Discussion on Painting (1)

Although there is no restriction over how I may approach painting, there are a few specific styles I frequently use. The style I will discuss in this essay is my relationship with the application of paint, which is generally referring to how I create the images you see on the canvas. I refer to the creation of an image in terms of application because of the unique relationship between what I am thinking and expressing and the tool/object I use to bring my idea and expression to life.

It would be best to start this discussion touching on some points of my theory and ideas on tools and objects. I believe that all things have various identities and natures that create unique images and expression in and of themselves, and to different degrees when shared with the ideas of an artist or anyone interacting/performing with that object. These images, in and of themselves, will vary depending on how they are presented and brought to life. Meaning, the range will consist of as little altercation as possible, which is predominantly an image and expression directly from an object, like its fingerprint, or even more accurate, a general photograph of an object. To me, that is as hands-off as you can get, although you can have many styles of photography which will capture that object in unique expression, a general photograph can start out as an object’s portrait, a very closely related or identical recreation of that object’s identity and nature. The same goes for painting. You can try to have the most general expression of an object, as little altercation or technique added to its identity or used to capture and bring its identity to life. In my painting, that would usually consist of applying paint to an object or dipping an object in paint and then pressing it to canvas, allowing the object to dominate and predominantly create the image/expression. The other end of this range will consist of a very specific idea or technique used in conjunction with an object, so that the identity of that object is greatly influenced or captured and presented by the artist’s very specific idea or technique.

I range from presenting an object’s identity in paint, or any medium, with as little altercation as possible, as well as using very unique techniques that combine with an object’s identity for dynamic results. You could also say that the object alters my technique with dynamic results. It truly is a relationship of broad and specific balances. For example, I could take any surface of something, apply paint over it, press it to canvas, and pull it off, resulting in an image made by that surface. This is predominantly allowing the object control over the image. By default, I am working with its size and characteristics, but no major altercation by me except for the physical motor process involved, the applying paint and pressing. Now I could vary the intensity and pressure of the press once I make contact with the canvas, or how I press the surface once contact is made, sliding or twisting it, or how I remove the surface from the canvas, peeling, pulling, or dragging it off. These are some examples of the degree of interaction between the artist an an object, which is moving away from its default characteristics and creating more dynamic natures of expression.

Yes, I am using the object as a tool just like a paint brush. This is one of the main ideas, the unique identity any object has and creates when applied or used in such a way involving expression. This relationship can be performed on many levels with many variables, so that the object does not have to be the main medium creating the image or applying the paint. For example, It could be receiving the paint applied and acting as the canvas, like painting on garbage bags or cardboard or rubber tires, or it could be simply using different types of canvas, all of which combine to present an idea and expression, and all of which add and contribute its identity and nature to the idea and expression.

Chrs84-

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History of the name Chrs84.

Here’s a little history of what the name Chrs84 has stood for on the World Wide Web.

The name Chrs84 and what it stands for has been onLine and throughout the World Wide Web for close to 15 years. Does anyone remember Aol and the chatRoom phenomenon? As broad as chat options and related sites are now, there was a time when chatting was a tight unique community on an immense scale. Yes, such communities are even larger now, but in many ways, it’s not the same as those 1990’s, but that’s not to take anything away from today’s faithful wordSmiths and communicators. I still run into legends, skillful and masterful with the spoken word, or should I say dancing fiery keyboards. Anyway, that was where I first made my assault on language and the Web.

Most chat rooms consisted of common dialogs in traditions of friends meeting onLine, strangers talking to strangers, and people who were gradually or quickly becoming friends, or sometimes enemies. There was also a relatively small group of unique chatters who would frequent a chat room and spread fire and energy through words. These groups were mostly made up of shock-types/haters who tended to be very combative, the philosopher/debaters who pushed hot topics and issues that always struck nerves or addressed our conscience and senses, the Zen/gurus who brought peace, calm and wisdom to whatever theme or mood a room was in, and the wordSmith/artists who emphasized the energy in dialog and the arts in general. All of these unique chatters combined and surrounded with friends and strangers who usually fell somewhere between these unique characteristics, friends and strangers who had some combination or a little of all the unique chatter-type natures. Then there was also the gaming and roll-playing rooms, and of course the forever infamous sex, dating, and hook-up rooms.

I was the wordSmith/artist, and what that meant was, even in a room full of friends and people I knew, it was known that I would fire out statements and phrases and fish for anyone who caught on or was game. We would open up a unique conversation and dialog, not consisting of the more traditional hello, how are you, how is the weather, or talk of a specific topic, or the history between people and he said-she said , but rather, conversation and dialog much more in a poetry format, and most importantly, it was always an open format that anyone could chime in on, and plenty of people did. It was easy and it was very magical. Picture it as so: You are in a chat room with a decent or excellent vibe, maybe you go there all the time and a bunch of your friends are there, but there is also a good mix of newbies and strangers, maybe a shock-type is razzing someone, but not enough to get kicked out or put on ignore. You go through the usual hellos, greeting friends, talking about whatever is relevant, the day, yesterday, plans for whatever, or updates from people since last you spoke to them. At the same time, you see these artistic statements popping out, sometimes at a frequent pace, sometimes here and there, and every so often, something pops out and it hits you, it makes you think, or lol, or smile, or feel puzzled, and you chime in, you pop out a version of it or something that could be considered a response, and a few of the people you are talking with do the same. We all feel it; we all smile, lol, or shake our heads, then you go right back to your chat and everything keeps going. After a while, the core of the chat room turns into a microcosm of generating energy, anchors that fuel fire and drive movement, and from time to time, and at any given moment, I end up doing what you just did, but in reverse, and I chime in on a more normal/traditional dialog, or I respond to a more global idea that suddenly floated around the room, born out of one of your more specific conversations. It all made for some very sharp, witty, dynamic times, times when people easily spent all night online talking and typing. This is what I became known as; this is what I stood for. When you saw Chrs84 pop in, you knew everything was about to get a little more artistic and expressive, especially in those rooms that were already wonderfully artistic and expressive. We thrived off of each other, and words developed into elaborate identities that were just as strong as our profile images and interests. Together, we made some amazing hanging-out times.

Of course I didn’t stop there. I went on to post plenty of written word, poems, stories and essays that floated throughout the Web, some of which you just might run into if you looked hard enough, popping up right there on your screen with the date to prove it. I know of a few places and I plan to eventually link them so we can view those blasts from the past. I contributed to online magazines. Remember when those zines started to catch on fire? It seemed like everyone was starting up an online mag. You could still find very early work of mine in the ancient posts of poetry and writing sites, and forums, and Aol communities and homePages. Even right now, I have some old Aol home pages that I will link up soon. Still, lots of my work became lost, as life and shit sometimes happens. I moved, different roommate times, different computers and sharing computers and online accounts, so one thing led to another and I lost my Chrs84 screen name, in the sense that it was created under the master name/account of an old friend/roommate. Remember how limited things were when it came to screen names, how difficult it was to transfer a name back then? So the name became locked up in that old account and I moved on to different screen names, not a significant amount, but a few different ones. For the most part, I would still use Chrs84 anytime there was an external identity request outside the actual root-account, like creating accounts and identities on other sites, so in that sense, it never left me. In fact, if you look up Chrs84 on Aol and its community/hometown(which I used to check from time to time, just for the hell of it, but haven’t in the last few years), you might still see some listings and headings, although, any actual body connected to it is unavailable. The actual Aol Chrs84 screen name may have never been completely deleted from its original account, or properly removed from where it is rooted. Of course we have come a long way with identities and the World Wide Web, and personal websites exploded and became much more accessible to the online user, so I took Chrs84 into the domain world of the Web.

Now, as a special treat, I will give you what so many people over time have inquired, and depending on my mood or how elusive and broad I wanted to be, I answered or usually skirted around their question, which is: What does the 84 stand for? since it wasn’t the last 2 digits of the year of my birth nor a particularly great year for me. Seeing as to how I was only 10 years old at that time(1984), you could say most of my life in that year was big-time or smack in the middle of being a kid. The 84 in Chrs84 stands specifically for the piece of literature George Orwell produced, the landmark book titled 1984. As a teenager, this was one of the single most influential pieces of work I read at that time. Of course it went hand in hand with Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World masterpiece, and together, they opened up a whole new relationship between consciousness and the written word. It will always be one of the top books that taught me the fundamentals of conveying massive issues through literature and a story. Then 1984 and a Brave New World went perfect with Animal Farm and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, combine these with the Diary of Anne Frank, The Good Earth, A Clockwork Orange, The Stranger and Naked Lunch and you could say that, literally, I was a changed man and never looked back. Would you believe that every one of these books, minus Naked Lunch, constituted the core of the Board of Education High School English curriculum? Nowadays, based on the younger people I speak with, I’m not even sure if any of these books are required reading. Oh well, the times have changed; what could we expect? Anyway, out of the respect for what that book meant to me, out of all the numerical digits I could have chosen to accompany Chrs, which is my first name minus the “i”, or it’s also the first 3 letters of my first name and the “s” is the first letter of my last name, I chose 84, clicked the link on the Aol create a screen name page to check if it was available, and it was, and the rest became history.

Fun fact:

In one of the earlier online version of the game Mahjong, called Mahjong Towers II (speed oriented), those boards created by the Author: Chrs84, are my boards and that author is none other than me. I can proudly say that at the prime and height of my playing, I was in the top 10 of the greatest Mahjong players in the world, those also playing at that time, and you could safely rank me at least top 50 of All-Time in Mahjong Towers II, world wide! There was a time that you could see my top 10 ranking scores across at least 200 different boards, yeah, I was a monster player. I used to work at home and had the wonderful opportunity to master the game. Secretly, from time to time, I dream of a glorious comeback. I made hundreds of boards, many that were unique and beautiful and downloaded in people’s copy of the game, some boards may still be popularly played today.

My best Wishes

Christopher-

Back to Chrs84 Writing:

 

Who I really am.

01/16/08

How many years have to pass,
and how many have already?
Are you listening or are you asking me?
The truth is, I only have this moment,
when I wrote up a storm for a life,
with fancy words for a living,
and delicate descriptions of the damned.
After everything is said and done,
can you see who I really am?

They say silence is golden,
but not when you already touched me.
Suddenly I am not the know it all.
Sooner or later you just have to realize,
I stood at the brink of existence,
on the fine line of a heartbeat,
or a heart bleeding.
When it felt like my decision,
I fell into you,
otherwise I would have never opened these eyes again,
otherwise I wouldn’t be who I am.

So I’m out here in these streets,
laughed at by the crowds,
mocked for the time frames I understand,
and I’d like to beat their accusations to a pulp,
but that’s not going to change their opinions.
So I show them my scars,
and suddenly everyone gets serious,
and that’s exactly who I am,
broken without your hands,
barely breathing when you’re not holding me.

How long has it been?
I’m not even sure anymore,
but I can tell you what it feels like,
and that’s much too long.
Over two years, no lips, no fingertips,
no one touching me, no one fixing my hair,
no one pulling on my pockets.
I shuffle these feet with a shadow holding my hand,
and people look at me like I’m crazy,
but they’ll never know why I am alive.
I seen you forever,
so it’s like you’ve always been with me.
After everything is said and done,
that’s why you have someone who will wait out time.
Can you see who I really am?

 

The Safety of a Miracle

01/02/08

I am so tired of disappearing.
I am so tired of fading away.
Tragedies, traumas, memories,
the good times, the bad times,
all of it together make such a dynamic beautiful life,
both vulnerable and delicate, resilient and enduring.
But, to come home the way I do,
it is a pain that becomes indescribable.
As much as I have fought to represent these things,
trying to be so brave with what is dealt to me,
and supportive to those I care for,
it is a pain overemphasized by isolation,
with such little hope to spare,
so that a ray of light becomes so precise,
it burns a hole in my heart.

How bittersweet that my tongue is unlimited,
but my hands are so tied.
Yet, even this tongue has come at the worst price.
And I hold dear all those who share these tortures,
for I seen with my own eyes how impossible it was to withstand it,
for I seen so many crumble, so many fade and disappear.
And I don’t want to fade and disappear,
but to sit here before you and tread my reality,
is only possible by containing great devastation.

Yes it is true, I am riddle with scars.
Sometimes I truly feel it is all intentional,
and I truly am glad if it is me more than anyone else.
Because of the bloodline,
because of my birthright,
I have accepted the responsibility of being the voice for such horrors,
the voice for such pain and hurt.
How could I wish this all away,
knowing it never goes away and would only crush someone else?
So I try to be brave.
I wear it all like a curse of armor,
one that does not protect but weighs me down,
one that buries me a little more with every breath.
But I do not want to fade away and disappear.
Yet, who in their right mind would hold me?
Who would dare comfort such a spiral of no control,
of no say or choice over life’s requests,
to live the nightmares everyone else manages to balance,
to speak a language that can only burn the mouth?
For almost all those in my shoes are crushed and paralyzed,
and they have every right to be.
It is not fair for life to be so one-sided as it sometimes is,
and for those that are on this one-side,
it does not appear to be sometimes but all the time.
Yes, that someone would be a miracle to me.

So here I sit in a silence as deadly as the echoes of misfortune,
echoes that are not the past but the future,
and they are not consequences of anything,
they are the very nature of me.
When can I come home and not be so alone?
When can I be so sure?
When can I just stop thinking all together,
and just collapse in an eternal embrace,
in the safety of a miracle?
I don’t want to fade away and disappear.
I need the safety of a miracle,
and I know I can be a miracle too.

Holiday Infections

12/24/07

I know some things are hard to believe,
and some things are almost better off as the nature we assume for them.
This is a reality of butterflies and snowballs,
our common sense in combination with our trust,
and faith as the loaded gun,
but there is so much to believe or disbelieve,
so we fire blanks,
even though at point blank range it still hurts.
It’s more our ego than a flesh wound.
It’s more ringing in our ears than it is a gapping hole.
You got that, my friend?
Every one of us thinks a version of these things,
but only an idiot turns it into a profession.
I make this claim to distinguish between an artist and the damned,
just like you thought you could imitate life.
It was good as a work of fiction until someone is bleeding or dies.
Now do you tell stories or do they tell on you?
If only I had cash for every time someone told me they knew the truth.
Two out of a lot of people would swear on the things they saw,
the rest of us are just majority rule,
something a textbook could keep reprinting.
You would think the revisions were full of added content,
but sometimes you say so much more by omission.
Remember one minus everything,
or was that everything without one?
It didn’t really leave you in stitches,
but right away you were thinking how to shoot it down.
I heard that you should just live your life and keep digging.
If you could smile then you were already rich,
so where is your capital now?
They built a highway and obstructed your point of view.
How much did we trust ourselves just because we had no choice,
even if we knew we would do us wrong?
Remember all those versions of the truth?
Well maybe a genius was just someone with a lot of excuses and a following who believed everything they said.

I know some things get real vague,
and sometimes it has nothing to do with anything,
except you have to deal with it,
or did you think your choices were made in a vacuum?
Yet, it wasn’t uncommon to speak to a crowd and get a better response from a wall.
You were still hoping you never left an impression on anyone,
until you found out the whole world was listening.
How else does everyone know your business?
But what kind of freak show put us on center stage?
I thought all Angels had a game plan,
then again, nothing gets done without producers.
Could camcorders be successful in Hollywood?
Probably not any more than chemicals protect nature.
God told man: “I should be in your heart but one day I will only be in your head.”,
and everyone knows what we do with figments of our imagination.
Go ahead, try and tell the devil its just a figure of speech.
Every symbol was a poison grape,
and snakes aren’t the only creatures that will offer you fruit,
just like Adam knew Eve wasn’t a virgin.
They made their bed so many times that it was obvious.
She must have saw what was under his leaf and got pissed off.
I mean, what could she tell God, there was no such thing as an enlarger back then,
and Enzyte was still thousands of years away.
Why else did the river run red, when they never killed an animal in their whole life?
And suddenly Eve was popping out children,
while the snake protested he had no arms and legs so how could it be him.
Sure Eve gave Adam the apple,
but only after Adam showed it to her.
They must have thought God was dumb.
That’s like buying a circular saw for your wife and she buys you an evening gown.

I know some things should be black and white,
and sometimes blacks and whites get along.
It sounds like a crazy idea,
but you’d be surprised how scared people are about blending the species.
Most racist people just don’t believe we all bleed the same,
the only problem is they’d sooner cut someone else rather than themselves.
Then again, some people just want to be left alone,
and that seems harmless enough,
until they go a bit stir crazy and write a book called Mein Kampf.
Of course not everyone goes for the gusto,
some people just do a lot of coke in the name of science and blame it on their mother,
or two mothers or two fathers.
By the way, I personally researched this myself, and he was right.
I’ll let you decide which one.
Hey, nice try, but never underestimate big business.
Capitalism trumps everyone, yet again,
or was that in God we trust?
That’s because the dollar is green even though the wallet is made out of flesh,
and everyone knows animals don’t count,
otherwise God would forgive their sins rather than ours.
Besides, Jesus herded sheep but died on the cross for us,
so why did he call the people his flock?
And green is suppose to simulate prosperity,
so why is it always covered in blood, I mean red.
Don’t get mad at me, I’m neutral in all of this,
just like the Swiss bank was in World War II,
and just because I don’t have weapons doesn’t mean I won’t shoot.
I had best friends who were Jewish but I wasn’t allowed to eat at their table during the holidays,
and I had best friends who were black but I didn’t marry any of them.
You see, your secrets are safe with me,
but that’s because I only see things as friend or foe.
If you think I’m public enemy number one, you should hear what they say about you.
My life was relatively easy, everyone was trying to kill me.
Now what’s your excuse, I’m sure it’s a good one.

Tears that soak a callous heart.

12/10/07

Saw my kid the other day,
but it was really too difficult to pretend,
like rubbing my eyes to remove the truth.
If it’s a sin, who should confess?
If I was born in the same way, how come I survived?
Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense,
actually, it makes no sense,
but I had a life to live so I tried to move.
What the hell does he want with me?
I’ve been a runner forever, how could I change?
So I turned my face and I fucking cried,
yeah, big bad chris wept like rain that fell on scars,
like blood I tried to put back in holes.
If it’s a sin, where should I begin?
Sometimes I just don’t know,
actually, I still don’t know.
Maybe I need a secret weapon,
a way to punish me with gentle pain,
give me enough time to find the Sun and the Moon.
It sure isn’t easy in these streets.
If it’s a sin, why does he follow me?
I thought I would be the one to walk away,
instead I held out my hand,
but my arms flailed in the wind.
As I blinked twice, nothing was there.
I suppose I never really knew what he looked like.
How’s that for second guesses?
and then there were chills I could not shake.
Sometimes it’s like he’s living his life through mine,
actually, it’s his life not mine.
And I know the spirits have cared for me,
more than I could ever ask for,
it’s not just the stars and things.
The spirits found me a heart that I could love,
and it scares me to death.
I don’t want to hurt anymore.
I don’t want to die.
Can he really see me?
I hope you could see me too.
I’m not going to hide these tears.
I’m not going to fade anymore

Zero or One

12/06/07

If everyone gets what they want, then I’m stuck with hams and hens.
If everyone is successful, then I’m molested.
If it’s a festival, it’s a funeral.
If it’s a parade, it’s a lineup.
I duck when I should jump.
I’m done before I’m gone.
Everyone can get their hands on a gun,
something like a gun,
or something bigger and better than a gun.
If it’s a limo, it’s a bus.
If it’s for free, it’s plus tax.
If it’s from them, it’s from us.
It all depends on a Visa or MasterCard and your special assigned color.
It all depends on who got the virus, and who controls the virus,
and can the virus be controlled?
in that very actual order,
because,
first, before we answer any of the last questions,
we need to know who has the virus,
who is infected?
because,
if we can’t control the actual virus,
we will at least have its victims and most likely it inside.

Sure we can contain the beast,
but does it have to benefit everyone so perfectly?
If it’s a car, it’s a cage.
If it’s mail, it’s bills.
If it’s a phone call, someone died.
If you’re happy to see me, you’re a pervert.
If you’re happy to see me, then you want something.
If you happen to see me, then it’s a mistake.
If I’m early, then the appointment was yesterday.
Everyone can get their claws on a car.
Everyone knows someone who knows someone who could swing by in a car and sell you guns.
Everyone can get something just like a gun,
and everyone gets hurt just as if it was a gun,
and everyone can dress up like they have a gun.

I get fired, I fire.
I get dumped, I fire.
Anything bad happens to me in any kind of way, and I fire.
I win a cup of coffee, a danish, a car wax.
I win coupons, a coup, a Cadillac.
I win a beer, a ride. I get friends.
I get gloves, shoes, hats, scarves,
promos, defects, mis-orders.
If it’s a gift, it’s a sale.
If it’s a sale, it’s a favor.
If it’s a favor, it’s a job.
Everyone has a job to do.
Some people have jobs, some people do jobs.
Some people go to their jobs.
Some people do jobs quietly.
Everyone runs from a gun, unless they have a gun,
then they run with a gun.
Everyone can get a gun if they want a gun

94 pictures

12/05/07

After all, it was their life, not mine,
and where ever this was going, did you really want to know what I went through?
Yes, I was no better,
stronger than anyone, but for such a short distance,
whatever I tried to touch,
whatever felt like I couldn’t,
anything to avoid the label of the truth,
as if I knew the difference.
It’s the same thing in my mind,
life bigger than the chances I once took,
not that I wouldn’t throw myself out there,
but who was really paying attention?
The things I might command are too much to believe,
and isn’t that the way reality condemns me,
until it all falls under something impossible?
How would I be saved?
because it comes down to that in an instant,
the way I roamed aimless,
the way I stood still but shook.
By now it was freezing over here,
I’m holding on by the skin of my teeth,
the rest is written all over my face.
I’m always forgetting what it feels like to smile,
this is isolation no one should put themselves through.
Nothing about me can be called functional,
nothing even close to reason.
After I finish writing this I won’t be able to move.
If I was outside I would freeze to death,
so I am a prisoner of the weather,
or is it the season?
or is it everything everyone else does?

Here in New York, a city with enough room for a view,
the dreams are up and down the street.
It is so simple when it is straight forward.
Maybe there is no other option,
maybe they can’t afford to waste time,
and that is very sane,
because the consequences are worse any other way,
but all I have to do is go to work and come home from work,
it’s enough to go undetected forever,
just a vague image people see,
but never knowing the things I had at my fingertips.
Only a madman and his head,
crazy for a hunger of life,
to be bigger than this living,
to be swept away and lit on fire,
as I predicted things could be,
which makes it more painful when I fade.
Is there really any shelter for me?
I want to cut myself up something terrible.

 

Apocalypse 13 : 1

12/01/07

The street was a whore and people pimp themselves,
they were running from terror but they’re living in hell,
and this aint a game so why you cutting with spades?
I don’t care for the cards, I can still read your face,
and you gotta admit, even though the years passed,
I’m feeding off the city while you’re getting fat?
I must be an idiot cause I took it to heart,
when you said life was shit I believed in the blood.
Of course I’m calculated, I’m a fucking machine,
I aint got no love, I don’t believe in anything.
I done seen to many friends turn into liars,
you can play with your words but it don’t make you a fighter,
and you’re good with your mouth but you bite your fists,
you forgot how it works, it’s been years since you used it,
but that’s ok cause I’ve been cleansing the streets,
it’s my own genocide, I never forget beef.
Since I mastered my weapons aint a damn thing changed,
all I got is hatred, violence is the only way.
You’re a smart man so you should think about it,
that’s three hundred and sixty five days of violence,
now multiply that for over a decade,
I ain’t met a man who got that much hate.
So you can blame me and you could point your fingers,
I’m only doing what I learned from living with sinners.
I don’t look for redemption, I don’t want your forgiveness,
you should know by now it’s just part of the business.
Go ahead and live well and pretend you matured,
I don’t know what you’re thinking but I’m living in war.
I’ll patronize your games and I’ll even play dumb,
but I suck as a friend unless I’m burying someone.
Some life huh? We’re like night and day,
you’ve been stalling the end but I just can’t wait.
While you’re playing with fire I’ve been putting out flames,
you can say you’re an angel but you aint got wings.
At least I’m honest when I spit in your face,
I give you your money’s worth, never short changed.
I can’t help myself, I got problems for life,
and I’m not going to hide it, I enjoy fights,
when it comes to violence I keep it a secret,
until the last minute when no one expects it,
that’s why the whole world is watching us,
all they want is a taste of the blood and guts.
Who the hell am I to deny or disagree?
but the things you said, I can never repeat,
and if I had a choice it wouldn’t be different,
if I could promise you the world, I still wouldn’t.
Knowing what I know now, how could I?
when the two of us changed, it’s was a bad sign,
and my face is not me, it’s someone else,
so now I can hardly recognize myself.
But I listen close to every word you said,
and I fed the hate and studied the bitterness,
I even made a career out of the hole,
dragged myself to the surface, played the role.
For what? cause it was all for nothing,
and I’m still breathing but it sounds disgusting,
and I’m still bleeding but it’s so well hidden,
no one can see the scars until I’m forgiven.

 

Apocalypse 12:13

11/27/07

Apocalypse 12:13

These were no miracle of words,
and I’m not saying you ever believed that,
nor anything else.
In fact, between us, there was no boundary.
Hypothetically, we never really knew who we were, unless it came to decay.
You didn’t have to believe that either,
but this time I was not asking.
There was no need to read my mind, not again.
We were firm with time as a function of movement,
and what was movement without mass?
The atomic number that signifies your life,
is it that unsatisfied,
and how in the world would you fight it?
Face it, we were surrounded.
If we were criminals, we would be busted for murder.
If you don’t think so, then I am telling you right now.
Your thoughts run through me constantly,
even things you can not contemplate,
leaving me to make up for everything thrown away.
These were no miracle of words,
just the horror of reality and the light,
even when there is no sun for days on end.
Since when did that ever stop us from taking it for granted?
For assumption seemed to be a specialty of survival.
You do what you have to and I don’t;
it doesn’t make me a martyr,
nor does it make me a genius or idiot.
You see ghosts and I see consequences,
in a world that will lend itself to revenge,
anything that is loyal to the laws of nature;
if it exists, then you bet it will be used against us,
now is that natural or man-made?
But you don’t have to answer me,
not like you ever have before.
Yes, it is so easy to toss your terms without paying the real price.
If it is reality you are trying to buckle,
you need only read on,
but consider yourself warned.
These were no miracle of words,
just as I have strayed from consciousness,
not that which we think we control,
but everything involuntary,
that which makes no sense to describe.
Surely this must all be in my head.
I say Angel; you say devil.
I say heart; you say tongue,
and in the end, what is the real difference?
when it all comes down to the same thing,
a life consumed by slow decay.
So you found a way to speed it up;
do you know what that means to me?
Make no mistake my friends, I am fully expecting to live forever,
and I have stopped at nothing to spread my paralysis throughout this world,
using every magnetic attraction of life,
even that which repels itself,
even that which has no charge at all.
For I have little obligation and even less responsibility;
almost every waking moment is spent in and out of infinity.
It is time to come clean and admit to yourself:
I am your physicist more than anyone else;
I am your best bet.
For my subjects know no limitation.
My terms are Heaven and hell just as much as mass and acceleration.
My laboratory is your cause and effect chain.
These were no miracle of words.
I stood on the edge of a force no better than murder,
pinning myself to a suffocated state,
watching the life of me turn black and blue, and then gray,
for a taste of what the light at the end of the tunnel was,
but death would not be cheated under any circumstance.
You either cross the line or you don’t;
anything less was not death at all, not even close.
If it’s feelings you want, then go cry on someone’s shoulder.
I was a fucking professional, god damn it.
How could I deal with hypothetical conditions?
I would be no better than a scientific politician.
But still, if I could not separate the body from the mind,
I could only believe I was lacking the necessary skills,
because I certainly had all the tools.
So, how then could I turn emotion against myself?
There had to be a trap I could fall into,
something that would hold me accountable for these thoughts,
until I didn’t think anymore and just acted.
With reflex and instinct, I beat the shit out of myself,
from verbal to physical,
and it worked.
I brought my reality to its knees.
I altered the chemical balances that doctors have slaved to recognize,
firing on gene codes impossible to map without some part of it in a state of inaccuracy.
These were no miracle of words,
only one man nurturing a living hell,
and this was no coincidence of a target;
the bullseye was confident as a mark.
Who else was stupid enough to rise to the occasion?
Maybe the answer already spoke for me.
You would have to travel back in time, when this final cut took its greatest turn.
By the prime of its handiwork, I was unrecognizable,
having my dreams tortured to death so that there would be no chance for new ones,
and my relationships weren’t just destroyed, they were turned against me.
Sure, it didn’t look like anything more than the usual way tragedies happen,
except, every mother fucking night I had to listen to some god damn voice.
I ran through every possible reason,
tried every possible explanation,
but it wasn’t that simple.
I could not connect it to God or the devil.
This was pure physiological.
This was hands-off spiritually.
There was no soul-searching to cleanse the problem,
and I was propelled into a nightmare of homeostasis,
a balance I painfully built from scratch,
after holding the blade to my wrist daily.
Behind everyone’s back I would sit in the bathtub, fully clothed, no water running,
as I listened to footsteps like elephants,
and distant conversations like children screaming.
The echo was blood on the walls.
I remember trying so desperately to clean it off,
but when I looked at the towel there was nothing there.
Eventually someone would wrestle with the locked door,
demanding I answer them.
I felt pressured to rush my choice, and I didn’t want to go out like that;
I desperately needed to do this right.
So, with my tail between my legs and the equipment safely hidden away, I crawled back to the surface,
where I eventually relearned to recognize my greatest suicide:
the slow decay.
What could be more painful than staring at the faces of my failures?
Everything I ate was like a dead fetus, in some shape or form.
Every phone call was from a ghost.
These were no miracle of words,
and since that day, I have not managed to escape.
In fact, you can say things only got worse.
If it wasn’t for the utter maniac that I am, I would not even be here right now,
but as a child I learned all my lessons well.
From molestation to self-mutilation,
they were all cousins that way,
and we were all lovers that way.
That’s why it doesn’t mean much to slash someone’s throat;
if I consider you to not be on my side,
and if any part of me was considered your enemy.
Yes, yours truly stood shaking and bleeding, recording every ounce of the punishment,
material I never leave alone,
material I always carry with me.
The only way something can happen to this master work is if something happens to me,
and it’s not easy to get me because I don’t do normal things,
and I am armed to the teeth,
weapons to fight off humans as well as Angels and devils.
The rest I have hidden, scattered in secret locations throughout New York,
and maybe even out of state.
That’s how pathetic I am,
or maybe that’s how fearful I am of the other side,
for the little protection I have by striking my deals with Heaven and hell,
or whatever the fuck you want to call it.
The infinity of things really doesn’t give a shit what we think,
and the select few of us are its pathetic vessels.
Now this brings us back to this day,
of course minus a lot of detail I can not say, otherwise I will waste tax payer’s money.
Forget bringing me to court or anyone else responsible for this state.
If there was any solid evidence, I wouldn’t have a problem,
at least then I would know exactly what happened.
Like I said:
these were no miracle of words,
and there could not be a lunatic more sane than your trusted friend right here before you,
he who does not ask for your damn opinion.
I am telling you I am your represented voice.
Don’t you dare tempt me for some petty proof.
Things don’t work like that and you know it;
that’s hogwash stuff of Luke and Judas,
just like I don’t need to know how many times you seen someone’s spirit crushed or their head kicked in.
We all get the concept of blood,
so we should also know that there are no such thing as accidents;
it’s just that some things are directly related to us and others are more like a butterfly effect.
Now your loyalty should be with me.
I have the math for such a dark and such a light,
while we play games with the laws of physics and religion.
There was no need to read my mind, not again.
We were already form with time as a function of movement,
and what was movement without identity?
Who else would be sadistic enough to strip it down?
Here is your dialect for this nature.
Remember me when it comes time to support me,
when you find me crippled and paraded,
war-torn from fickle treaties that expired.
Where are your magical items now?
Would you immediately retire, call it quits?
Would you hide behind other illusions of protection,
or will you come unto me and face what has long since begun?
I am your general, some of you just don’t know it yet,
but when you retreat,
there will be no side to suck up to and plead your case.
In every nook and cranny you will find a substance that devotes its life to my swords.
This is no dreamed up world,
and these were no miracle of words.
Do you understand now, my child?
Do you know now what is a true vampire,
what is a true saint and sinner?
Do you know now what it means to believe in God?
Do you see that faith is not blind at all?
Ask yourself once more: Who the hell am I who speaks to you this way?
and fear not your answers.
You will not find someone on the off-days playing games or taking in a movie,
or buying clothes or socializing.
You will not find someone grocery shopping, washing dishes, or raising kids,
and I am not saying there is anything wrong with that, my friends.
Yes, how wonderfully brave and strong you are,
otherwise, you would not even be here to read this.
How noble of you to juggle it all.
I am proud,
but all of that is over for me now.
Yet, this is no hasty decision or choice on my part.
To share your ambitions so close would spell torture and certain death for any of it that would share mine,
nor could I subject anyone to such suicide.
You would have to take my back or leave me to face it all on my own.
Still, fear not your answers.
For even as you read this post,
take pride that at the very moment I am hunched over soaked paper,
writing at the speed of light and sound,
clutching magic to ward off inevitable intervention,
the interference that consumes us and our hard fought balances,
or I am on the hunt, to keep our eye on the opposition.
Without me, your children would be eaten already,
and your husbands and wives would have cheated or been raped,
and your homes and apartments marked with the poison of some thing’s sacrificial blood.
And if this is already the case for you, then it was too late and I am so very sorry.
I do everything I can; I am so very sorry.
Then it is up to you to make your peace with the spirits.
You mention my name and they will know.
You think of me and you will have your allies;
it is not impossible for them to cross over safely.
They can materialize; they can come to your side.
These are no miracle of words.
This is the writing on the wall;
here are the ruins from which they came from,
my mouth to yours.

Chris