-- but touch only sheets, frigid with morning chill. You sit up, and look over. They’re gone. Not gone. Never there. You lay back. The room is silent. You feel cold.