bluecityveins

a free ride inside my diseased mind.

Archive for the month “February, 2013”

Blue City Veins (the nocturnal art Journals) Entry #3

forest copy copy

The Russian

December 10, 2001
morningish…
My head hurts. I didn’t get very much art done yesterday. I decided to pick up beers, and well, drink them. I went to that bar for a while as well. The one with the cheap drinks, I think I mentioned it yesterday. I decided to leave when the “humants” began to show up. I will attempt to wash off the rot of the night with a long bike ride.

noonish…
Biking helped. I picked up some groceries as well. I bring my own bags when I go food shopping. Im not big into wasting stuff, especially plastic things. I usually get treated like some kind of terrorist for doing so. People will ask for a bag to wrap a bag in. “Its my right! I work hard for my bag.” “Would you like a baggy for your bag sir?”
Gah….

There’s a crazy Russian lady living downstairs in this building. Every time I do laundry she magically appears. Manically uttering Russian phrases at me. I have no clue what her deal is, or what she is saying. Day and night she blares Russian military marching music. I feel like I am in the Soviet Union. Her mouth is full of gold. She has a grill without knowing it. Or maybe she does know. Maybe she’s a Russian gangster. A putrid fermented rotting cabbage smell permeates from under her door. For some odd and deeply disturbing reason, the scent evokes erotic alienistic thoughts in my head. What kind of weird Siberian love slop is she brewing in there?

It seems as though she has taken an interest in me. Well more so my phone. Last night she was banging on my door. “Phone!, Phone!, Phone!”. No “hello, or how are you?”, just “Phone, Phone, Phone!” Complete insanity. I thought it was some kind of emergency so I let her in. I told her “You are not allowed to phone Russia.” For all I know she could be dialling Boris, in the middle of a forest, listening to him eat a bowl porridge. I don’t need the KGB closing in on me. She dialed what seemed to be 21and a half numbers. I asked her “What the hell kind of local call has that many digits in it?!” She looked at me. Squinted the left eye. And slowly raised a yellow crippled finger up to its puckered leathery lips…. “SHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

Gold teeth
sunk in a
rotting
pound cake.
A hissing
snake
of a
sound.

I admit I was a little intimidated. It reminded me of the free floating full torso vaporous apparition in the library scene of “Ghost Busters”. She then started screaming on the phone in Russian. It’s hard to tell if she was mad or happy. Russian is a fairly abrasive language at the best of times. And apparently works best when YELLED!!!!

“BLARGA ZOVAGARBOGO!!!! ZUCKOMUTZMUVOZLAMBAZI!!!!!”

Come to think of it I don’t even know if she was speaking Russian, it sounded more like a homemade Hebrewian hybrid.
Perhaps a strange magical incantation of sorts. Who knows….
This verbalized insanity went on for a good (or bad) 8 minutes. By this point she was spitting on my phone “Pah!,Plah!,Pah!” Her face all pinched and evil. Pinky meaty marbled Russian fist mits pounding on my end table. Pencils and pens rolling to the floor. Dogs and Cats living together,…mass hysteria!

She then hung up the phone, made some kind of faint, wheezling farty noise, stood up, walked to the door, and proceeded to exit with a “kerslamping” sound.
Oddly enough all I could think about was that poor phone. Sitting there, cold and alone. Cradling itself .Shivering. Slathered in Siberian mouth slime.
I wonder if that strange message from “ART” the other day is in any way connected to this ordeal? I must do further investigating.

December, 11 2001
I was awoken this morning by a peculiar, yet oddly familiar sound. It began with an irritatingly squeaky rusted hinge of a noise. Followed by wrinkled rustling, and ending with some metallic clinkery.. Skrrreeeeeeek, rustle, crustle, clink, skrrreeeeek, krustle, rustle, klink. This hard boiled boner ballad went on for 7 minutes. Some God only knows how long this racket was going on for before I woke up.
I hesitantly dressed and ventured outside to investigate these goings on as it were. The Russian! I should have known…. There it was, that stygian soul sucker. Rummaging through everyone’s mailboxes. A pathetic pilfering polotus pig***, bathing itself in other peoples private information.
Before I could question the beast, it hissed at me. Hissed! It was a hissler. A hisswheezling hiss whistler! The hisswhistler then looked at me, and gave me the old stink eye. I had to duck down to dodge the stink lines. The demonic stinkers struck a metal pole behind me, and ricocheted into my little flower bed.
When I looked up the Russian was gone.
Great……

I currently have 3 assignments to do for school. I’m working on my own projects instead. I have been writing weird poems as of late. I write most poems with an old manual typewriter. I like it, something about having to push really hard on the keys to get your thoughts out. I built a device that enables me to type while I am submerged in a bathtub. It works fairly well. The only down side of bathroom typing is the racket. Its mechanic hammering plays ping pong with the shower tiles. Echo pasted reverberations. I only use it when my neighbours are away. At night I write shorthand.

I despise computers, yet I am required to use one for English class essays. I don’t even know how to operate one. My English professor is cool. He said I can use a typewriter for the time being. I’m curious as to how he marks my last paper. We were supposed to write an essay about some book. I cant remember what it was called. We had to buy it. I didn’t feel like wasting money on a book that I didn’t want to read. Instead, I decided to write a paper about my favourite movie, Brazil. In my mind I think that’s what he was actually asking me to do. The whole book thing was just a cover up. A scheme the school put him up to. I spent a lot of time on the paper. If I am interested in something I will usually do a good job. Usually…..

I found a nice perch on a hill. It over looks a portion of the city. Below, a bleeding main artery of traffic spews past. I like to bike up there at night. It helps me calm down. I came up with a phrase while sitting there. “Blue City Veins”. I was looking at the blue veins on my wrist and thinking it was kind of like the pulsating traffic down below. Maybe I will make a painting called that, or a poem.

Time melts like ice cream.
Vehicles zipping past
Electric ecstasy.
Grapefruit pink streaming traffic currents.
Sexual ectoplasm.
There is no proof of purchase.
Or
Purpose.

I have been typing on onion skin paper as of late. I like how it looks. It’s transparency, it’s fragility. The ink sits differently on the page than normal typing paper. Warbling like a tear drop on a Japanese animations cartoon eye ball. The ribbon is wearing thin for this typing machine, kind of like my patience with that Siberian Cyborg .
blahhhhh

My arm hurts when I write, or pretty much when I do anything. I have to wear a magnetic velcro strap around my elbow area. I have acute tendonitis caused by repetitive strain on my arms. Slave labour jobs are to thank for that. It feels like some horrible demon elves are playing tug of war with my tendons. Plucking on my sinew as though it was an out of tune elf harp. It hurts the most playing guitar, but I play anyways. I am always in some sort of pain. I would feel strange without it.

I have decided to change my writing name. I find writing under my legal name is getting in the way. It is now Henry Sausanger, or perhaps Suasager, or maybe both.

I have to go, my hair hurts.
L.
I mean
H.

*The Russian will now be referred to as “IT” or “The Russian” from now on . I don’t believe this creature has a particular sex or is even human for that fact.

**Polotus Pig – A strange and very rare creature indeed. It was discovered by a colleague of mine. Due to legal reasons his name can not be revealed. The pig like creature was discovered in a dark basement of an old warehouse. This sick creature can live for decades without feeding. Its legs are long and spindly and can not support its own weight. The polotus pig excretes a creamy liquid that smells like that of a mint leaf. The scent of the fluid has been known to cause sexual dementia.

The Hole – Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals 2

November, 9 2001

The Hole

I haven’t really unpacked anything yet. There are piles of junk and debris floating miscellaneously all over the place. I seem to attract junk like some kind of junk magnet. I find organizing things a very complicated and frustrating ordeal. For instance, I will start with one pile and then make another pile beside the first pile with things from the first pile. I then have 2 piles of things, so then I make another pile with stuff from both of those piles, etc. I have decided to name them “Lyle Piles.” These polubious* piles have always surrounded me. My life is a constant struggle between art and reality. I don’t particularly want to live in a mess, but when I clean things I feel guilty for not creating any art, its madness. A perpetual ping pong game.

I like to Bike. Biking serves as a barrier from the pink faced pig pumping inbred fascists. Fat bastards rolling around in huge trucks. So pergurantly*obese they need to be greased and shucked from their vehicles with enormous shoe horns. Pinkos. Pinky red fleshed beasts streaming past me. Angry tapping sausage fingers honking horns. Malignant mutant mouths belching profanities. These deviled pigs have a name for me. I am “Hey bike Fag!” It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Ding a ling Ding, eat a potato while you sing.

Ding a ling Dong, beat a pillow with your shlong.

The weekend is quickly approaching. I decided against going to school today. So far the only good thing about college is the exercise I get biking to-and-fro. This town is extremely hilly, as well as full of hillbillies. It’s Bill Hilly.

The visual arts section of the college is conveniently located in a condemned shack on the edge of a hill. This shipping container of a building is freezing. Besides its meat locker charm It is also equipped with harsh industrial Fluorescent lights. The lights make my eyes bleed. The cold concrete hurts my knees, and washrooms smell like a swamp. Beside those things its a great place.
My throat hurts when I complain. Little demon germs poking it with infected rusty thumb tacks. “Keep complaining you ungrateful little bastard, your complaints feed satans’ flames!””

My main objective was to get out of the work world for awhile so I can concentrate on my own ideas, flesh them out, and carve out my own identity. I need people to know a “Lyle” when they see one.
These art assignments are so retarded. I just want to paint something. Put brush to canvas. I have never painted on canvas. We have to paint apples on wood panels. I think I’m going to make my own canvas stretcher to paint on. I have an old picture frame that I could wrap some canvas around. I need something to nail it with. Perhaps I could snag some tools from the school….

So far I have been able to get away with not doing any assignment properly. I make the assigned projects my own creations as sacrifices to art. I think as long as I always hand something in they will have to pass me.

There’s a bar close to my apartment I have been frequenting. It’s kind of a dump, but it’s cheap. A cheap dark drunk dump on top of a hill. They sell bottles of beer for 2 bux! I sometimes go there in the afternoons to write and drink before all the humants*show up. The bars in this town are strange. For the most part all walks of life share the same watering holes. Its a good town to be a drunk in. It seems as though There’s a bar, liquor store, and church on every street corner.

The building I live in is very odd. Not just the building but those that inhabit it as well.This week I found a portal in my bathroom. It was covered by a sheet of plywood painted white.

I drew a picture of a TV on it. I couldn’t stop wondering what was lurking behind the panel. Eventually curiosity got the best of me and I removed the nails, revealing a weird gaping hole measuring about 10 feet deep, 4 feet wide, and 2 feet high. Inside was a staircase, a staircase leading to nowhere. Its very odd. I kept the porthole open for awhile. Perhaps for 5 days, give or take a month. Having that weird hole open made me feel nervous, I had this strange sensation that something was living in it, or some foreign energy was permeating from its innards. It was liken to that of an aliens vagina, (and we all know what those are like.)The hole had a very ancient smell as well. What did the smell remind me of? hmmmmm kind of like an old book from the library, a book that hasn’t been taken out in years.

I always found it particularly disgusting to find crusted snot in library books. Library books are very odious and loathsome creatures if you think about it. Hitchhiking from one gross grotto to another. Kind of like sex slaves. Forced to do unmentionable things. The only revenge they ever can hope of getting is maybe wasting someone’s time with a bad story, or a paper cut or two. Most books tend to hide themselves once brought home. Hidden in hopes they will not be returned to the sick book brothel from once they came. I wonder if there are libraries for the elite. Pristine books with no mucous, fecal matter, or pudding smeared on their pages. How many perverts have touched those pages? What have those hands been doing?

Some books have a distinct smell, characteristic of toilet reading. If you really have to read books while defecating, please have the courtesy to wrap the book in a clear bag while doing so.

Some books smell like the people that read them. There was this guy I coined “The Clown”, his house happened to be on my childhood paper route. Everything he had was orange and brown. The orange and brown clown. Even his wiry hairs on his balding head were red. (You thought I was going to say orange didn’t you! Well Orange doesn’t rhyme with head, now does it!, well actually orange doesn’t rhyme with anything.) The clowns house had a distinct smell. Reminiscent of stew and carrots, the smell of orange coloured food. It was a heavy lumbering scent. The odour kind of hung in the atmosphere like an old thick drape. An old thick drape with a leering pervert hiding behind it.
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah dirty smelly weird holes. The hole in question also had these strange little beetles inside of it. Little piles of dead flies, and other assorted debris.

I decided to seal the hole shut today. I even used clear packing tape around the edges, just incase some kind of filth decided to ooze out. Hopefully everything went back inside before I shut the gates. Nothing worse than having some pissed off and displaced poltergeist haunting your toilet bowl.
boogly goobly boooo!

I photographed the hole, I figured something that peculiar needs to be documented. After all it could be some kind of message from ART!

Speaking of ART and strange messages, this is kind of interesting…. Last week I dialled a wrong number on my phone. After a few seconds of beeping and blooping this odd computer starting talking to me. It said something like “Zzzzzzzop….Golf + hamburger = 1023.76 zero minus electricity beep beep beep Frederick mulnard x57 golf+hamburger = minus.”

I tried misdialing again but to no avail. What could this possibly mean? What kind of cryptic code is this. Was I in fact talking to ART himself?

Chances are that strange message was delivered from a very lonely and somewhat scared answering machine. Just sitting there. Sitting there on a small wooden table in a dimly lit room. Patiently waiting for its one purpose in life. That purpose being for know other reason than to confuse whatever poor bastard that accidentally called it.

All this talk about weird answering machines, dirty holes and stew is making me thirsty, I need some water.

so much for long goodbyes,
keep it weird.
L.

* signifies words I have invented.

bcvdrawing2 copy

Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals I

*Disclaimer- All misspellings, bad use of grammar, wrong tenses, and other such acts of English atrocities from here on in have been manufactured on purpose. All so called “errors” are protected under the thin foreskin veil of “ART”. (and laziness)
Blah………………………..

November 8, 2001, 10:16 am

Well here I am. I Finally made it out of the province of my birth. Not only did it give me birth, it wanted my death as well. Greedy bastard. I can’t believe I fell asleep and crashed my car into a ditch. Well I can believe it, but I almost don’t want to. That was a close call. It happened near the border of both provinces. What side of the border was it on? Remind me to check that out later. I wonder what this near death experience means/meant? which one, witch which is which. Maybe it means/meant I should start drinking coffee. Perhaps it was a test. My gauntlet of sorts.

It’s odd writing to and about oneself. I feel like a pervert. Well I usually feel like one, but even more so now. Lots of things make feel like a pervert. For example, making popcorn makes me feel like a pervert.

Back in the old province I lived with a roommate. At night I would get stoned and have strange popcorn cravings. However it was always to late at night to make some. Being noisy and all. As a solution to this problem I would take the popper, bowl, fixings, and such to my Maroon coloured tempo situated 3 stories below my apartment, peacefully parked in a frozen and snow covered waste land. I would then proceed to plug a long orange extension cord into a grey coloured exterior car plug outlet and sit in my freezing maroon car stoned out of my mind at 3 am. Anxiously waiting for the little golden corn seeds(I despise the word kernel) to make that little magical “popping” sound.
I had an idea during one of my many peculiar popcorn popping adventures.
Wanna hear it? Sure you do.

The Idea:
A car that perpetually exudes copious amounts of popcorn while running. Or a C.P.E.C.A.P.W.R for short.

Here’s how it works:
The driver would sit in the car naked (mandatory) and eat popcorn while being able to pay full attention to driving. The pop corn would fill the car to mouth level so the vehicle operator wouldn’t need to use it’s hands when feasting. The popcorn also serves as a protective barrier incase of an accident. Much like packing peanuts, however those are not a food source and should not be consumed. A new batch would be popped each time the driver exited the vehicle. The old popcorn would then proceed to spill onto the streets thus feeding birds, raccoons, and other assorted city wildlife. Win Win as they say.

I still feel weird making popcorn inside my apartment. It’s mostly the sound of it that causes problems. Everyone knows your making the damn stuff. Likely thinking what kind of looser makes popcorn at noon. I’m sure in their minds they picture a guy in his shorts, hung over, blood shot eyes, long messy hair, wait, that kind of describes me. Nevermind…..

4:12 p.m.

This art school sucks! It’s my 2nd month and It hasn’t progressed much farther than a kindergarten crafts class. I’m one of the few people that didn’t come here directly from high school. Most of these people aren’t artists, they are pre-pubescent infants playing with scissors and listening to horrible top 40 music.

The amount of material waste is outstanding. This whole program is a total scam. The teachers give us lists of crap we need to buy for each class. The only place to buy this overpriced junk is at the college art store. A large percentage of it is not even used. I hardly have to buy anything, after class I scavenge what’s left behind. I spend the money I save at the true educator,The bar.

We should be using cheap materials, the simplest crap, so we are not afraid to go nuts and experiment. I am full of rage. I might have been happier being a slave cleaning toilets. At least I could pick the music I listened to. This is a generation of spoiled brats.I will do enough just to pass and work on my own stuff. blah. ART u bastard!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lyle.

P.S.
I made a deal with one of my art teachers. I can use my journal entries as part of a class project, however it has to relate back to my experience with art somehow. Now that I have to think about art its going to wreck it. Such puckery!!!

couch

An Introduction To Nothing Part 2 by Lyle Schultz

tv copy

Diseased.

Two days after barely graduating from High School I was diagnosed with the severest case of  Mononucleosis my physician had ever encountered in his 25 year  career.  I spent an entire year laying in bed, watching movies, and eating sleeping pills.  During the first month of this sickness I had to sterilize all my dishes with bleach. I felt as though I was a Leper. My greedy little spleen had grown to such an enormous size that if someone bumped into me it could rupture. To some extent I was proud of my disease.

Films.

Internet wasn’t common back then, so movies served as my escape pod. This is when I discovered Terry Gilliams work. I would say he is one of my major influences, especially Brazil, and 12 monkeys.

Phoxx Hat.

Near the end of my disease I began making a very twisted and perverse zine with a good friend of mine. It was called Phoxx Hat. Phoxx Hat was total escapism. Phoxx Hat was a filthy heathenistic entity. Its dirge would even make the Marquis De Sade weep like a child. We believed that ART was a bastard god that gave us orders to make this sick thing. We got high from it. Everything was art. The filth became so powerful my friend had to build a steel lined wooden box with a lock on it just  to store the damned thing.

Heavy Metal Janitor.

At this point I was healthy enough to start working again. Physically healthy that is. I worked the graveyard shift at a major supermarket. I also worked with a company that cleaned banks after hours. I was miserable. Eventually I moved to a larger city, and became a janitor. I spent my spare time writing and playing guitar. I usually went to work high and/or drunk. Phoxx Hat was one of the only things that kept me alive. Life was horrible. Living in a frozen redneck city. Being paid minimum wage to clean up filth. I became a germ freak, and very obsessive compulsive.

The Question.

One day my boss informed me that I wasn’t showing enough enthusiasm with my job.  After a few minutes of verbally fighting with him in the parking lot, he asked me a question.  “What do you want to do with your life if you don’t like being a janitor!?
The Beginning.

A few months later I moved to a new frozen inbred province and enrolled in Art School. That’s where we will start off next week.

Lyle.x.2.B.C.

Post Navigation