(chris’s) blog

Arin Crumley writes of his participation in a new independent film project, From Here to Awesome, aimed at solving the problems independent filmmakers face both in finding distribution and in maintaining intimacy with their audience. Their first video is a short manifesto and worth watching.

she spoke until “love me”, sounded by something else.

she spoke until “love me”, sounded by something else.

Patriarchy and pedals. see, not everything is opposite.

The following short story by Zack Crockett was originally published in the UC Davis California Aggie on February 8, 2008:

“Hey! Hey, you kid!” A man in slippers bowleggedly strode from behind the complex. Kid turned around. “You there! What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m painting this wall,” replied the kid, lifting the brush over his head and into the light of the moon.

The man was incredulous and bug-eyed, balding slightly. “This is private property, are you kiddin’ me? You want me to call the police?”

“Tell them there’s an unpainted wall on the loose,” said the kid, fishing into his pocket, in a dead-cold eye lock with the man.

The man cocked his head, his brow wrinkled with tension. Clutching together his robe, he powered forward. “Don’t talk sassy with me, you little shit!” Reaching out, he shoved the kid against the wall. “Gimme the brush.”

The kid turned around and stroked the brush gently against the wall.

“You think this is funny? Give me the goddamn brush or I’ll knock you on your ass.”

“You like this wall, don’t you?” the kid went on. “It’s cracked, it’s growing moss down there in the right corner, and it’s stained yellow at the bottom. That’s where the dogs piss. It’s not perfect, but you like it.”

The man let go of his bathrobe and took a heavy lug into the kid’s stomach. The brush clattered weakly onto the pavement, and the man picked it up and hurled it into the darkness across the street.

“You go paint your own place!” The man huffed out visibly into the chilly air. “Go on and get the hell outta here, vandal.”

The man faltered, scratched his side. “Shit.” He turned and walked back behind the complex, clicking his door shut. Silently, the light in the window went off, and the street was calm.

The next morning, the man rose from bed, showered and ate. He put on his favorite shirt, a cheap Hawaiian number, and combed his hair over the middle. The construction cap would cover it, but he still felt insecure about his imperfections. Another day, he thought. Another routine dance with a crowded overpass.

The man stepped outside and turned for the street but stopped short, astonished.

The same white wall he’d walked past for years without notice was now an enormous mural - a portrait of him. He stared into his own eyes, eyes deep with accurate coloring and lighting. He scanned over the perfect shading of the skin and the familiar lopsided tilt of his chin. There was his bald spot, paint still wet, glinting under the rising light.

The kid wasn’t there - he was gone - but the brush sat propped against the base of the wall, a tiny stick against a vast canopy of color.

“Hey Francis!” yelled the man’s neighbor, jogging toward him. “Francis. What the hell? Did you paint our wall last night?”

“I…”

“You can’t paint these walls, dog. They private property - we don’t own this shit, man. You know that, right?” The neighbor paused. “Look man, Janet will flip out. She’s gonna charge you for this trick.”

“It’s not perfect,” replied the man. “It’s not perfect, but I like it.”

He stood there until the neighbor left. He stood and waited for an answer to come, waited for a thought or a voice, waited for the kid to come whistling down the street. But nothing came and nothing went, so the man left for work.

It poured rain, and the men worked hard, sloshing through the mud like ants under a queen. Machines sunk into the earth, drilled through metal pipes, screamed shrill and loud. Sparks and drops matted down the man’s protective vest, reflected off his goggles.

It was dark now, time to go home.

The man pulled into his parking space and held a piece of sheet metal over his head to protect him from the barricade of rain that was now falling.

He hurried to the wall, hoping the kid would be there.

Nakedness stared back; the painting was gone, washed away like dust off an old bicycle. He noticed the cracks, the stains, the moss - all imperfections - and just above them all, the last remaining strokes of paint remained, making out the fading image of his bald spot.

There’s something beautiful in the richness of colors on a glossy photograph, an edited, purer rendition of what we wish we could have perceived in the shutter’s moment. It’s the same beauty you get turning your headphones up too loud– it’s over saturated sound, it hugs you, smothers you, forcibly affects your emotions, with no option of ignorance, of junking it. It’s the control, the ultimate control over yourself, in the only uninhibited way possible: by giving your total physical and emotional control over to the art, to the sound of your headphones, to the expression of the photograph, to the color of the sky. It is true that the only way to completely control your lucid experience is making the decision to control none of it, oddly active while drifting, dreaming.

I bought some new music on vinyl and to my surprise, some of the albums came with one of these:

I finished watching Fellini’s 8 1/2 and I should be crying:

is it sad that two parallel lines never meet?

I’m eavesdropping on a guy making suggestive but insecure comments to a girl. It’s downright annoying. I wish people would just fuck each other already.