Words and other stuff

The River.

Tue, 11 Dec 2012 12:48:23 -0500

                 The River
                                    Story by: Wes Smith

           “You still hear rumors about the river, whispers that echo the halls of St Thomas High to this day. I still get chills when I think about the first time I heard the story.”

             The moon shone brightly and gave the river a silver shimmer, that night. It was a humid september evening and the trees lining the river bank lay eerily still. Crickets were the only thing that broke up the promonet silence.

               Voices came first, distant and muddy. Then the sound of branches snapping in the wake of bodies emerging from the tree line. The silhouettes of four teenage boys burst forward, one stumbling backwards away from the others.

                  “Want to go for a swim freshman? hahah…” the largest of the boys said

                   “Leave me alone!!” The fallen boy said.

                 The largest boy leaning down to the fallen boy. His body pulling out of the shadows, catching moonlite. His face manages to scowl and smile at the same time. This broad shouldered boy wearing a letterman jacket grabs the pleading teen by his shirt, jarring the glasses off his face.

                     “I saw you looking at my dick in the locker room, faggot!” The large boy growls.

                     “No I sw-” the small boy is cut short.

                      His words silenced by the palm of the jocks hand slapping his face.

                    “Ohhh!!” the two boys say in uncen, watching the scene.

                    The two cronies, standing back, drinking twelve ounce bottles of cheap beer and snickering in the dark. The large jock proceeds to drag the helpless teen towards the river. All the while the poor victim kicking and pleading.

                      “STOP, I’m sorry for WHATEVER I did.. I just want to go home.. I just want to go h-” The small boy pleas again, are cut short.

                        His attacker forcing the boy’s head backwards under the icy vein of water. Overpowering the younger and much more feeble teen. Instinctively the small boy thrashes and reaches with arms far too short at the assailant .

                      “Hahaha, hows that bath?” The other boys jeer and taunt from behind the scene.

                      The insults trail off and a moment of grim realization hits them. In that instant the only sound was the crickets, panting and the disturbing laughter that slipped between each labored breath. He’s not letting up.

                       “Ok Dane, let him up…” One of the boys says.

                        “ Yeah man, you got him good… he won’t ever pull that shit again.”

                          The two lackeys gauge the situation trying too not accept it. They look at each other, both unwilling to make the first move. Noticing the drowning boy has gone limp the more soft spoken of the two finally takes a stand. He grabs at Dane’s shoulder pulling him up back.

                           “ENOUGH, he’s really fucked up.. I dont think hes breathing!” The teen states

                            The second sidekick finally comes to the aid of the boy as well. They kneel with the obviously deceased freshman not knowing what to do. Behind them Dane slowly walks backwards and the hideous smirk he had is now fading covered by his hand. His chuckling turns from playful to nervous and then scared. Eventually pulling his hand away to lash out enraged.

                             “WELL HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW! I mean who can’t hold their breath for like thirty seconds! It was a joke! You guys know that! he was just too much of a pussy! Yea, thats why he died!”

                               Still kneeling by the boy’s lifeless body, the two friends glance at Dane out of the corner of their eyes. They don’t say a word, just keep a silent vigil over the boy, trying to process the harsh reality.

                               “Y-you guys better not say anything to anyone, OR I’LL DO THE SAME TO YOU… y-yeah…” His confidence waivers, even as he threatens the boys.

                                The night on the river, three lives changed and one ended.

                              In the days that followed, school seemed so trivial. Chatter that normally dominated the halls, seemed calm and subdued. Faces that normally seemed jubilant, were now plain and introspective. On an island of guilt, standing next to an open locker were the two boys that witness what happened at the river.

           “H-hey, you guys doing anything fun on saturday.” Dane says as he seems to appear behind them.

                The boy closest to Dane is facing away and clinging to the the lone strap of his backpack hanging on his shoulder. At the sound of Dane’s voice, he clears his throat and looks at the tile floor. The other boy actually acknowledges Dane, but never makes eye contact, while rubbing the back of his neck he glances at Dane then off in the distance.

        “Yea…man, I think it might be best if we… um didn’t hang out for a bit.” The uncomfortable boy says.
                 “Yeah, well just text me or something.” Dane says nonchalantly.

                  No more words are exchanged as the two boys hurry away from the frozen teen. The confident exterior that he was known for was cracking and fear started to rise to the surface.

                 Time seemed to just bleed away, each day and everyone present that night was affected in different ways.

                 Dane had trouble sleeping from the day of the incident. Until one night his body finally forfeited and he fell into a deep well needed slumber. Only to be woken by 3 faces covered in Ski masks looking down at him.

                 “Who…what..” Dane was trying to bridge the gap between dream and reality as he pulled out of a state of rem.

                    “Quick use the stuff.” One of the disguised figures said.

                     Before he could make the connection, the chloroform clasped over his mouth in a bandana took effect. He reached up and latched on to the arm of the perpetrator, only to have his grip go limp.

                   The next thing he would know was darkness. Jostling motion that threw him around the small prison. It took him longer than most to make the connection, the sound of gravel, the smell of motor oil. He was in a trunk.

                     When the lid was open he was met with multiple, now bare faces staring down at him.

                    There was the kid from the Drama club with thick glasses and bad acne. Next to him, the goth girl with purple hair and two lip rings. One of the kids from the culture club too, he was a heavy set indian boy. All the rejects, the kind that Dane preyed on.

                     “W-what’s going on?” Dane exclaimed.

                     They said nothing. Dane held up his hands, bound in zip tie, in a futile effort to stop the group. Drug from the trunk down the river bank, the cold mud sticking to his trembling body.

                       “I-i don’t know, what you heard but… I didn’t do anything wrong!” Dane explained.

                        The teenages, looked down at him with somber disdain and missing empathy. Marching the now terrified Dane down to the river in silence. His fate in the hands of the group.

                        “My parents have money you know, you’ve seen my car I’m s-sure. I can get you guys LOTS of money, thats good right?!?

                        He first felt the icy cold torrent lap his knees, feeling forced down by the riverside. His body weight pulling him deeper into the loose stone and sandy bank. He sat their kneeling at the edge of water with his eyes closed begging, his cries halted suddenly.

                         “LOOK” A voice boomed behind him.

                           He felt an impossible weight on his shoulders as his face plummeted towards the river’s surface. His movement stopped with his face sitting a foot over the water, his eyes wide open now staring at the river. For a moment the chaotic dance of current and rapids seemed to die. The noise of moving liquid turn to a whisper as the surface became tranquil. In that moment he saw an abstract image distorted beyond recognition become something he indeed recognize. It was his face, staring back at him and he saw how scared he was in that moment. That moment that tears ran from his face, meeting the reflection, the only link between the two worlds.

                           He lost track of the situation while staring at the reflection. Remembering what lead up to this, he turned to see his attackers. All he saw was a dark treeline staring back at him. He pulled himself up, not noticing his hands weren’t bound. Looking for tracks, but all he could see were his own.

                         That night by the river everything changed forever.

I wrote this a few months back and wasn’t sure if I wanted to put it out for public consumption. It’s a little dark and somewhat disturbing, depending on the reader, but its something I enjoyed writing and hope is enjoyed by others.

-Wes

Photo

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 01:14:25 -0500

Sail

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 11:07:13 -0500

Sail, by Awolnation.

Sail!

This is how I show my love
I made it in my mind because
I blame it on my A.D.D. baby

This is how an angel dies
I blame it on my own sick pride
Blame it on my A.D.D. baby

Sail!
Sail!
Sail!
Sail!
Sail!

Maybe I should cry for help
Maybe I should kill myself (myself)
Blame it on my A.D.D. baby

Maybe I’m a different breed
Maybe I’m not listening
So blame it on my A.D.D. baby

Sail!
Sail!
Sail!
Sail!
Sail!

La la la la la la

La la la la la la oh!

La la la la la, La la la la oh!

Sail!
Sail!
Sail!
Sail!
Sail!

Sail with me into the dark
Sail!
Sail with me into the dark
Sail!
Sail with me into the dark
Sail!
Sail with me, sail with me
Sail!

“I found a song that pretty much gets me better than most people. I don’t normally post lyrics but I found this inspirational in it’s honesty”

Skin graft.

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 18:06:56 -0500

This place smells like cheap sex and formaldehyde.
She looked me deep in the eyes telling me;
” this thing is suicide.”

New skin for a burn victim
She didn’t even glance in her rear view after hitting him.
The sad thing is this isn’t where the story ends.
It’s the beginning to a beautiful piece of ugliness.
I choke as I confess
I’m addicted to the abuse.

Trying to climb out of a trash compactor.
I’m no longer a person, but a factor.
A detour, instead of a beautiful destination.
A necessary enemy.
I wrote love in thousands of pieces of origami and placed them at your feet.
Only to watch them paved over by a new street.

Im quitting cold turkey
My love ones will pray for me.

* I wanted to write something gritty today, I hope it seems organic

fuckyeahtattoos: I’ve been writing since 9 years old and it’s...

Tue, 27 Nov 2012 08:05:14 -0500

fuckyeahtattoos:

I’ve been writing since 9 years old and it’s been my absolute passion ever since. When I was 13, I knew that was all I ever wanted to be when I grew up. I’ve been published since I was 16 and started collecting typewriters over the past couple of years, as well. So, it only seemed fitting that I finally got one tattooed on me.

I decided on doing an Underwood as a tribute to Jack Kerouac since he wrote On The Road with one (though not the same model) and the quote is one of my favorites from Charles Bukowski.

The final result of a 6 1/2 hour session without a single break. Done by Boss Tom at Fallen Angel Tattoo in Sacramento, California. If you ever need ink done, go see him!

just wow

Fear of heights.

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 11:14:40 -0500

From the ground its easy to look up at a summit, full of promise, and feel a sense unlimited prospect from reaching new heights. As a species humans are always looking to ascend, to have irrefutable evidence of self improvement.

We had to find a way to mark the flow of time, something that is always moving, shifting and changing. Something that slips through your fingers more easily than water, we have had to fashion ways to make it tangible. Just like a wristwatch stamps time, that new corner office adds a tactile feel to something more emotionally subjective and deeper than any pat on the back or accolade.

The journey to the apex of self improvement can consume you. The air gets thinner the higher you climb and the sun blinds you to your surroundings. Looking down is never an option, not at this elevation. If it wasn’t for the man made footholds we would loose our grip, slip and slide back down to reality. Finally standing on the peak of something so daunting is a feeling that can’t be bought over a counter or explained in the officer chatter, meek handshakes during congratulations are like a cheap postcard of vista, only capturing the shadow of something much bigger.

Its only from this moment of bittersweet finality that we see the chase is equal part of the destination, for after we cross the finish line the road becomes much less clear. Standing with unimaginable metric tons of rock beneath your feet and it hits you. The climb that occupied your life is gone and now its easy to fear to fall.

Its ironic that you can climb so high only to feel smaller then standing at the bottom looking up. like a convict released after years of familiarity, the journey that comprised our existence, no matter how painful or lonely, becomes a comfort that we long for.

Maybe its a state of mind, or something genetic, but looking out across the horizon the acclimation for some is easier then others. With miles beneath us we can feel accomplishment or dread, I didn’t know I had a fear of heights until I reached the top.

syfycity: Adds a Little Humor to All the...

Fri, 23 Nov 2012 02:26:23 -0500

syfycity:

Adds a Little Humor to All the Death

http://syfycity.tumblr.com

Mnemonic Condition.

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 22:08:00 -0500

Mnemonic Condition
                                              Story By: Wes Smith

                     Daylight cuts through the grey carbon window slats as they pivot open. The only source of light breaking up the darkness of the simple apartment. Motors buzz and hum as an automated program sets every piece of the apartment in motion. The mechanical ballet of devices is scripted and designed to assist the lone occupant of the apartment start his day.

               Streaks of light reflect off a cold,expressionless chrome face belonging to an android lying in bed. His eyelids click as they open and two luminous balls peer out into the window. The mechanical man sits up on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped forward, wearing a white undershirt and boxer shorts. He braces his hands on the bed, cervo engines whine as his hydraulic diaphragm expands, mimicking inhalation. A communication box sunken into the wall provides motivation.

          Communication box: “ Sub-transit estimated time of pick up 26 minutes 38 seconds and counting.” A soft female voice projects.

                    He stands looking in a mirror adjusting his necktie, the plain suit that he is wearing is as neatly pressed and worn as his apartment is clean. His cold steel face stares back at him, as if carved from stone. Grabbing a briefcase off the ground he heads out the door as it hisses open, sliding out of his way.

                     He has made this journey for decades now, a monotonous trek. He sits motionless inside the tubular train car, packed with human commuters that ignore him. Their faces are buried in personal holo-projectors. His head pivots to look over his shoulder, humming, his view now out the small window. The world passes by at supersonic speed, buildings seem to blur together and he wonders if the other passengers even notice. He slides the cuff of his suit jacket back to glance down at his wristwatch, the archaic piece of machinery he had saved from being incinerated by taking it home and breathing new life into it. Its rhythmic ticks run parallel with his own.

                    Reaching his destination, he shuffles off the train. A swarm of commuters pushes past him as he stops. He looks up at the towering concrete monolith, windowless and cold. A pair of sliding doors open like steel jaws wanting to swallow the mechanical man up.

                       Precise clicks echo down the long hallway as shoes meet tile. Another android in similar attire passes him heading in the opposite direction. His mouth starts to open but he follows protocol and neither one acknowledges the other. Why would they? Machines have no acquaintances, just orders.

                       He stops abruptly at a single door, his finger folding in half, allowing a key to project out and into the lock. Stepping through the open door, what was a dark cold industrial room starts to illuminate. Fans turn on keeping a massive network of computers cool. A large multi-screen panel lights up with the words “ Ready” flashing. He sits down in a chair placed in front of the monitors and pulls a thin keyboard across his lap.

                      The dozens of monitors shift, multiple images flicker on each screen of people from all walks of life. Laughing, arguing, kissing, the whole spectrum of human emotion flickering faster than any human could process.

                       As different shades of light splash on the android’s reflective face, he reaches behind him plugging two input jacks into the back of his neck. Requirements for absorbing every last detail. He analyzes every pixelated face with skill and composure, a job that was deemed necessary centuries ago, to prevent “outbursts”, crime and mental breakdowns. Guardians of morality with no morals of their own.

                      He lifts a cup of coffee to his mouth pouring the warm beverage down his throat, without being able to take in its aroma or taste its quality. A container for catching excess coolant traps the coffee to be dispensed later.

                      The images continue to flicker with speed and intensity. He freezes one and enlarges it. A new bride getting cake smeared on her face by her groom, beaming with joy. An image off to the side starts flashing red with words scrolling around it; “ ATTENTION!!” He ignores the message for a moment, blinking, his eyes clicking loudly like a camera shutter as they are lubricated by fluid. He shoves the happy image back to the side and handles the potential hazard.

                       Time elapses with no indicator in the isolated room and soon it’s time to leave. He wraps his suit jacket over one arm, and seizes his briefcase with his other. Exiting the room the lights shut off and all life leaves with him.

                         He steps through the doorway into his apartment, already lit for his precise return. He first stops by the mirror staring into his cold illuminated eyes. He pulls a disposable razor up to his neck as if to shave. The handle snaps and is discarded. He tosses it into the waste bin to join the dozens of other broken razors.

                          Sitting back on the edge of the bed he stares out the window slats at the world as they slam shut dictated by curfew. He lowers his head towards the ground and weeps tears that never come for the things he will never feel.

                             End.

This is a Si-fi short I wrote with the intent to get published, but I want to share it on tumblr. I hope it’s enjoyable to read as it was to write.

The Deadline

Sat, 13 Oct 2012 22:18:00 -0400

An old rotary phone rings loudly demanding attention, but gets none. Between rings a constant mechanical clack of a typewriter can be heard. The return carriage occasionally adding an exclamation mark. The phone finally gives up, while the typing continues and an ash tray smolders with the heat of a fresh cigarette butt.

A bald thin man, in his late fifties leans back from his Remington model 5 and sighs heavily, almost as if finishing a marathon. Shifting his weight in his chair while still studying the ink stained pages in front of him.

This day was like so many countless ones before, bleeding into the next. If it wasn’t for his editor, he wouldn’t be able to separate one day from the last. Locked in his study, cut off from the world he so feverishly writes about, while life goes on without him.

Birthdays and holidays were spent dedicated to a craft that has retained his servitude for decades. Blinded so much by a personal crusade that the lives around him became nothing more than a distraction from meeting his deadline. His friends, when he still saw them, used to joke that if his ribbon ever ran dry he would merely have to prick his finger to rehydrate it.

The jokes were cute at first, until reality surpassed them. He couldn’t remember if it was christmas eve or new years when his wife barged in, suitcase in hand, to tell him she was leaving. The important thing was, he thought as he reflected, he met his deadline.

It was hard for him to think about the last time he saw his son, not because it was a painful memory, but because it was filled into the back of his mind with little care. He did not even hear the weight of the small boy flexing the floorboards under his feet as he walked into his fathers study.

“Dad, the bike I got for my birth-” The small boy sheepishly says.

“Charlie, I have a deadline, please.” He replied sternly.

The writer sighs deep after looking back at the page he was writing. The words “Charlie I have a deadline” were sandwiched into his sentence . He lifts up his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose to fend off the onset of a headache.

“Go ask your mother.” The writer adds.

“She’s gone, its your day to watch me.” Charlie replies

Without a proper response the man goes back to his work, pulling the defective page out of the faithful machine. Just as his sons arrival went with notice, so does the departure. He can’t be bothered by anything that could cause such an unacceptable mistake.

He lifts the phone’s receiver off the hook and places it next to the forty five caliber revolver on his desk and continues to type aggressively. Every finished page is added to the pile of hundreds of others.

Just like that day past, today he was so focused he didn’t hear his visitor come in. He wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the icy chill on the back of his neck and the thump of wood against wood.

It was death that placed a bony hand on the writers shoulder and rested a scythe at their sides. The moment frot with irony, the first touch the writer had received in years.

The writer did not have to turn his head or face his guest to know who it was. Still he did not waiver in his literary quest, fingers still pressing down buttons heavily. While focused on his work he briefly acknowledges the ghostly figure.

“I don’t have time for you now, I have to meet my deadline.” He tells Death.

The cloaked corpse becomes rigid and erect, multiple bones creaking as they shift. Then after taking in the situation he sulks and sighs heavily, steam rising from his hood. The spirit shuffled across to the large dim study and settled into a chair, in an almost defeated slouch. The deep dark void where a face should be stares out from under a hood as the writer continues his seemingly endless work.

This goes on for hours, Death became restless. He fidgeted with his large scythe, tugged on his sleeves and taped his bony fingers on his lap. Eventually turning to look at the bookshelves that lined the wall behind him, pulling a book out by the spine.

“Don’t touch that.” The writer says flatly, without even looking in Death’s direction.

After what seemed like days the sound of typing and paper changing ended. The writer sat up with his back flat up against his chair, attempting to rub the the arthritis out of his hand. He held up the final sheet of his labor and stared at it deeply.

“Ok.” The writer says to Death, his back still towards the ghoul.

“Go ahead.” The raspy voice of Death seems to echo throughout the study. Death placed both hands this time on the writers shoulders, feeling the man’s entire frame lift up with a deep inhale. He watched as the man lifts the revolver, pressing the barrel to his own temple and pulls the trigger.

The lifeless body of the man lands between the stack of his work and a newspaper dating a week ago. One of the headlines reads in bold print, “Budget cuts force layoffs of senior writers.” The gray newsprint soaks up the red warmth escaping the man’s exit wound.

Before Death leaves the room he tries to grasp mortality, reading the final page the man had written

“To whom it may concern, the pages on my desk are the final work of my life, my obituary. I could not die knowing some freelance hack or mush brained family member would attempt to do my life justice in the medium that was my life, writing. It would be the equivalent of a neanderthal trying to recreate Rembrandt. My only regret is that my work will cease to enrich the lives who appreciated my gift .”

Death simply shook his head as he left the study, comforted by the fact he would never have to understand life.

End.

This is a short story I wrote and decided against trying to get published. I thought i would rather just make it a fun thing for people to read on tumblr.

Time is money

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 02:39:00 -0400

It is funny how much they run parallel with one another, time and money that is.

It never feels like you have enough.

You can share it or spend it alone.

You can lose track of it or end up misplacing it.

You can count on it always being around, but not always for you.

It can slip away if you don’t keep an eye on it.

You can spend your whole life focused on it, instead of living.

Or you can make the most of either one.

Their is something romantic...

Sat, 29 Sep 2012 13:42:00 -0400

Their is something romantic about a train. Something so seductive about the passing cars promising to take you far away from the mundane. The places it been and has of the opportunity to be.

It feels so much more organic and human than cars or planes, the rhythmic clicking down the tracks mimicking a pulse. The way steel moans and flexes under stress, mirroring our own adaptability under distress. Wooden slats that still make up the walls of some freight cars expand and contract taking in moisture, warping and changing.

These tracks promise a direction to somewhere different, but also a promise of comfort in the fact it is bonded to its one single path. This iron-horse has a simplistic nomadic purpose, sitting still is not an option. Watching the world in constant motion, knowing nothing but change and movement.

It is alluring, the thought of reaching out as the train passes. Welcome a chance to be swept up in roar of steel, rust and diesel engine. To be cradled in the womb of one of industrialization’s greatest gifts. To have the shifting weight and moving joints lull you to a state of sedation as you slip forward into the welcome unknown.

The rat race.

Mon, 24 Sep 2012 14:08:00 -0400

It is far too easy to be sucked into this thing. The familiar dance steps that make up our daily lives, what start as a graceful dance becomes a sleepwalk. Only to wake up and see how fast things change when we are not looking.

It is important to learn when to slow things down and step back for a moment. I am especially weak to getting tunnel vision and missing things that pass by on the side of me. The way we are taught to operate contributes to the life style of just moving quickly, consuming and disposing with out taking much pause. It can be like a giant current some times threatening to sweep you away, along with your principals.

Standing our ground in the face of adversity and choosing the hard road, instead of the comfortable one, are the moments that define us as humans. The finest steel is forged in the hottest fire and hardest tempering, but rigidity has its downfall as well. It is important to remember when to give ground and be flexible as well as strong. Finding strength inside your self makes you personally strong but giving some of the strength back makes the bonds you have with others stronger.

This whole rant is me just emptying an emotional clip at tumblr. I don’t know if it is of any use to anyone but I feel better getting it out.

lulinternet: HELLO.about an hour ago my landlord called my...

Mon, 24 Sep 2012 13:26:37 -0400

lulinternet:

HELLO.

about an hour ago my landlord called my boyfriend and i and said that we needed to be out of our apartment in 10 days. we were under the impression that we were renewing our lease and everything was good, but GUESS NOT.

we brought up that they needed to give us 30 days notice and now we have until october 31st to move out, but we need to find a place FAST and in order to do that we need money.

so, everything in my shop is 25% off with code FARTPALACE

please email me if you have any quick commission work you’d like done or if you’d like to just donate (that would make you a saint) you can use the email address lacey@lulinternet.com for either.

REBLOGS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

My tattered black sweater.

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 02:13:22 -0400

When I was 16 I had this hoodie, one of the cheap black zip up ones you get at like target or k-mart. I loved the stupid thing.

Being a young adolescent boy I had a immature sense of humor. I remember cutting small eye holes in the back of the hood so i could flip it over my face to make a friend laugh. From constant nervous picking at the cuffs, they became frayed. Needless to say my sweater started to be nothing but a tattered keepsake.

I washed it, and still loved it. I wasn’t a crazy person, I did understand it was bound for the trash soon. Something clicked though, I don’t remember who, but somebody pointed out just how bad the sweater was and that ” I looked like a bum”.

The smart-ass youngster I was, this only made me want to keep it longer. I wanted to see how many people would piss and moan about something they themselves didn’t have to wear.

The real moment that framed this whole story perfectly; I was at a good friends house hanging out, listening to music. playing video games, etc. At one point we both left his room and ran into his ( well-off) snobby mother, she had a very noticeable reaction to my threadbare sweater.

“You know if you wear stuff like that people aren’t going to want to talk to you she said.” Trying to hold me down with an oppressive tone.

“If people don’t talk to me because of sweater, not because of how I actually am, then I those people aren’t worth talking to.” I replied.

Pretty profound for a 16 year old.

iruinclassics: “Felix” | Commission work for Wesley...

Sat, 01 Sep 2012 19:08:15 -0400

iruinclassics:

“Felix” | Commission work for Wesley Smith

Fantastic art by Jericho Vilar.

This thing might save my life.

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 11:21:00 -0400

Last night I went on a rampage, I sat down and did hours of writing and got a lot accomplished.

It occurred to me, this desire can either save me or damn me. I can put my heart and soul into what I write, but that doesn’t pay the bills or get me a raise at my unrelated job. On the other hand I almost jumped at the opportunity to do something that would bring in more revenue but perpetuate my unhappiness.

I am sticking to the former, and to my guns from here on out. It’s just hard not to speculate. It’s especially hard when you have others you have to support. Decision in life for the most part shouldn’t be taking lightly, at least in the adult years, but its especially true when those decisions affect others deeply.

I’m still hoping to trip over a fucking leprechaun. To find that pot of gold hidden somewhere to put life on easy mode. Short cuts don’t exists though, and some of the best inspiration comes from overcoming life’s struggles. So i guess you just got to hang tight in the saddle, at least until the storm settles and you can see things more clearly.

I’m lucky I have people in my life that are still crazy enough to listen to my crack-pot fantasies. People that encourage me to keep “fighting the good fight”. I take deep breathes to keep my hands steady as type, but once I let go and do what I love, all the worries disappear. At least for a moment.

I can’t wait to see something I slaved over be enjoyed by a few others. Until then, they are just rantings of a madman… saved on a magnetic charge. Hidden from the world, waiting for opportunity and chance to hit a fortunate impasse.

In the meantime, I’ll keep that blinking cursor burnt into my retina. Remembering to blink so my eyes dont dry out of my head. Thinking; If i just keep working, I’ll wake from life and be stuck in a dream.

-Wes

My top 5 comic artists (influences)

Thu, 30 Aug 2012 11:20:00 -0400

The other day the question was posed to me who were my favorite / most influential comic artists growing up. Art is so subjective so I will base this merely on impact on me growing up. I also would like to state that I am a huge fan of art in general and over the years my tastes have change and also expanded.

Here is my humble little list of master scribblers that made me dream of working in comics.

1.) Greg Cappulo

This is a pretty obvious one being that he has become huge as of late. It wasn’t as apparent back when I was a spawn obsessed teen that was blown away by the sheer amount of detail in Greg’s pencil work. He has a nack for doing very organic work that’s grounded in reality but manages to blend in some of the unbelievable aspects that we love about comics. Dc hired him to do batman now that rebooted the series. its interesting to see his style pushed even more and a broader audience being exposed to a great artist.

2.) Sam Keith

Most people think about The Maxx when they think about Sam Keith. I first got hooked on his art with some of the amazing Wolverine covers he did. Sam’s art is pure attitude, its wild aggressive stuff that strays far from the conventional. The Maxx was the perfect forum for Sam to get all of that out, but he has definitely grown past that. I read a quote somewhere, “Sam only draws what he wants to” probably sums it up the best. He never compromised his style to fit what the industry was doing, until his style became what publishers wanted.He was a big influence on the way I wanted to draw as well.

3.) Kelly Jones

Kelly Jones leaves his stamp on every character he touches. You still know exactly who the character hes represented but from across the room you can tell its Kelly Jones art. Most know him for his run with Gaiman on Sandman and Batman. His interpretation of Batman is more Gothic gargoyle come to life then dark knight. His work has this sharp, creepy and unique feel that always grabbed my eye and his horror film like take on classic comics is something I love.

4.) Frank Miller

Frank has become one of the most well known names in comics, reaching the main stream with the success of Sin City. He is one of the rare examples of an extremely talented artist and writer. In fact some of his most loved work by hardcore fans is his story telling. His take on batman in ’The Dark Knight Returns’ is one of the most loved graphic novels of all time. Speaking on his art, I became of a fan of style that seemed to play on the personality of his characters. He is a master of using negative space to create some striking images

5.) Arthur Suydam

Arthur has done some of the flat out coolest cover work around. His approach of mixing traditional painting and comic art is something you just have to see. His work has this great feeling of almost tangible texture, like you could reach out and touch it.

Whenever I feel like giving up, or taking my foot off the gas, I...

Sun, 26 Aug 2012 16:32:46 -0400

Whenever I feel like giving up, or taking my foot off the gas, I remember to look at my wrists.

Kerosene and scars

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 11:10:00 -0400

She died with lies in her veins
Fist wrapped around a cheap bottle of champagne

How many lies are you going to take to your grave

I keep the grudges that I harbor chain linked in.
Like an rabid animal they threaten to be my end

She tried to catch happiness in a jar
But the glass broke and left her with scars,
Instead of fond memories.
She lifted her wrists and blamed the scars on me.

I turn up my volume to drowned out your screams
Because listening to you talk is like drinking kerosene

Attention is like a cheap suit
It only impresses the first time
Then falls away to revile the ugliness it hides.

-This time a year ago I wrote this, i just found it going through my stuff. I like it but I can’t write like this lately, I am just not in that place (thank god.)

Anyways, just wanted to share it instead of keeping it tucked away.

Sunny with a slight chance of brain storms.

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 21:56:00 -0400

I’m sweaty, my clothes are sticking to me and my body is depleted thanks to the overwhelming august heat. My mind on the other hand is still running a marathon. It has been an on going theme as of late. It feels as though I have sprung a leak of thoughts and cant write them down fast enough to keep a few from slipping between my fingers.

This is more than likely attributed to the fact I buried my dreams for so long. I convinced my self that it was “for the best”, to shelf any artistic aspirations. I don’t know if it was out fear or external pressure, that is besides the point. The thing is, I am responsible.. I did the crime and the only victim was myself.

Just like nature has away of always of restoring a natural order, it was only a matter of time before something gave. I couldn’t hide from what was in my heart, somethings are just such a deep rooted part of you that you cant deny their existence. Just like a dam ready to burst, creativity was building up in my core with nowhere to go.

I wish I could claim responsibility for snapping out of it, but it always seems like its an outside source that knocks down that first domino. An inspirational speech from kevin smith I heard years ago, seeing my friend start up his podcast, things that seemed to slap me across the face when i needed it.

Stepping back and looking at the big picture it seems even more ridiculous that I gave up on art from the stand point; I cant remember my life with out it. Whether it was drawing super-heros as a kid, or writing short stories, poems or my own ideas for movies. I was filled with creative drive, and I had the support. One of my fondest memories being, riding BART with my grandmother to The Academy Of Arts in San Francisco. A young wide eyed kid with dreams of drawing for marvel and my wonderful grandma right their cheering me on.

It makes me want to punch my self In the face.

I owe it to her to be honest to my self. If she could see me picking the reins again, she would smile as hard as her face would allow. I owe to my self don’t get me wrong, you get one life to live and one thumb print to leave behind on this world. I also owe it to my family to give 100% of the fire that burns inside me, because that’s the only way I can repay all the support and words of encouragement.

It’s Ironic, as I’m sitting here writing this I keep thinking that I am wasting time blogging when i could be producing some work. Motivation is an abundant commodity right now so I’m going to ride this train until it runs off the tracks. I am done going through the motions, Im going to stoke the flames inside me. I WILL see this dream through.

I’m pushing all my chips in.