When I was in highschool I had a pretty sweet English teacher. She introduced me to several notable authors and poets. She also taught the college English course I later took. Unfortunately, I wasn't the best student and often failed to complete my work on account of being lazy. Still, she encouraged me to do my best and tried to accommodate my habits as best as she could.
One day, we were tasked with composing a short poem that would be read to the class on the following day. Naturally I blew off the assignment, forgot all about it, and half-panicked the next day when the other students began reading their work to the class. What follows is the hastily scrawled poem that I wrote on the spot, as it was the day I penned it, which somehow scored me an "A." Although tempted, I haven't changed it from its original form. Enjoy!
A Stitchwork Affair
There was an old Crone, that lived all alone,
Wishing her heartache away.
From hook laden walls, hung porcelain dolls,
Entertainment for her day.
Females were those, with slipper clad toes,
Mute during her play.
Yet silent still, in dark evening chill,
They all remained that way.
Believed all but lost, came from floor boards tossed,
A Stitchwork Knight in fray.
This poor doll fought, as if all were not,
The Crone’s cat every day.
For his maiden pled, from her shelved bed,
So this cat he must slay.
Wily is he, that ferocious Henry,
Doth The Knight did pray.
And on full moon bright, in the darkest of light,
Came the doll through hay.
With scissor in hand, you will understand,
Henry became prey.
From barstool he glared, whilst his maiden stared,
All aswoon and fey.
For the distance too great, from pillar to plate,
No flowers that May.
So returning to gloom, in the dust from the broom,
Our hero rests all day.
One day, he swore, should he be never more,
Freedom for his maiden of clay.
The Crone could not bare, A Stitchwork Affair,
Unknowing in bed she lay.
From far off they yearn, while within they burn,
As The Crone and her dolls now play.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Traditions With Scissors
As the year comes to a close (thank Cthulhu!) I look forward to an annual tradition. No, I am not referring to Christmas, not directly anyway. Not being Christian and not having money means that I usually don't worry about buying gifts for people. In turn, I don't receive much. I would if I could but I haven't the foresight for planning of that magnitude. The one gift I give is to myself in the form of Edward Scissorhands. While everyone else is neck high in yule and the veneration of their Lord, I on the other hand indulge in my favorite movie of all time.
Facts
1. Edward Scissorhands is the greatest movie of all time.
2. It has the best soundtrack ever, composed by none other than the genius Danny Elfman.
3. Tim Burton and Johnny Depp benefitted greatly from it. This was the start of their many great, and not so great, collaborations.
I can still recall seeing this movie at the theater in December of 1990. Even though I was too young to fully understand it, I was able to sense the emotions and the major themes of the movie, that of isolation and self-discovery. As my family left the theater, I was full of questions. Thankfully they were patient with me as I tried to understand what I had seen and answered my questions as well as they could. The movie impacted me so greatly that is has stayed with me after nineteen years.
Before I owned a copy of the film I had to resort to waiting for it to be shown on television. For many years it was shown during the holiday season on various movie channels. Sadly, this is not so these days. I had to suffer a few years without it until I finally purchased it on VHS, and later on DVD. In fact, after finding out when it would be released on DVD, I bought it the day it hit stores. Ever since then I have watched it during the month of December.
Many are the times that I watched with eyes full of wonder as the beautiful gothic imagery unfurled on screen. No matter who I am with or where I am, I always laugh at the funny parts, sit on edge during the intense scenes, and somehow manage to get something in my eye during the sad moments. I've watched Edward Scissorhands in bed, on a couch, at a desk, and even in my truck on a portable DVD player. I will continue this habit for as long as I draw breath.
It is kind of strange now that I am older than the main characters in the story. When I was younger, their story was a fairy tale that I may someday be fortunate enough to fall into, one of true love and happiness. Now older, I see it as a bittersweet tale of an ideal that I never found, and never will. Where before I could identify with and look up to the main teenage characters, now I view them in the same way that the adult characters do. Like them, I see Edward and Kim as pure innocence personified; unfettered by the darkness of our cruel world their love should bloom eternal, but nothing so wholesome can be sustained here. Like the adults in the story, I have to live through the youth vicariously, until their souls are crushed by the harsh realities of a planet that can't rotate without conformity and submission. This is a testament to the greatness of the movie. It is an ageless classic, spanning time and point of reference, and touches the hearts of fans of great cinema.
There are only so many Decembers, and after I have lived my final one I still wouldn't have seen the film enough times. You can be sure that I will tumble into the world of Edward Scissorhands before this December is done.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Frankenstein in the suburbs.
Facts
1. Edward Scissorhands is the greatest movie of all time.
2. It has the best soundtrack ever, composed by none other than the genius Danny Elfman.
3. Tim Burton and Johnny Depp benefitted greatly from it. This was the start of their many great, and not so great, collaborations.
I can still recall seeing this movie at the theater in December of 1990. Even though I was too young to fully understand it, I was able to sense the emotions and the major themes of the movie, that of isolation and self-discovery. As my family left the theater, I was full of questions. Thankfully they were patient with me as I tried to understand what I had seen and answered my questions as well as they could. The movie impacted me so greatly that is has stayed with me after nineteen years.
"I've been watched more than this many!"
Before I owned a copy of the film I had to resort to waiting for it to be shown on television. For many years it was shown during the holiday season on various movie channels. Sadly, this is not so these days. I had to suffer a few years without it until I finally purchased it on VHS, and later on DVD. In fact, after finding out when it would be released on DVD, I bought it the day it hit stores. Ever since then I have watched it during the month of December.
Many are the times that I watched with eyes full of wonder as the beautiful gothic imagery unfurled on screen. No matter who I am with or where I am, I always laugh at the funny parts, sit on edge during the intense scenes, and somehow manage to get something in my eye during the sad moments. I've watched Edward Scissorhands in bed, on a couch, at a desk, and even in my truck on a portable DVD player. I will continue this habit for as long as I draw breath.
Snow I would actually like.
It is kind of strange now that I am older than the main characters in the story. When I was younger, their story was a fairy tale that I may someday be fortunate enough to fall into, one of true love and happiness. Now older, I see it as a bittersweet tale of an ideal that I never found, and never will. Where before I could identify with and look up to the main teenage characters, now I view them in the same way that the adult characters do. Like them, I see Edward and Kim as pure innocence personified; unfettered by the darkness of our cruel world their love should bloom eternal, but nothing so wholesome can be sustained here. Like the adults in the story, I have to live through the youth vicariously, until their souls are crushed by the harsh realities of a planet that can't rotate without conformity and submission. This is a testament to the greatness of the movie. It is an ageless classic, spanning time and point of reference, and touches the hearts of fans of great cinema.
There are only so many Decembers, and after I have lived my final one I still wouldn't have seen the film enough times. You can be sure that I will tumble into the world of Edward Scissorhands before this December is done.
Smiley Grimm
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Paperhouse: Revisited
In a previous post, You Gotta Cut Down Trees To Build A Paperhouse, I detailed my twenty one year quest to find an elusive movie that has haunted me for most of my life. Said movie, Paperhouse, was never released in The U.S.A., which made finding it that much more difficult. With a bit of luck, and persistent Google-ing, I did manage to procure a copy, watch it, and bring closure to that which had ailed me. What follows is a review of the movie, my thoughts on the matter, and all that implies.
Assuming you read my first post on the subject of Flicker Cogitations and how it tied into the movie Paperhouse, you know how important it was to me to finally get my mitts on a copy of this motion picture. It took a few weeks to arrive, but when it did I was more than relieved. Eagerly I ripped open the packaging to discover the eyes of a little girl staring back at me from the front cover of the DVD. The cover was different than I expected, it didn’t match any of the photos I had seen online, and the case was kind of shoddy. Upon turning it around, to read the blurb, it donned on me that this was no typical DVD case, it may be a cheap bootleg. After removing the plastic seal and opening the case, my suspicions were proven correct.
You can link all kinds of metaphors and parabolic attributes to the film, such as: be careful what you wish for; the power of expression; the importance of a family structure; the power of love, and etc.. It has what I think all great stories share: applicability. It is a cute story that speaks to each person a little differently. In the end I was left wanting only DVD quality presentation. Perhaps the movie is too awesome to adequately contain within modern media storage devices. Perhaps I am totally biased. Either way, I am glad I finally got to see Paperhouse and put to bed a wacky series of memories that have plagued me for the past twenty one years.
If the nipples of an eleven year old girl and adolescents making-out doesn’t disturb you too much, check it out. If you can find a non-pirated copy that is.
Love,
I would totally live there.
Assuming you read my first post on the subject of Flicker Cogitations and how it tied into the movie Paperhouse, you know how important it was to me to finally get my mitts on a copy of this motion picture. It took a few weeks to arrive, but when it did I was more than relieved. Eagerly I ripped open the packaging to discover the eyes of a little girl staring back at me from the front cover of the DVD. The cover was different than I expected, it didn’t match any of the photos I had seen online, and the case was kind of shoddy. Upon turning it around, to read the blurb, it donned on me that this was no typical DVD case, it may be a cheap bootleg. After removing the plastic seal and opening the case, my suspicions were proven correct.
Front cover.
Shoddy packaging.
Okay, so it was a cheap burn that some dude concocted on his home computer. I was kind of ripped off, but no big deal, right? Inspecting the DVD itself revealed that it was in fact a Region 1 DVD, thus it would work on my home player. I didn’t need to wait for my Region 2 player to arrive from the United Kingdom. I could watch it immediately. Humans hate stepping in poo, but flies love the stuff!
I popped it in, hit play, and waited for the greatness to flow. Within nanoseconds I knew that my crucible wasn’t yet over. You may remember the days of VHS and the need to adjust the tracking of the analog tape. If you didn’t adjust the tracking correctly, the image would bounce. Whoever transferred this movie did so directly from VHS tape, but they failed to properly adjust the tracking. The image was slightly jumpy. Eventually, I managed to forget about it and grew accustomed to it. Also, I had forgotten how terrible VHS audio was. We are truly spoiled by HD.
Technical issues aside, I can say that I rather enjoyed the movie. Almost assuredly I can say that I would have loved it as a child. Paperhouse tells the story of a young girl who falls ill. While in recovery, she spends her waking moments drawing pictures. While sleeping she finds herself in a fantasy dreamworld of her making, created by her daytime artwork. Whatever she draws manifests in her dreamworld. After realizing this, she indulges herself by drawing that which she desires most: friends and family. Conflict arises when the manifestations come to life fatally flawed. She draws a boyfriend, his legs don’t work. She draws her father, he is blind and stricken with a fever that only a prescription of hammer kills can cure. That’s right, her dreamworld father tries to murder her and her boyfriend with a hammer. I guess he doesn’t approve of her potential mates.
Better than birth control.
The story gets even creepier when she learns that the boyfriend in her fantasy world is a real person, another patient at the hospital she is resting in, and he happens to be in a coma. The feelings they share are real and the perils they face together in the dreamworld have real-world consequences. It is up to the little girl to draw the tools for survival while awake, so that she and her friend can overcome their hardships while dreaming. Without spoiling it for you, because I feel you should see the movie yourself, the ending is bittersweet.
You can link all kinds of metaphors and parabolic attributes to the film, such as: be careful what you wish for; the power of expression; the importance of a family structure; the power of love, and etc.. It has what I think all great stories share: applicability. It is a cute story that speaks to each person a little differently. In the end I was left wanting only DVD quality presentation. Perhaps the movie is too awesome to adequately contain within modern media storage devices. Perhaps I am totally biased. Either way, I am glad I finally got to see Paperhouse and put to bed a wacky series of memories that have plagued me for the past twenty one years.
If the nipples of an eleven year old girl and adolescents making-out doesn’t disturb you too much, check it out. If you can find a non-pirated copy that is.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 5 - Do You Believe In Sausages?
This is the conclusion of my epic blog, so I once again advise that you read the other entries first. Those who read the end before the begining are stoopid and dumm.
Art Party, Pt. 1
Art Party, Pt. 2
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
And Now The Finale
After a moment of confusion, she spoke again, “Mr. Grimm, your head, it will be a fine addition to our collection.”
“The hell you say?” I asked.
“I want you to join us. You have potential, mostly, and I need more people like you.” She smiled evilly.
My body went numb and all I could muster was a wimpy, “Tell me, truly, do you believe in sausages?”
“The world is becoming congested with indolent filth, idiocy, and repulsive materialism. We intend to separate ourselves from the herd and save that which is worth living for: art and individuality. True freedom.” She steepled her fingers together like an arch-villain, coiled, ready to strike. “First, we need to take your head.”
Obviously she meant to chop my head off and store it in a jar. I was opposed to this idea on the basis that I am supposed to die by meteorite.
After picking my jaw off the floor I looked around the bizarre room in an effort to formulate a plan. Fight or flight? If I muscle my way past Lady Vintage I will have a hallway and stairwell full of art loving nut cases to contest. If I grab one of the weapons and attack, the others will be alerted and pour in. Sure, I could slice a few, and it may feel temporarily rewarding, but I would lose the war of attrition eventually. This left me with one option: the body sized chute in the wall. I would just have to step over and open the steel hatch before she could grab or stab me. No problem.
One thing we all know but fail to take into account is that things rarely, if ever, go according to plan. It is usually your own fault to boot. I had already forgotten my plan.
I lunged towards a large menacing broadsword mounted on a stand made of bones. My fingers wrapped around the hilt and I defiantly hoisted it into the air. Trouble was, the stand came with the sword. They were joined by bits of metal wire, similar to the ties that seal a bag of bread, and my grab of madness resulted in a humiliating domino effect of tumbling bones and medieval murder weapons. Each stand and rack fell upon the other, a few on top of me, and the din of metal colliding with the hard wooden floor was deafening.
I leapt to my feet and made a dash for the hatch. Lady Vintage had her hands over her mouth and the footfalls of the art horde reverberated through the room. Traversing the pile of bones was akin to walking through a playground ball pit, but I did the best I could high stepping over them.
I slid open the chute and took one last glance over my shoulder. Lady Vintage fumbled with the door knob. On the shelf closest to my right a human head, eyes and mouth closed, bobbled in the liquid of its storage container. It looked bored so I gave it a shove. It fell crashing to the floor and landed in such a manner, among the bones and blades, that it almost stared at me through it’s half open eye lids. To my shock the head was that of a male, and to even greater surprise, it was a head identical to that of the door man, Lady Vintage’s personal assistant.
Now that is sub-normal.
The door flung open as I dove head first into the slippery chute. I heard muffled voices behind me made silent by the slamming shut of the metal hatch-door. I careened down a long and dusty slide. The crinkling of the metal passage betrayed my location to all within the house, for sure. The ride was longer than expected, clocking in at a few seconds of terror, and I had time to ponder a few uneasy thoughts. This chute was not caked in gore and filth as I had expected it to be. Did this mean that this was not a carcass chute? Maybe it was a chute for the blood spattered weapons? Was I about to slide into a dishwasher where I would then be washed, rinsed, and sanitized? Being clean is bad enough, but a power wash!? Oh, the humanity.
I was deposited into a hard steel hatch-door. I opened it from inside, and stepped out, rubbing the stars out of my vision, into an earthy basement. Everywhere stood, and in some cases laid, naked mannequins of every shape and size. There were washing machines, for clothing, and a solitary light bulb swung from the floorboards over head. The sway fo the bulb created an insane court of shadows and chaos. Someone else was here with me, too.
“Mr. Grimm.” spake the door man.
“Spake the door man,” I answered. “Dude, that is impossible, how did you get here so fast!”
He was standing next to one of the clothes dryers. His hands were reaching for something in his jacket, and whatever it was he pulled it out and approached me with it, but I couldn’t see what he held through the mannequins. Reacting more than thinking, I pushed over the mannequins, toppling them onto my arch-nemesis, and made a break for the door. It only took two adrenalin enhanced bounds to clear the stairs and plow through the door. I slid the lock into place and hurried out of the new room I was in, the kitchen.
To my horror I found myself in the large party hall again, the art horde spewed forth from the upstairs hallway with unbridled brain-hunger in their eyes. I ran past the fake well, with the green face in it, and towards the large double doors, which I assumed led to the front door entrance hall. Luck was on my side. I burst through the double doors, into the entrance hall, where the curtains still hung, only now they were yellow, on the other side of which was the front door.
Funny, last time I was here the curtains were black.
That is when cold realization struck me like a popsicle to the eyeball: I didn’t have my keys, cell phone, and most importantly, my goggles. The door man had collected them before my electrocution x-ray. I turned and ran back into the party room. The writhing mass of art lovers tumbled down the stairs, hunger in their eyes. The basket containing my personal effects gleamed out the corner of my eye, like a shinny bald spot. I grabbed my stuff, donned my goggles, and hoisted a tray of party food high above my head.
“Eat veal!” I yelled as I tossed the snack tray at the art mongers. They ducked and scattered from the non-vegan finger food.
I sprinted out the door, jangling my keys like sleigh bells, and opened my truck. Being a delivery driver I have mastered the art of locking the doors and starting the ignition in one smooth motion. As I backed out of the parking lot the art horde stood in the doorway, defeated. Above them leaning over a balcony waved Lady Vintage. She was shouting something; curiosity got the best of me. I stopped my truck and lowered the window.
“Mr. Grimm, we weren’t going to harm you. We want to make a mold of your head; a metaphor for everlasting expression. You have shown the intellect and creativity that we admire. Join us and help to make this world beautiful once again!” She held her arms open, like an alluring siren.
“So, you aren’t trying to murder me!?” I exclaimed.
“Of course not, had you been paying attention you would have noticed that the people here at the party all had casts made of their heads too!” She implored.
Dumbfounded I asked, “You people are a crazy nuts art cult!?”
Lady Vintage gently answered, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Screw the world, I say. It gave me allergies!” With that, I was gone. Like my hairline, the house shrank to nothingness in my rearview mirror as I piloted my truck down the dark and dusty country road as fast as I could.
Moments later I awoke, sweating in my bed. I then threw back my head and maniacally cackled with insane glee.
The End.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Art Party, Pt. 1
Art Party, Pt. 2
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
And Now The Finale
After a moment of confusion, she spoke again, “Mr. Grimm, your head, it will be a fine addition to our collection.”
“The hell you say?” I asked.
“I want you to join us. You have potential, mostly, and I need more people like you.” She smiled evilly.
My body went numb and all I could muster was a wimpy, “Tell me, truly, do you believe in sausages?”
“The world is becoming congested with indolent filth, idiocy, and repulsive materialism. We intend to separate ourselves from the herd and save that which is worth living for: art and individuality. True freedom.” She steepled her fingers together like an arch-villain, coiled, ready to strike. “First, we need to take your head.”
Not cool.
Obviously she meant to chop my head off and store it in a jar. I was opposed to this idea on the basis that I am supposed to die by meteorite.
After picking my jaw off the floor I looked around the bizarre room in an effort to formulate a plan. Fight or flight? If I muscle my way past Lady Vintage I will have a hallway and stairwell full of art loving nut cases to contest. If I grab one of the weapons and attack, the others will be alerted and pour in. Sure, I could slice a few, and it may feel temporarily rewarding, but I would lose the war of attrition eventually. This left me with one option: the body sized chute in the wall. I would just have to step over and open the steel hatch before she could grab or stab me. No problem.
One thing we all know but fail to take into account is that things rarely, if ever, go according to plan. It is usually your own fault to boot. I had already forgotten my plan.
I lunged towards a large menacing broadsword mounted on a stand made of bones. My fingers wrapped around the hilt and I defiantly hoisted it into the air. Trouble was, the stand came with the sword. They were joined by bits of metal wire, similar to the ties that seal a bag of bread, and my grab of madness resulted in a humiliating domino effect of tumbling bones and medieval murder weapons. Each stand and rack fell upon the other, a few on top of me, and the din of metal colliding with the hard wooden floor was deafening.
I leapt to my feet and made a dash for the hatch. Lady Vintage had her hands over her mouth and the footfalls of the art horde reverberated through the room. Traversing the pile of bones was akin to walking through a playground ball pit, but I did the best I could high stepping over them.
Not at all like this, but close.
I slid open the chute and took one last glance over my shoulder. Lady Vintage fumbled with the door knob. On the shelf closest to my right a human head, eyes and mouth closed, bobbled in the liquid of its storage container. It looked bored so I gave it a shove. It fell crashing to the floor and landed in such a manner, among the bones and blades, that it almost stared at me through it’s half open eye lids. To my shock the head was that of a male, and to even greater surprise, it was a head identical to that of the door man, Lady Vintage’s personal assistant.
Now that is sub-normal.
The door flung open as I dove head first into the slippery chute. I heard muffled voices behind me made silent by the slamming shut of the metal hatch-door. I careened down a long and dusty slide. The crinkling of the metal passage betrayed my location to all within the house, for sure. The ride was longer than expected, clocking in at a few seconds of terror, and I had time to ponder a few uneasy thoughts. This chute was not caked in gore and filth as I had expected it to be. Did this mean that this was not a carcass chute? Maybe it was a chute for the blood spattered weapons? Was I about to slide into a dishwasher where I would then be washed, rinsed, and sanitized? Being clean is bad enough, but a power wash!? Oh, the humanity.
I was deposited into a hard steel hatch-door. I opened it from inside, and stepped out, rubbing the stars out of my vision, into an earthy basement. Everywhere stood, and in some cases laid, naked mannequins of every shape and size. There were washing machines, for clothing, and a solitary light bulb swung from the floorboards over head. The sway fo the bulb created an insane court of shadows and chaos. Someone else was here with me, too.
“Mr. Grimm.” spake the door man.
“Spake the door man,” I answered. “Dude, that is impossible, how did you get here so fast!”
He was standing next to one of the clothes dryers. His hands were reaching for something in his jacket, and whatever it was he pulled it out and approached me with it, but I couldn’t see what he held through the mannequins. Reacting more than thinking, I pushed over the mannequins, toppling them onto my arch-nemesis, and made a break for the door. It only took two adrenalin enhanced bounds to clear the stairs and plow through the door. I slid the lock into place and hurried out of the new room I was in, the kitchen.
To my horror I found myself in the large party hall again, the art horde spewed forth from the upstairs hallway with unbridled brain-hunger in their eyes. I ran past the fake well, with the green face in it, and towards the large double doors, which I assumed led to the front door entrance hall. Luck was on my side. I burst through the double doors, into the entrance hall, where the curtains still hung, only now they were yellow, on the other side of which was the front door.
Funny, last time I was here the curtains were black.
Yellow Curtains of Doom.
That is when cold realization struck me like a popsicle to the eyeball: I didn’t have my keys, cell phone, and most importantly, my goggles. The door man had collected them before my electrocution x-ray. I turned and ran back into the party room. The writhing mass of art lovers tumbled down the stairs, hunger in their eyes. The basket containing my personal effects gleamed out the corner of my eye, like a shinny bald spot. I grabbed my stuff, donned my goggles, and hoisted a tray of party food high above my head.
“Eat veal!” I yelled as I tossed the snack tray at the art mongers. They ducked and scattered from the non-vegan finger food.
I sprinted out the door, jangling my keys like sleigh bells, and opened my truck. Being a delivery driver I have mastered the art of locking the doors and starting the ignition in one smooth motion. As I backed out of the parking lot the art horde stood in the doorway, defeated. Above them leaning over a balcony waved Lady Vintage. She was shouting something; curiosity got the best of me. I stopped my truck and lowered the window.
“Mr. Grimm, we weren’t going to harm you. We want to make a mold of your head; a metaphor for everlasting expression. You have shown the intellect and creativity that we admire. Join us and help to make this world beautiful once again!” She held her arms open, like an alluring siren.
“So, you aren’t trying to murder me!?” I exclaimed.
“Of course not, had you been paying attention you would have noticed that the people here at the party all had casts made of their heads too!” She implored.
Dumbfounded I asked, “You people are a crazy nuts art cult!?”
Lady Vintage gently answered, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Screw the world, I say. It gave me allergies!” With that, I was gone. Like my hairline, the house shrank to nothingness in my rearview mirror as I piloted my truck down the dark and dusty country road as fast as I could.
Moments later I awoke, sweating in my bed. I then threw back my head and maniacally cackled with insane glee.
That was fun.
The End.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
Friday, December 11, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
As before, be sure to read Art Party, Pt. 1, Pt. 2, and Pt. 3 before reading this one. Unless being confused is just your thing. Just saying...
I awoke just as the lights came back on, less than a minute after blacking out.
Good, I wasn't out long.
Above me strange patterns came into being and took shape on the ceiling. The shapes were puzzling to me, seemingly random scribble of black and white, although they did seem familiar. From a speaker in the one way mirror wall across the room, I kept hearing my name being called, but chose to ignore it, continuing to lay there motionless, and try to get my vision to refocus. A moment after the speaker went silent I started to recognize that which had become visible on the walls and ceiling. Somehow the static electricity ball, the flashing light, and the liquid barium in my belly had conspired to create an x-ray of my guts, which were now somehow imprinted on the walls and ceiling.
How does that work?
The floor vibrated from the stomping of many feet. Loud voices came through the door. I found my legs and stood, wearily. All around x-rays of my digestive system sparkled with the brilliance of a negative photo. I unplugged and picked up the lightning ball; prepared for battle. The bolt on the door slid rustily aside; the door was flung wide.
I stood in the center of the room, brandishing the metal sphere, as the horde of party goers flooded in. Close to a dozen of them carried writing utensils and other art implements. Surprisingly, they didn't attack, rather, they began tracing my guts x-ray and defiled it artistically. I just stood there, dumbstruck.
Behind the initial glut of rabid artists came Lady Vintage and her personal assistant, the door man.
"Mr. Grimm are you all right?" she asked.
Now that I could see her in full light, she wasn't as old as I had originally thought. Despite her fashion sense, she obviously had an advantage over women of the Victorian era: modern make-up and skin care. The combination of current product and antique clothing belied her true age, but she probably wasn't over forty.
"I'm good," I answered, "You?"
She apologized and explained how this had never happened before, but she was quick to acclaim the way the x-ray turned out. Apparently, my violent expulsion from the center of the room elongated the image and gave it a unique appearance. Her art minions were all over it.
"Well, I am going to go and make use of the facilities, excuse me." I left the room, returning to the large ornate foyer the party had previously been in, and took inventory of the newly reshaped scene.
Only half of the party remained in the dimly lit room. A few people were indulging in beverages, debating the ramifications of modernism, or gorging on deli trays. I, on the other hand, felt the need to empty the contents of my stomach into the first vomit catching contraption I could find.
The room was still dark, and feeling my way through it I found what I assumed to be a large plastic garbage bin. I grabbed the edges of it and leaned over. My haste and desperation to find something to puke into coupled with the darkness obscuring my vision resulted in me peering into something that was definitely not a garbage bin. I starred into a well, totally a fake one, and in the water at the bottom of it, starring back, was a glowing green human face.
The face smiled and shouted, "Good evening! How are you tonight?"
I answered by pouring liquid barium from my mouth into his. I couldn't tell if my vomit had actually hit him, because the water at the bottom of the well was disturbed so much that the green face was distorted beyond recognition. The green face was under the surface of the water, probably behind a protective covering, and I assumed that his voice had come from some hidden speaker somewhere. I didn't care, though, and decided to find a new place to do my business.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony and ducked into a nearby hallway. Sure enough, a gang of females all spilled out of one room at the end of the hall. Across from the door they had come from was the men's room. Inside said room I cleaned myself. I even debated jumping out the window, but decided it was safer to not climb two stories.
As soon as I opened the door a disquieting gaze met mine: the eyes of Lady Vintage.
"May we speak a moment?" she asked me, with one arched eyebrow and pursed lips.
"But of course," I responded, trying to act more well mannered than I truly was.
She escorted me to the railing overlooking the now well lit party below. Once again the party was in full force as the attendees busied themselves with meaningless chatter and merry making.
Lady Vintage leaned with her back against the rails and spoke, "The crucible, what was your interpretation?"
"I thought it a nice read. The movie wasn't bad either. A suitable allegory for the ills of hearsay, misguided fervor, and religious oppression, among a slew of other applications. Miller was once married to Monroe, you know." I smiled.
"The three rooms you solved." She looked displeased.
"Oh, yeah. Well, to tell you the truth, I don't have a clue as to what that was about. There was a connection?"
Now she looked even more displeased, and spoke again, "Hellscapes, forbidden love, and painful food flavoring, you don't see a correlation between them and our mission here?"
I leaned with my elbows against the railing next to her and shook my head, "You lost me."
"It relates to our future endeavors."
I shrugged.
She crossed her arms, leaned in close, and whispered, "Who are you Mr. Grimm?"
I pulled the slip of paper that led me to this place from my pocket and said, "I am just a pizza dude that stumbled upon this note at the Laundromat. Don't ask me why, but I just had to follow this mystery to its conclusion."
She backed away from me and opened her mouth in shock, that or she was trying to determine if she could eat me in one bite, "Amazing."
She cleared her throat and called the attention of the party. The voices of the mass silenced and all looked up at us. I waved. She then relayed our conversation to the party. The mob looked awed.
Why didn't I just climb out the window when I had the chance?
In an instant Lady Vintage's personal assistant was at her side and the party goers ascended the stairs in zombie-like fashion.
"This way Mr. Grimm, please." She led me towards the doorway I had first seen her emerge from, which led to another long hallway. Behind us followed the doorman and the party. At the end of the hall was another set of stairs which took us to a third floor hallway. The doorman and party waited at the top of the stairs while Lady Vintage led me to a room. She opened the door and asked me to enter once again into a dark room.
What is with the dark rooms?
She closed the door behind her as she entered and gave life to the lights. The room was large and the walls were covered in shelves from floor to ceiling. You would have assumed it to be a library, were it not for the glass jars filled with severed human heads that occupied the spaces that should have been reserved for books. All kinds of sharp and deadly murder weapons sat on displays pretty much anywhere a human head wasn't. The displays and other assorted furniture were all made of bones, human or animal I couldn't tell, and a man-sized chute was mounted in the wall, no doubt a place to dispose of headless corpses.
I thought about how I had gotten here, which inevitably led me once again to the point where I was thinking about how I had gotten here all over again.
Luckily, Lady Vintage snapped me out of a paradoxical narrative loop by speaking. Unluckily she said, "Mr. Grimm, your head please."
To Be Continued...
I awoke just as the lights came back on, less than a minute after blacking out.
Good, I wasn't out long.
Above me strange patterns came into being and took shape on the ceiling. The shapes were puzzling to me, seemingly random scribble of black and white, although they did seem familiar. From a speaker in the one way mirror wall across the room, I kept hearing my name being called, but chose to ignore it, continuing to lay there motionless, and try to get my vision to refocus. A moment after the speaker went silent I started to recognize that which had become visible on the walls and ceiling. Somehow the static electricity ball, the flashing light, and the liquid barium in my belly had conspired to create an x-ray of my guts, which were now somehow imprinted on the walls and ceiling.
How does that work?
I'm not gutless after all!
The floor vibrated from the stomping of many feet. Loud voices came through the door. I found my legs and stood, wearily. All around x-rays of my digestive system sparkled with the brilliance of a negative photo. I unplugged and picked up the lightning ball; prepared for battle. The bolt on the door slid rustily aside; the door was flung wide.
I stood in the center of the room, brandishing the metal sphere, as the horde of party goers flooded in. Close to a dozen of them carried writing utensils and other art implements. Surprisingly, they didn't attack, rather, they began tracing my guts x-ray and defiled it artistically. I just stood there, dumbstruck.
Behind the initial glut of rabid artists came Lady Vintage and her personal assistant, the door man.
"Mr. Grimm are you all right?" she asked.
Now that I could see her in full light, she wasn't as old as I had originally thought. Despite her fashion sense, she obviously had an advantage over women of the Victorian era: modern make-up and skin care. The combination of current product and antique clothing belied her true age, but she probably wasn't over forty.
"I'm good," I answered, "You?"
She apologized and explained how this had never happened before, but she was quick to acclaim the way the x-ray turned out. Apparently, my violent expulsion from the center of the room elongated the image and gave it a unique appearance. Her art minions were all over it.
"Well, I am going to go and make use of the facilities, excuse me." I left the room, returning to the large ornate foyer the party had previously been in, and took inventory of the newly reshaped scene.
Only half of the party remained in the dimly lit room. A few people were indulging in beverages, debating the ramifications of modernism, or gorging on deli trays. I, on the other hand, felt the need to empty the contents of my stomach into the first vomit catching contraption I could find.
The room was still dark, and feeling my way through it I found what I assumed to be a large plastic garbage bin. I grabbed the edges of it and leaned over. My haste and desperation to find something to puke into coupled with the darkness obscuring my vision resulted in me peering into something that was definitely not a garbage bin. I starred into a well, totally a fake one, and in the water at the bottom of it, starring back, was a glowing green human face.
The face smiled and shouted, "Good evening! How are you tonight?"
Artist's conception.
I answered by pouring liquid barium from my mouth into his. I couldn't tell if my vomit had actually hit him, because the water at the bottom of the well was disturbed so much that the green face was distorted beyond recognition. The green face was under the surface of the water, probably behind a protective covering, and I assumed that his voice had come from some hidden speaker somewhere. I didn't care, though, and decided to find a new place to do my business.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony and ducked into a nearby hallway. Sure enough, a gang of females all spilled out of one room at the end of the hall. Across from the door they had come from was the men's room. Inside said room I cleaned myself. I even debated jumping out the window, but decided it was safer to not climb two stories.
As soon as I opened the door a disquieting gaze met mine: the eyes of Lady Vintage.
"May we speak a moment?" she asked me, with one arched eyebrow and pursed lips.
"But of course," I responded, trying to act more well mannered than I truly was.
She escorted me to the railing overlooking the now well lit party below. Once again the party was in full force as the attendees busied themselves with meaningless chatter and merry making.
Lady Vintage leaned with her back against the rails and spoke, "The crucible, what was your interpretation?"
"I thought it a nice read. The movie wasn't bad either. A suitable allegory for the ills of hearsay, misguided fervor, and religious oppression, among a slew of other applications. Miller was once married to Monroe, you know." I smiled.
"Jangling the keys to the kingdom..."
"The three rooms you solved." She looked displeased.
"Oh, yeah. Well, to tell you the truth, I don't have a clue as to what that was about. There was a connection?"
Now she looked even more displeased, and spoke again, "Hellscapes, forbidden love, and painful food flavoring, you don't see a correlation between them and our mission here?"
I leaned with my elbows against the railing next to her and shook my head, "You lost me."
"It relates to our future endeavors."
I shrugged.
She crossed her arms, leaned in close, and whispered, "Who are you Mr. Grimm?"
I pulled the slip of paper that led me to this place from my pocket and said, "I am just a pizza dude that stumbled upon this note at the Laundromat. Don't ask me why, but I just had to follow this mystery to its conclusion."
She backed away from me and opened her mouth in shock, that or she was trying to determine if she could eat me in one bite, "Amazing."
She cleared her throat and called the attention of the party. The voices of the mass silenced and all looked up at us. I waved. She then relayed our conversation to the party. The mob looked awed.
Why didn't I just climb out the window when I had the chance?
I totally should have.
"This way Mr. Grimm, please." She led me towards the doorway I had first seen her emerge from, which led to another long hallway. Behind us followed the doorman and the party. At the end of the hall was another set of stairs which took us to a third floor hallway. The doorman and party waited at the top of the stairs while Lady Vintage led me to a room. She opened the door and asked me to enter once again into a dark room.
What is with the dark rooms?
She closed the door behind her as she entered and gave life to the lights. The room was large and the walls were covered in shelves from floor to ceiling. You would have assumed it to be a library, were it not for the glass jars filled with severed human heads that occupied the spaces that should have been reserved for books. All kinds of sharp and deadly murder weapons sat on displays pretty much anywhere a human head wasn't. The displays and other assorted furniture were all made of bones, human or animal I couldn't tell, and a man-sized chute was mounted in the wall, no doubt a place to dispose of headless corpses.
Everyone has a room full of these, right?
I thought about how I had gotten here, which inevitably led me once again to the point where I was thinking about how I had gotten here all over again.
Luckily, Lady Vintage snapped me out of a paradoxical narrative loop by speaking. Unluckily she said, "Mr. Grimm, your head please."
To Be Continued...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Unless you like being confused, I recommend reading Art Party, Pt. 1, and Art Party, Pt. 2 before reading this post. It will change your life. Or not.
I infiltrated the art party with guile and subterfuge; blundered my way through a series of puzzles; became the chosen one. My next plan of action: having a heart attack.
Chosen one?
All of the most horribly predictable plot lines seem to involve prophecies and/or "the chosen one." I am no farm boy savior of galactic peace, nor am I a martial artist computer hacker with shades and cheesy acting skills. I did have goggles, though, and I slipped them on. Since it was night I wore my industrial bug-goggles, which are basically giant sunglasses, which are just dark enough to hide my eyes. With all the strange art-folk frolicking about, with their avant-garde hairstyles and excessively colorful clothing, I figured no one would question their chosen one wearing goggles. It is good to have eye protection when following a contrived destiny after all.
Unable to hide, I meandered through the party goers. Some were older, most were younger; to my surprise, fashions ran the gamut; statues stood naked and glared accusingly. It felt like I was in a zoo but I couldn't tell who was on exhibit, the art or the living.
Interestingly, the collections of art were not the main focus of attention or conversation. Really, I should have known, I thought we were at an art party, but it had become apparent I was at a party with art littered about. Humans are pack animals, and naturally, the cliches formed. Almost everyone sipped a glass of wine, or some other colorific concoction. No party is complete without alcohol, unless it is a party at my apartment where it consists of just me in my undies eating popcorn for dinner. It didn't take long for the booze to loosen the loudest of the bunch, who were leading the cliches in stories and painfully awful jokes.
Growing disinterested with fake conversations I turned to examining the art.
Obviously, I was in a exhibit for local small time talent. When I say talent I mean, less than talent. Most of the pieces I saw were as rudimentary as they come, diarrhea finger painting would have been more impressive. Certain that the less than talented artists themselves were there, shopping their craft or networking, I suspected the loud pack leaders to be the most esteemed and distinguished of them. While pretending to observe an eighteen inch statuette, I noticed the eyes in the sky: cameras hidden within potted plants, behind a wet bar, and in the helmet of a suit of armor on the second floor balcony looking down upon us. Now I knew for sure we were the ones on exhibit, the alphas and we their herd.
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Some man approached me, tried in vain to engage me in conversation about his statue, but I neglected to care, and my canned responses eventually drove him away. I moved on to investigate other points of interest.
I joined a group near a fireplace, who were talking about the nice furniture on which they rested their rumps. On a love-seat/sofa-like thing, that was probably not a love-seat or a sofa, sat a nice looking young lady by herself. Being a gentleman, I sat beside her without asking. She smiled at me then refocused her attention on the furniture conversation. She wasn't offering anything to the conversation other than an occasional giggle or a nod. No one spoke directly to her either, thus making her a good candidate for information pumping.
I have seen every James Bond movie (I am a big fan) so I know how to talk to the ladies, and retrieve intel via smooth talk and misdirection. I needed answers concerning this place and the happenings within.
"Excuse me Miss," I asked, "may I ask you something?"
She turned to me and nodded.
"So, tell me about the cameras."
Visibly shaken, she set her wine on a tray and tried to act as if she was participating with the others.
"Hey, I'm the chosen one, you can tell me." I touched her back with my hand in an effort to be less threatening, but she retreated to the other side of the large art filled room. The usual reaction to my presence, but no less disturbing.
Interesting.
Then the lights went out.
Darkness of unfathomable depth fell upon us, matched only by the chilling silence. I was no longer sure if I was on Earth, or even alive for that matter. Nothing could be seen or heard.
A stab of light pierced the black veil, the source of which was hidden to me, revealing a doorway on the second floor balcony. Emerging from the crevice came an older lady, dressed in antiquated clothing from some forgotten time, like an actress from a silent film come to life before my eyes. The dim light reflected off the placid faces and wide open eyes of the party goers. They beheld Lady Vintage as a goddess descended.
She flowed down the stairs, like trickling water over a bed or stones, and cast herself at last before me.
I stood, bowed with courtesy, and smiled.
The light above, still the only source of illumination, obscured her face to me, like the dark side of the moon, forging a silhouette equal in height to me, but far more ominous.
"You are the chosen one this evening" she asked.
That voice! From the voice message!
I replied with a grin, "Yes, indeed."
She held her open hand out to her side, at once a man stepped from the shadows, the door man from earlier, and handed her a massive goblet. He gave me a slight nod and returned to obscurity.
"Drink this," she spake with demented school marm-like authority.
Taking the proffered cup, I sampled its scent with a waft. I was familiar with the substance within, a humerus tale for another blog post, so I asked, "Barium?"
"It is for the process." Her shape twitched slightly.
With a room full of people all focused on me, the one guy who wasn't even supposed to be there, I lifted the cup to offer a toast, "To art: both good and bad."
The room echoed with muffled laughter as I took a massive drought from the large, seemingly bottomless, cup of liquid barium. The chalky liquid provided no nourishment, quenched no thirst, but elicited fits of coughing. It had been fifteen years since the last time I had to drink the stuff and I wasn't expecting to have to stomach that wicked taste again.
The door man appeared once again, like a freaking ninja, and this time he bore a basket. "Personal effects, please."
I dropped my keys, cell phone, and goggles into the basket. Once again, I felt the urge to scream and run.
This is the most absurd thing I have ever been part of. What did I get myself into!?
"This way, Mr. Grimm," commanded Vintage Lady, and she turned, leading me towards an open door in the back of the art room.
The party goers whispered and chuckled to themselves as they gathered like a zombie horde behind me, blocking any route of escape. I had no choice but to follow and joined Vintage Lady in another unlit room.
The air felt different, that of a smaller room. Vintage Lady left me there, shutting the door behind her, locking me in a room of pitch horror. It felt like an eternity had passed before her voice came back, from somewhere in front of me, the opposite side of the room as the door we entered through.
"Walk towards the light in the center of the room," said Vintage Lady. Her voice had a tinge of distortion to it, like it was being broadcast through a speaker. A heartbeat after she finished speaking, a light grew in the room.
The room was revealed to be rectangular, all the walls and ceiling were stark white, save for a one way mirror opposite the entrance. Fixed upon the mirror was a speaker: her channel of communication to this room. Off-center, rising somewhere between four and five feet from the floor, stood a thin pole, atop which was mounted a large steel sphere, similar in size to a beach ball. Coursing over it were archs of electricity, like veins of lighting. The lightning ball was the source of illumination.
"Stand on the mark in the center of the room," Vintage Lady demanded.
Like a good puppy dog, I obeyed and stood on a thick black line on the floor. Between the mirror and myself glowed the metal lightning ball. The walls reflected its light in an unexpected way, like the walls were made of porcelain.
Triple interesting.
"Try not to move," Vintage Lady said at last.
The lighting ball's glow grew in intensity, erupting in a brilliance of web-like electricity. My hair and clothing stood on end, protruding from my body; pulled toward the lightning sphere, I fought to hold my ground with ever fiber of strength.
With a bright flash, I was struck blind by unconsciousness.
I can't be sure, but as the back of my head bounced off the floor I probably said something along the lines of, "Well this is a pickle."
To be continued...
I infiltrated the art party with guile and subterfuge; blundered my way through a series of puzzles; became the chosen one. My next plan of action: having a heart attack.
Chosen one?
All of the most horribly predictable plot lines seem to involve prophecies and/or "the chosen one." I am no farm boy savior of galactic peace, nor am I a martial artist computer hacker with shades and cheesy acting skills. I did have goggles, though, and I slipped them on. Since it was night I wore my industrial bug-goggles, which are basically giant sunglasses, which are just dark enough to hide my eyes. With all the strange art-folk frolicking about, with their avant-garde hairstyles and excessively colorful clothing, I figured no one would question their chosen one wearing goggles. It is good to have eye protection when following a contrived destiny after all.
"There is no spoon."
Unable to hide, I meandered through the party goers. Some were older, most were younger; to my surprise, fashions ran the gamut; statues stood naked and glared accusingly. It felt like I was in a zoo but I couldn't tell who was on exhibit, the art or the living.
Interestingly, the collections of art were not the main focus of attention or conversation. Really, I should have known, I thought we were at an art party, but it had become apparent I was at a party with art littered about. Humans are pack animals, and naturally, the cliches formed. Almost everyone sipped a glass of wine, or some other colorific concoction. No party is complete without alcohol, unless it is a party at my apartment where it consists of just me in my undies eating popcorn for dinner. It didn't take long for the booze to loosen the loudest of the bunch, who were leading the cliches in stories and painfully awful jokes.
Growing disinterested with fake conversations I turned to examining the art.
Obviously, I was in a exhibit for local small time talent. When I say talent I mean, less than talent. Most of the pieces I saw were as rudimentary as they come, diarrhea finger painting would have been more impressive. Certain that the less than talented artists themselves were there, shopping their craft or networking, I suspected the loud pack leaders to be the most esteemed and distinguished of them. While pretending to observe an eighteen inch statuette, I noticed the eyes in the sky: cameras hidden within potted plants, behind a wet bar, and in the helmet of a suit of armor on the second floor balcony looking down upon us. Now I knew for sure we were the ones on exhibit, the alphas and we their herd.
.jpg)
Sometimes they grab you by the horns.
Some man approached me, tried in vain to engage me in conversation about his statue, but I neglected to care, and my canned responses eventually drove him away. I moved on to investigate other points of interest.
I joined a group near a fireplace, who were talking about the nice furniture on which they rested their rumps. On a love-seat/sofa-like thing, that was probably not a love-seat or a sofa, sat a nice looking young lady by herself. Being a gentleman, I sat beside her without asking. She smiled at me then refocused her attention on the furniture conversation. She wasn't offering anything to the conversation other than an occasional giggle or a nod. No one spoke directly to her either, thus making her a good candidate for information pumping.
I have seen every James Bond movie (I am a big fan) so I know how to talk to the ladies, and retrieve intel via smooth talk and misdirection. I needed answers concerning this place and the happenings within.
"Excuse me Miss," I asked, "may I ask you something?"
She turned to me and nodded.
"So, tell me about the cameras."
Visibly shaken, she set her wine on a tray and tried to act as if she was participating with the others.
"Hey, I'm the chosen one, you can tell me." I touched her back with my hand in an effort to be less threatening, but she retreated to the other side of the large art filled room. The usual reaction to my presence, but no less disturbing.
Interesting.
Then the lights went out.
"Out, out, brief candle!"
Darkness of unfathomable depth fell upon us, matched only by the chilling silence. I was no longer sure if I was on Earth, or even alive for that matter. Nothing could be seen or heard.
A stab of light pierced the black veil, the source of which was hidden to me, revealing a doorway on the second floor balcony. Emerging from the crevice came an older lady, dressed in antiquated clothing from some forgotten time, like an actress from a silent film come to life before my eyes. The dim light reflected off the placid faces and wide open eyes of the party goers. They beheld Lady Vintage as a goddess descended.
She flowed down the stairs, like trickling water over a bed or stones, and cast herself at last before me.
I stood, bowed with courtesy, and smiled.
The light above, still the only source of illumination, obscured her face to me, like the dark side of the moon, forging a silhouette equal in height to me, but far more ominous.
"You are the chosen one this evening" she asked.
That voice! From the voice message!
I replied with a grin, "Yes, indeed."
She held her open hand out to her side, at once a man stepped from the shadows, the door man from earlier, and handed her a massive goblet. He gave me a slight nod and returned to obscurity.
"Drink this," she spake with demented school marm-like authority.
Taking the proffered cup, I sampled its scent with a waft. I was familiar with the substance within, a humerus tale for another blog post, so I asked, "Barium?"
"It is for the process." Her shape twitched slightly.
Do not drink.
With a room full of people all focused on me, the one guy who wasn't even supposed to be there, I lifted the cup to offer a toast, "To art: both good and bad."
The room echoed with muffled laughter as I took a massive drought from the large, seemingly bottomless, cup of liquid barium. The chalky liquid provided no nourishment, quenched no thirst, but elicited fits of coughing. It had been fifteen years since the last time I had to drink the stuff and I wasn't expecting to have to stomach that wicked taste again.
The door man appeared once again, like a freaking ninja, and this time he bore a basket. "Personal effects, please."
I dropped my keys, cell phone, and goggles into the basket. Once again, I felt the urge to scream and run.
This is the most absurd thing I have ever been part of. What did I get myself into!?
"This way, Mr. Grimm," commanded Vintage Lady, and she turned, leading me towards an open door in the back of the art room.
The party goers whispered and chuckled to themselves as they gathered like a zombie horde behind me, blocking any route of escape. I had no choice but to follow and joined Vintage Lady in another unlit room.
The air felt different, that of a smaller room. Vintage Lady left me there, shutting the door behind her, locking me in a room of pitch horror. It felt like an eternity had passed before her voice came back, from somewhere in front of me, the opposite side of the room as the door we entered through.
"Walk towards the light in the center of the room," said Vintage Lady. Her voice had a tinge of distortion to it, like it was being broadcast through a speaker. A heartbeat after she finished speaking, a light grew in the room.
The room was revealed to be rectangular, all the walls and ceiling were stark white, save for a one way mirror opposite the entrance. Fixed upon the mirror was a speaker: her channel of communication to this room. Off-center, rising somewhere between four and five feet from the floor, stood a thin pole, atop which was mounted a large steel sphere, similar in size to a beach ball. Coursing over it were archs of electricity, like veins of lighting. The lightning ball was the source of illumination.
"Stand on the mark in the center of the room," Vintage Lady demanded.
Like a good puppy dog, I obeyed and stood on a thick black line on the floor. Between the mirror and myself glowed the metal lightning ball. The walls reflected its light in an unexpected way, like the walls were made of porcelain.
Triple interesting.
Everyone has one of these, right?
The lighting ball's glow grew in intensity, erupting in a brilliance of web-like electricity. My hair and clothing stood on end, protruding from my body; pulled toward the lightning sphere, I fought to hold my ground with ever fiber of strength.
With a bright flash, I was struck blind by unconsciousness.
I can't be sure, but as the back of my head bounced off the floor I probably said something along the lines of, "Well this is a pickle."
To be continued...
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Art Party, Pt.2
I found myself in a room full of severed heads and all manner of unusual murder weapons. Brought here by someone who seemed rather upset, my future looked grim. Let's see, do I hide behind the chair made of bones; grab one of the weapons and defend myself; try to escape by sliding through the chute in the wall? At that point the only thing I could do was recollect how I had gotten there in the first place, which creates a narrative paradox, but we'll get to that later.
A scrap of paper with a phone number and web address on it had led me to a large manor in the middle of nowhere. There is a highway not far from where I live, HWY 360, that eventually comes to an end if you follow it far enough south. This manor was tucked away in a secluded area, with no other signs of life for miles, beyond where the highway ends. We are talking dirt roads, cow pastures, junkyards, and ghost towns.
With a bit of guile, I had slipped in among a group a six who knocked on the door of the manor. I was the seventh guest, if you will. The group consisted of mostly young people, close to my age, so I felt confident that I could worm my way into this mysterious party that I wasn't even invited to.
I need no invitation.
The door was answered by a young man, who appeared a few years older than me, holding a clipboard. He was dressed in fancy clothing, looking somewhat official. The six guests before me entered, stating their names. Then my turn.
"S.G," I said. I walked past the man into a foyer with wooden floors that was cordoned off and obscured by large black curtains. The only place to walk was along a red carpet to the immediate left, into an almost pitch black room. The curtains swayed slightly, and distant murmurs came from behind them, so I knew that a large room was beyond where other humans convened.
"S.G?" the door man asked. He ran his index finger across the board trying to find who I could be, but I was already past him, following the group, and walked into the dark room. The door man walked to the entrance of the side room and winked at me saying, "I found you Mr. Grimm. Have fun." He arched his eyebrows and shut the door. I made it. What a relief.
No light came through any windows, no lamps were lit, though, a faint illumination came from under some sort of cloth hanging on the wall. Once my eyes had adjusted, I could see that the cloth was hung over a row of monitors, there were three such screens, affixed side by side on the right hand wall from the entrance to this room. The guests slid the cloth aside, a bit of curtain, and brought into view three LCD computer screens with artwork on display.
So, this is an art party?
The other people stood there, rubbing their chins, and looked puzzled. I didn't have any clue what we were doing, and hoped no one would ask me. My plan for the night was to just blend in and remain hidden. I just wanted to observe and be totally unassuming.
"Find the common theme," one of the males stated with assurance.
Looking into the dark corners of the ceiling I noticed a very subtle reflection of light. Camera lenses.
You have got to be kidding me.
This was the first time I felt slight panic and fought the urge to leave.
One of the girls called out, "Church paintings." Everyone remained silent for a moment and then continued looking clueless.
"Art from the Renaissance?" asked another. More guesses were made, but the enigmatic darkness was not appeased.
I studied the art for a moment and decided it was time to get this bad mother moving. "Hellscapes and/or Hell Panels." A buzz sounded, along with a metal click.
Hell: fun for the whole family.
On the far side of the room an open door came into view as dim lights grew brighter on the ceiling, revealing the empty room we were in and a path to the next one. The group congratulated me and proceeded into the darkness of the next room.
With a shrug, I entered.
Once again: an empty room shrouded in darkness, three LCD monitors, three works of art, and an electric eye hovering overhead.
The group observed the pieces and made some guesses, such as: "females," "young people," "dresses." All were but shots in the dark.
"Paintings with the word kiss in the title," I suggested.
"Gimmie some sugar, baby."
A door swung open and we proceeded once again into another darkened room.
The third room was the same save for one deviation: in the center of the room stood a table, upon it a diorama. Underneath the glass protecting the display was a green plant (not sure if it was real or fake) with red tomato or pepper looking growths. A dim light overhead made possible the viewing of seven angel figurines lying dead in the dirt the plant was presumably growing out of. Their mouths were blackened.
"Some kind of angel killing plant. It must be the name of the plant. Angel Slayer, or something," someone noted. We all examined the diorama closely.
In time I grew impatient as the others made their wild guesses and spat out the answer, "Satan's Kiss." Another, buzz, another pop.
What a terrible name for a pepper.
This time the new room wasn't dark. I beheld a Victorian chamber full of people, welcoming us with open arms and smiling faces. Sculptures, paintings, and all manner of strange creations filled this mystical landscape, and I found myself drawn in, seduced by the menagerie of oddities.
A man approached me as I searched for somewhere to obfuscate and revealed, "You are the only one to solve the puzzle. Everyone else, including myself, timed out. Congratulations, on becoming the chosen one tonight." He slapped my back and walked away. Leaving me alone, in a room full of weirdos.
Overhead a toy marionette on a unicycle rode across a string that ran from one balcony on the second floor to another. This was the second time I felt panic and wanted to leave.
So much for trying to be subtle and unassuming.
To Be Continued...
P.S.
I guess you will have to wait until a later date for the severed heads...
A scrap of paper with a phone number and web address on it had led me to a large manor in the middle of nowhere. There is a highway not far from where I live, HWY 360, that eventually comes to an end if you follow it far enough south. This manor was tucked away in a secluded area, with no other signs of life for miles, beyond where the highway ends. We are talking dirt roads, cow pastures, junkyards, and ghost towns.
With a bit of guile, I had slipped in among a group a six who knocked on the door of the manor. I was the seventh guest, if you will. The group consisted of mostly young people, close to my age, so I felt confident that I could worm my way into this mysterious party that I wasn't even invited to.
I need no invitation.
The door was answered by a young man, who appeared a few years older than me, holding a clipboard. He was dressed in fancy clothing, looking somewhat official. The six guests before me entered, stating their names. Then my turn.
"S.G," I said. I walked past the man into a foyer with wooden floors that was cordoned off and obscured by large black curtains. The only place to walk was along a red carpet to the immediate left, into an almost pitch black room. The curtains swayed slightly, and distant murmurs came from behind them, so I knew that a large room was beyond where other humans convened.
"S.G?" the door man asked. He ran his index finger across the board trying to find who I could be, but I was already past him, following the group, and walked into the dark room. The door man walked to the entrance of the side room and winked at me saying, "I found you Mr. Grimm. Have fun." He arched his eyebrows and shut the door. I made it. What a relief.
No light came through any windows, no lamps were lit, though, a faint illumination came from under some sort of cloth hanging on the wall. Once my eyes had adjusted, I could see that the cloth was hung over a row of monitors, there were three such screens, affixed side by side on the right hand wall from the entrance to this room. The guests slid the cloth aside, a bit of curtain, and brought into view three LCD computer screens with artwork on display.
So, this is an art party?
The other people stood there, rubbing their chins, and looked puzzled. I didn't have any clue what we were doing, and hoped no one would ask me. My plan for the night was to just blend in and remain hidden. I just wanted to observe and be totally unassuming.
"Find the common theme," one of the males stated with assurance.
Looking into the dark corners of the ceiling I noticed a very subtle reflection of light. Camera lenses.
You have got to be kidding me.
This was the first time I felt slight panic and fought the urge to leave.
One of the girls called out, "Church paintings." Everyone remained silent for a moment and then continued looking clueless.
"Art from the Renaissance?" asked another. More guesses were made, but the enigmatic darkness was not appeased.
I studied the art for a moment and decided it was time to get this bad mother moving. "Hellscapes and/or Hell Panels." A buzz sounded, along with a metal click.
Hell: fun for the whole family.
On the far side of the room an open door came into view as dim lights grew brighter on the ceiling, revealing the empty room we were in and a path to the next one. The group congratulated me and proceeded into the darkness of the next room.
With a shrug, I entered.
Once again: an empty room shrouded in darkness, three LCD monitors, three works of art, and an electric eye hovering overhead.
The group observed the pieces and made some guesses, such as: "females," "young people," "dresses." All were but shots in the dark.
"Paintings with the word kiss in the title," I suggested.
"Gimmie some sugar, baby."
A door swung open and we proceeded once again into another darkened room.
The third room was the same save for one deviation: in the center of the room stood a table, upon it a diorama. Underneath the glass protecting the display was a green plant (not sure if it was real or fake) with red tomato or pepper looking growths. A dim light overhead made possible the viewing of seven angel figurines lying dead in the dirt the plant was presumably growing out of. Their mouths were blackened.
"Some kind of angel killing plant. It must be the name of the plant. Angel Slayer, or something," someone noted. We all examined the diorama closely.
In time I grew impatient as the others made their wild guesses and spat out the answer, "Satan's Kiss." Another, buzz, another pop.
What a terrible name for a pepper.
This time the new room wasn't dark. I beheld a Victorian chamber full of people, welcoming us with open arms and smiling faces. Sculptures, paintings, and all manner of strange creations filled this mystical landscape, and I found myself drawn in, seduced by the menagerie of oddities.
A man approached me as I searched for somewhere to obfuscate and revealed, "You are the only one to solve the puzzle. Everyone else, including myself, timed out. Congratulations, on becoming the chosen one tonight." He slapped my back and walked away. Leaving me alone, in a room full of weirdos.
Overhead a toy marionette on a unicycle rode across a string that ran from one balcony on the second floor to another. This was the second time I felt panic and wanted to leave.
So much for trying to be subtle and unassuming.
To Be Continued...
P.S.
I guess you will have to wait until a later date for the severed heads...
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