Monday, June 11, 2007
car trouble
"So there I was, sitting across the street from the museum, on a park bench. The only bench insight, the only place to sit other than a stairwell or the museum steps with all the other swine and let me tell you, there were alot of them in this part of town. Anyway, so I take a seat and I look down to my left and what do I see but a book of photos. Just someone's portfolio or something. Left in the early morning sun, maybe in a rush, maybe out of negligence? The name's been ripped off, no other contact info, just this weird assortment of pictures and all kinds man, like black and whites, double exposed, polaroids, ones that were turned into sections of a colouring book then recoloured with wax crayon's and oil paints."
"Cool."
"Yeah dude, it was such a fantastic thing to stubble upon. And it was neat man, I sat there, the sun beaming down on me, just a couple blocks up from the hotel. I'm just smiling, had a great time last night, was gonna meet a friend and suddenly this little 'tweet tweet' kind of a bird flies down and lands on my shoulder. And I just, sorta, turned really slowly and looked at him and said 'what are You doing?' and he kinda went 'tweet, ah oh, shit' and flew off into the sun. And I was like 'whoa' and I looked up expecting to see the cartoonist's hand jumping off the canvas.”
“That's fucking crazy man.”
“Yeah it was really cool, here, let me show you the scrap book.”
He gets up and walks into the hallway, starts tearing into his luggage, my mind wanders, and I stare out the window, letting the shade of the big green tree wash over me. There is a nest of blue jays making a home in our front window. They stare at me with ravenous eyes.
“Hear, take a look of this Saltwater.” He hands me the leather bound notebook. Bulging at the spine with papers, some photos fall out, some pages contain writing, and by the the looks of it, spilled red wine. A true bohemian journal.
“And it was just sitting there, on the street bench, abandoned?” I ask.
“Yeah man.”
“What a find, dude.” I pull out a black and white photo of some pigeons being chased by a child and taking flight. The definition and sharpness of the image transported me to the border of the scene. For a quick instant my mind was propelled into the photo, I knew the child, and I could feel his merriment. “There are some really good shots here.”
“I know man, I still can't believe it was left there. Some art snob publisher was probably given it, he probably sat there with his morning coffee and laughed at it. 'It's so passe' he probably said.”
“Cunts.”
“Yeah, this part of town was full of em.”
“So how was the trip back?”
“Shitty, the road was too twisted. Our car shit the bed on us about four hours off from home. We had too much gear, couldn't even hitchhike. Had to call The Manager down South to bail us out.”
“How'd that go?”
“Had to feed a pay phone about ten in change while I was on hold. Had enough change to ask him to get online so we could figure something out. But we eventually got everything straightened away. Home safe and sound. I feel so tired right now that I have tunnel vision.”
“Ha!”
“Don't laugh man, I can see through time.”
From a comfy futon,
S. Tibs
"Cool."
"Yeah dude, it was such a fantastic thing to stubble upon. And it was neat man, I sat there, the sun beaming down on me, just a couple blocks up from the hotel. I'm just smiling, had a great time last night, was gonna meet a friend and suddenly this little 'tweet tweet' kind of a bird flies down and lands on my shoulder. And I just, sorta, turned really slowly and looked at him and said 'what are You doing?' and he kinda went 'tweet, ah oh, shit' and flew off into the sun. And I was like 'whoa' and I looked up expecting to see the cartoonist's hand jumping off the canvas.”
“That's fucking crazy man.”
“Yeah it was really cool, here, let me show you the scrap book.”
He gets up and walks into the hallway, starts tearing into his luggage, my mind wanders, and I stare out the window, letting the shade of the big green tree wash over me. There is a nest of blue jays making a home in our front window. They stare at me with ravenous eyes.
“Hear, take a look of this Saltwater.” He hands me the leather bound notebook. Bulging at the spine with papers, some photos fall out, some pages contain writing, and by the the looks of it, spilled red wine. A true bohemian journal.
“And it was just sitting there, on the street bench, abandoned?” I ask.
“Yeah man.”
“What a find, dude.” I pull out a black and white photo of some pigeons being chased by a child and taking flight. The definition and sharpness of the image transported me to the border of the scene. For a quick instant my mind was propelled into the photo, I knew the child, and I could feel his merriment. “There are some really good shots here.”
“I know man, I still can't believe it was left there. Some art snob publisher was probably given it, he probably sat there with his morning coffee and laughed at it. 'It's so passe' he probably said.”
“Cunts.”
“Yeah, this part of town was full of em.”
“So how was the trip back?”
“Shitty, the road was too twisted. Our car shit the bed on us about four hours off from home. We had too much gear, couldn't even hitchhike. Had to call The Manager down South to bail us out.”
“How'd that go?”
“Had to feed a pay phone about ten in change while I was on hold. Had enough change to ask him to get online so we could figure something out. But we eventually got everything straightened away. Home safe and sound. I feel so tired right now that I have tunnel vision.”
“Ha!”
“Don't laugh man, I can see through time.”
From a comfy futon,
S. Tibs
# posted by Mr. Tibs @ 12:25 p.m. 
