Click. Rustle. Breathe.
White noise. Rain on concrete.
Muffled, spattering through seeing windows.
Unheard, unfelt, alone.
Breathe. Pause for silence, which reigns.
Hollowed echoes. The distant bass.
Drumbeats, heartbeats, footsteps.
It's here.
A breath -
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Room 93: The Song
I watched as the lights changed from dim to dark, and with the siren's call echoing. I was mesmerised, eyes transfixed upon the still figure before me. It's cries were like music, and I dared not make a sound for fear of breaking the spell. Yes, it had me caught in a web of my own creation, it's heart-wrenching weeping never fading, but resonating in my heart and mind, binding me, holding me still. I could not tear my eyes from the sight. The music was like the union of the howling of wolves and the aurora, birthed in a winter cave of changing light.
To have such a sound here, within a closet of a room, behind a grungy metal door, was something more enchanting than the most magical of fantasies. The building had been unused for an age, that was for sure. It was certain that I was the first to make a print in it's dust for a long time. I was alone, save for the company of the weeping figure. In my heart I knew that even as it was alone, it had cried this way, it's heartsong forever echoing down empty corridors.
The rich sound did not match the bony frame from which it emanated from. Head in hands and naked, it sat upon an abandoned office chair. And always, always, that mesmerising sound rising from the depths. I dared not enter further than the closet's threshold. I did not want to interrupt. Though at first instinct prompted me to comfort the creature, I knew it was only an effigy. The song battered at my heart, pushing through me in it's sorrowful vibration. I almost wanted to be bound this way, by the siren song. I do not know how long I stood there, watching, listening.
Waiting.
I fancied that the figure with it's long, long legs and tumbleweed hair might turn and look at me. But no, I knew that it would not. Whether it could or not was another question entirely, as I myself was torn between fantasy and reality in this time and place. Logic told me it was not real. But something deep down in my core, the thing we call our Dream, told me that this thing drawn in black and white across a wall had a life, had a soul. And for a moment I believed it.
I forgot the musty smells, the rust, the age, the dirt, the damp. I forgot about the floor beneath my feet. About the walls around me. And the sky above my head. I could only see the ageless figure, head forever in his hands, body firmly fixed to that chair. And always, always, the changing light, and the siren song. Reaching out, I allowed myself to cross the threshold, to touch the figure on the wall. First, only an index finger had crossed that sacred barrier which I had initially refused to cross. But I was drawn to it, this pallid image and it's haunting melody. Then, the rest of my hand, my arm, my shoulder, and finally my entire self had stepped across the threshold, to meet the figure face to face.
My feet trailed a path in the dust, each step causing whirls of dust to rise and fall. Like a petrified man I walked, slowly, slowly. Though the distance between the threshold and the figure was perhaps a metre or less, the few steps I took seemed to be frozen in time. The air grew thick, and I stirred up more dust. The song went on, unwavering and strong. At last I stood before the seated image, and with an outstretched finger touched it on one bony shoulder.
A part of me that was still sentient was surprised to feel nothing but bare wall, plastered over with white paint that had begun to peel and grow black mould. The feeling of surprise jolted the rest of me awake, and the siren call slowly faded into the background. It no longer echoed in me, the spell was broken and I was free. The image was just an image, it could not hold me. I no longer felt any sorrow for this thing, a thing that had no soul but for my fancy.
I tore my eyes away from it, with a tinge of fear that it might try and bind me to it again. I felt no regret shutting the metal door and subjecting it to darkness, no regret turning my back, no regret walking away.
Only the dust listens to it's hollow cries now.
To have such a sound here, within a closet of a room, behind a grungy metal door, was something more enchanting than the most magical of fantasies. The building had been unused for an age, that was for sure. It was certain that I was the first to make a print in it's dust for a long time. I was alone, save for the company of the weeping figure. In my heart I knew that even as it was alone, it had cried this way, it's heartsong forever echoing down empty corridors.
The rich sound did not match the bony frame from which it emanated from. Head in hands and naked, it sat upon an abandoned office chair. And always, always, that mesmerising sound rising from the depths. I dared not enter further than the closet's threshold. I did not want to interrupt. Though at first instinct prompted me to comfort the creature, I knew it was only an effigy. The song battered at my heart, pushing through me in it's sorrowful vibration. I almost wanted to be bound this way, by the siren song. I do not know how long I stood there, watching, listening.
Waiting.
I fancied that the figure with it's long, long legs and tumbleweed hair might turn and look at me. But no, I knew that it would not. Whether it could or not was another question entirely, as I myself was torn between fantasy and reality in this time and place. Logic told me it was not real. But something deep down in my core, the thing we call our Dream, told me that this thing drawn in black and white across a wall had a life, had a soul. And for a moment I believed it.
I forgot the musty smells, the rust, the age, the dirt, the damp. I forgot about the floor beneath my feet. About the walls around me. And the sky above my head. I could only see the ageless figure, head forever in his hands, body firmly fixed to that chair. And always, always, the changing light, and the siren song. Reaching out, I allowed myself to cross the threshold, to touch the figure on the wall. First, only an index finger had crossed that sacred barrier which I had initially refused to cross. But I was drawn to it, this pallid image and it's haunting melody. Then, the rest of my hand, my arm, my shoulder, and finally my entire self had stepped across the threshold, to meet the figure face to face.
My feet trailed a path in the dust, each step causing whirls of dust to rise and fall. Like a petrified man I walked, slowly, slowly. Though the distance between the threshold and the figure was perhaps a metre or less, the few steps I took seemed to be frozen in time. The air grew thick, and I stirred up more dust. The song went on, unwavering and strong. At last I stood before the seated image, and with an outstretched finger touched it on one bony shoulder.
A part of me that was still sentient was surprised to feel nothing but bare wall, plastered over with white paint that had begun to peel and grow black mould. The feeling of surprise jolted the rest of me awake, and the siren call slowly faded into the background. It no longer echoed in me, the spell was broken and I was free. The image was just an image, it could not hold me. I no longer felt any sorrow for this thing, a thing that had no soul but for my fancy.
I tore my eyes away from it, with a tinge of fear that it might try and bind me to it again. I felt no regret shutting the metal door and subjecting it to darkness, no regret turning my back, no regret walking away.
Only the dust listens to it's hollow cries now.
***
The first time this blog has ever featured pictures, this is written in tribute to a particular art called 99rooms which I had accidentally stumbled upon, and immediately fell in love with. Created by the four men you see below (a screen shot from the art itself), it is the fusion of photography, paintings and animation that brings the project to life.
L-R: Richard Schumann (Art Direction), Johannes Bunemann (Sound Design), Kim Koster (The artist), Stephan Schulz (Flash/ programming)
The first image above featuring the skinny man are screenshots from the game, specifically that of Room 93. Each room is special, with something to look at or do, and most of them are interactive that require you, the viewer, to click on something (or some things) in order to progress to the next room. Whether there is something to do or not is indicated by the cursor, if you play it you will know what I mean.
I don't know what this was doing on gamershood.com, but a rating of 3 stars out of a possible 10 repelled me from 'playing' the so-called game. However, prompting from my sister nudged me to discover this, which I really enjoyed (even though it can get a little creepy and morbid).
Here is the link to the flash: http://99rooms.terracontent.de/99rooms/99rooms.html
And this is where you can find more information: http://99rooms.com/info.html
For more works by Johannes Bunemann: http://www.dripdrop.de
In the flash, to view thumbnails so you can go directly to your desired room, just press and hold any key on your keyboard (I find any letter key works just fine) and select a room.
Image source: screenshots from the flash "99rooms" created by Richard Schumann, Johannes Bunemann, Kim Koster and Stephan Schulz.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Face.
Now let's try to hide behind the face, the face that never blinks, laughs or cries. The face that is forever young with a marble white complexion. It has no real eyes, just two black holes to look out of. Let's hide behind the face, let's go deep, deep beneath the face where the world can't find us, where it's warm, where you can hear the rush of real blood, and not the rasp of false, slithering skin, away from the glint of sheathed claws.
The world cannot touch us here.
This face is a very public face. It smiles and laughs at the right moments, and when the time comes to mourn the holes that the world thinks are eyes leak salt water. But they are not real tears, because real tears contain a pinch of Sorrow. What hides underneath has no control whatsoever over this public face, because what it wants does not agree with the public face, and thus is suppressed. Whatever hides beneath is very lonely, insecure, and very afraid that one day the protective face would be taken away, and that it would be left to be exposed to the world. It has lost it's identity to the face, and now the face is it's identity. It's name no longer exists; it is just a Lie, having lost itself in the labyrinth of rules that govern the face. Illogical, restraining rules that drive even the best minds to madness.
This madness is just barely detectable, being a fairly subtle form. It manifests itself in various ways. While maintaining a fairly normal front (noting of course that in this context, normal should be taken to mean the situation of the majority group), the persona is free to operate using several different profiles which are better known as alternative masks. However this often leads to a loss of identity. The original self, if it even exists still, can no longer be discerned from the scores of other profiles and faces that other people see. Each one is crafted uniquely, like a fingerprint, in reaction to something or someone. Each time something sparks off a new reaction, yet another facet is formed. Like The Mask. Except these can never be removed...just changed and added to. And more is not necessarily better.
The more layers, the deeper the original self hides. And the persona dies, while the mask lives on.
The world cannot touch us here.
This face is a very public face. It smiles and laughs at the right moments, and when the time comes to mourn the holes that the world thinks are eyes leak salt water. But they are not real tears, because real tears contain a pinch of Sorrow. What hides underneath has no control whatsoever over this public face, because what it wants does not agree with the public face, and thus is suppressed. Whatever hides beneath is very lonely, insecure, and very afraid that one day the protective face would be taken away, and that it would be left to be exposed to the world. It has lost it's identity to the face, and now the face is it's identity. It's name no longer exists; it is just a Lie, having lost itself in the labyrinth of rules that govern the face. Illogical, restraining rules that drive even the best minds to madness.
This madness is just barely detectable, being a fairly subtle form. It manifests itself in various ways. While maintaining a fairly normal front (noting of course that in this context, normal should be taken to mean the situation of the majority group), the persona is free to operate using several different profiles which are better known as alternative masks. However this often leads to a loss of identity. The original self, if it even exists still, can no longer be discerned from the scores of other profiles and faces that other people see. Each one is crafted uniquely, like a fingerprint, in reaction to something or someone. Each time something sparks off a new reaction, yet another facet is formed. Like The Mask. Except these can never be removed...just changed and added to. And more is not necessarily better.
The more layers, the deeper the original self hides. And the persona dies, while the mask lives on.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
I Love the Rain.
I love the rain. And rainy day type music. It's the kind you can walk around in, even when you're all alone in a dim park with a playground, the kind, you know, you can see the raindrops in the lamplight. The sad kind of music which has just one title: "Life". The kind that you listen to with big headphones, and you could do a mad dance...there's nobody to care or judge. And you feel in that little park, in that dim yellow light, all alone, you could melt away into the dark, just fade away, and nobody would know. Just the near silence that's left behind, and the little you-sized vacuum is slowly filled with more rain and dark.
And the sound, the sound of the rain.
And the sound, the sound of the rain.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Night of Lies
A man walked into a masked ball. A stranger in town, he thought he might take his time to join in the local festivities. Like any masked ball, it was held in a large hall, with music and dancing. Everyone was dressed up in ornate costumes. It was a night where you could be anything you wanted to be, whether it was a character from a fairy tale or a famous historical figure. Or just take it as an excuse to be blindingly beautiful. Coloured figures whirled around the dance floor, faces all hidden behind gorgeous masks. A man could never identify his best friend by looks alone, for the entire world changed its face on this night. Everyone could dance freely, without fear that perhaps their partner was an enemy waiting with a hidden dagger or a jealous rival, because no one was recognisable by their outward appearance.
Many of those who went for the ball would spend many a day, even weeks, in advance, planning and designing their entire outfit, including elaborate headpieces that were integrated into fancy masks. Nobody would ever wear their costume twice, for it was deemed unoriginal to do so, and besides, the entire point was to be unrecognisable. Sometimes entire fortunes were spent on this attire, for the event was but one chance in the year one could play at make believe and forget themselves, a single chance to do whatever one pleased at a party and not be judged by others. Most importantly, it was the Night of Lies, so named for obvious reasons, the only chance in the year to fake things, to lie, and get away with it. Anybody could attend, so long as they had a costume and an invitation which could be procured, very simply, from people handing them out on the streets and in the taverns or inns.
Greeted at the door by an attendant with the head of a donkey, the man was asked to produce his invitation. When presented with it, the attendant could not help but compliment, "Sir! What a mask! What an exquisite thing! What skill, what thought must have gone into such an item." All the man could say in reply was a 'But', for the next moment a beautiful creature with a cat's face whisked him off in an energetic dance not unlike a waltz. Once again he was complimented for his mask. "What creativity you have put into your outfit, my friend! Such detail and wit! Ah, this is a creation that must be shared, to inspire us all to do the same for ourselves next time!" Before he could respond again with a 'But', his voice was caught by the air as the dancers switched partners in a crazy dance they called Change. Dancers would change partners when the music changed.
Partner after partner, the man was spun around the ballroom were equally eager to comment on his mask as the donkey-head and cat-face had done, and partners were changed always before he could respond, as if the music had some cruel conspiracy to never allow him to speak. Soon it became such that every drumbeat, every musical note had the intent to quieten him, as if they knew what it was he was going to say, something so terrible as to go against the ethics of such a party. But of course it was inevitable that the song should end, to allow weary dancers a drink before they rejoined the throng.
The man found himself next to Cat-Face again. The feline features stretched themselves into a grin, and a pink mouth opened to inquire, “You were about to speak before. It has been such a pleasure meeting you.” A hand extended as a gesture of social greeting. A hand taken, and promptly shaken. “I was just saying what a wonderful mask you have got on. It has the make of a great craftsman! You must have paid a great deal to have it made.” The face seemed to turn green with envy, but at once swiftly changed to reflect a grin. “You were about to say?”
“You say how wonderful my mask is. But, I am not even wearing one.”
Many of those who went for the ball would spend many a day, even weeks, in advance, planning and designing their entire outfit, including elaborate headpieces that were integrated into fancy masks. Nobody would ever wear their costume twice, for it was deemed unoriginal to do so, and besides, the entire point was to be unrecognisable. Sometimes entire fortunes were spent on this attire, for the event was but one chance in the year one could play at make believe and forget themselves, a single chance to do whatever one pleased at a party and not be judged by others. Most importantly, it was the Night of Lies, so named for obvious reasons, the only chance in the year to fake things, to lie, and get away with it. Anybody could attend, so long as they had a costume and an invitation which could be procured, very simply, from people handing them out on the streets and in the taverns or inns.
Greeted at the door by an attendant with the head of a donkey, the man was asked to produce his invitation. When presented with it, the attendant could not help but compliment, "Sir! What a mask! What an exquisite thing! What skill, what thought must have gone into such an item." All the man could say in reply was a 'But', for the next moment a beautiful creature with a cat's face whisked him off in an energetic dance not unlike a waltz. Once again he was complimented for his mask. "What creativity you have put into your outfit, my friend! Such detail and wit! Ah, this is a creation that must be shared, to inspire us all to do the same for ourselves next time!" Before he could respond again with a 'But', his voice was caught by the air as the dancers switched partners in a crazy dance they called Change. Dancers would change partners when the music changed.
Partner after partner, the man was spun around the ballroom were equally eager to comment on his mask as the donkey-head and cat-face had done, and partners were changed always before he could respond, as if the music had some cruel conspiracy to never allow him to speak. Soon it became such that every drumbeat, every musical note had the intent to quieten him, as if they knew what it was he was going to say, something so terrible as to go against the ethics of such a party. But of course it was inevitable that the song should end, to allow weary dancers a drink before they rejoined the throng.
The man found himself next to Cat-Face again. The feline features stretched themselves into a grin, and a pink mouth opened to inquire, “You were about to speak before. It has been such a pleasure meeting you.” A hand extended as a gesture of social greeting. A hand taken, and promptly shaken. “I was just saying what a wonderful mask you have got on. It has the make of a great craftsman! You must have paid a great deal to have it made.” The face seemed to turn green with envy, but at once swiftly changed to reflect a grin. “You were about to say?”
“You say how wonderful my mask is. But, I am not even wearing one.”
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