The Hole – Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals 2
November, 9 2001
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.
* signifies words I have invented.