Drawing: “http|ftp” // Kingdom of night

New drawing: “http|ftp”

Http|ftp (acrylic, gouache, gelpen, spit, collage, pencil, coloured pencil) “I just wanna say this: Slartibreakfast!”

Finish work, late night, everything done early so… sharpen knives, clean up, organize pens, remove trash. Finally, do pushups and chin-ups on the stock scaffolds. (If I’m renting out my muscles and central nervous system by the hour, I ought to keep it in serviceable condition. Well, the muscles at least…)
All’s done, shop’s shut. So, I change in a cramped bathroom stall and make for the door. Eating a Hobnob with my tongue against the roof of my mouth. To avoid the gaps in my teeth, the teeth I need removed, I mean.

On the way out, I’m joined with a young man I’ve met twice before. Nondescript to the casual eye, tallish, curly hair, glasses, broad smile, slender appendages. But, one time, the first time we spoke, I was hyped and rolling, riffing gags and yammering away about probabilities in game theory. Without missing a step, he matched me thought for thought, word for word.

So, when I had been eager to leave and get some chicken or tuna in me, I was now honoured to stay and linger with this man (I’m compelled to say ‘boy’, due to his youth and boyish looks, but ‘man’ is appropriate to his strength of character) for three hours in a patch of dry out of the pouring rain. Time flies over as he unfolds a story to me that he seemed to need to share with someone, and I’m touched to have accept it. A most fascinating character.
The theme of architecture is somehow primary with him. He described a dream of his with an annotated diagram of the palatial Louis XIII style mansion that was the venue.

Riding back through the town, down the trunk road to the bridge, from the bridge to the forest. I hate the place during the day. At night, everyone’s gone and left the place to me. Urban night which is a unified psychogeographical landscape of mine.

My kingdom of night, sunned by streetlamps, either in crisp dry air or, tonight, in jewels of rain. Just for me a syzygy is granted between the planets of our star to grant, one solid year of night.

I’m pedaling on my bike through the washed out road home from work. The bike’s light produces a cold circle of weak light a meter across, which provides a .03 second lead time of warning before I hit something. But, I know the way, so, I take it as fast as I can. Relying on epinephrine release to ride me home. Around me I hear a wailing noise which, at first, I take to be the sounds of Ros (Sigur), but it’s not. It’s the coyotes howling. They seem to decide to have a howl now and then, like a mike check.
Person A: My mike sounds nice check one!
Person B: My mike sounds nice, check two!

Person C: My mike sounds nice, check three!

Person D: My mike sounds nice, check four!

Person E: My mike sounds nice, check five!
And so on, going all of the way around everyone in attendance. The point being that everyone uses silly voices and attempts to top each other’s silly voices. I have yet to catch this on at work, nobody knows what I’m talking about. At best I’ll get maybe two people to bounce it back to me.
Me: “Howwwww! Hack-gag-cough-spit HOWWWWWWWWWWW!” Painfully hitting an F above high C here.

The rain is just bucketing down now, I’m shifting gears up and down looking for something that will keep me rolling with a grip on the ground. I go BANG over something and drop my feet down to steady myself. I can’t see what it is, I can barely see anything… something snaps in the woods, moving. I decide not to stay on the order of my going but go at once.
The next day I go back to see what it was that I rolled over. It was several bags of discarded fish, filleted and beheaded. I suspect that they’re poisoned, left behind to kill the moving thing in the woods. (A black bear, he’s set up home there for the last little while. Unafraid of humans.)

Bagged, dead salmon in 40wt motor oil




About autonodrom

25, male.
This entry was posted in Art, Autobiographical. and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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