Introduction video for Grand Master Flash to receive an award from Tha Blast festival in Cincinnati. Not sure how my noise-art style of video went off with the hip-hop crowd, but fun was had by all. Many thanks to Robin Harrison and Cedrick Michael Cox for the opportunity.
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2003 A Beautiful Woman Excerpt – Forgot Remember
This would be a dream he wouldn’t remember. He dreamt of yellow teeth, faded that way like the ceiling of a good centenarian bar in the late twentieth century. Yellow like golden sun. Yellow like wildflower stains on a little girl’s outstretched palms, mumbling something about pee. There had been a trick, he hadn’t been thinking of pee, he had been thinking of red hair. Pleasantly chubby fingers just beaten enough to say use. They were making something for him, but they would never give it to him, they preferred that which resembled their own, a coffin of fingers, rather than the outstretched lone finger he would have been able to offer if given a chance. Red and yellow make blue, red and yellow make nothing, and then the fingers were in his mouth, dirty, under his tongue inside his jowls melding into his teeth yellow as dandelion doo-doo pulling blood red quatrains of pain through them like Kenton through virgin cane lands fabled French men had mentioned in passing. He woke up choking and gargling on his own blood, quite a stretch before dawn. He spit it all to his side, and wiping his mouth with his hand he drew a big zero on his abdomen. He went back to sleep. This time he lay on his side so that what would come may drain while he may dream.
This would be a dream he would remember. He had to burp. Yet to burp he had to be over there. Except people kept getting in his way. But there, to the right, an opening, he ran through, bumped into someone else. His stomach pulled at him in gaseous pain. This pushed him around. Somehow he had ended up further away. They were pushing him back. He must to burping. He couldn’t hold it in. But it had to be over there he ran this time full tilt but a leg, innocuous, not accidental no way out and he felt it catch his shin and his chin directed itself naturally at the ground, would it be soft no it would be concrete he decided as his chin hit and unable to stop himself he let out a huge, enduring, deep, throbbing belch. This promptly turned into a newly awakened Job vomiting swallowed blood off to his side in the surprisingly warm late November morning.
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2003 A Beautiful Woman Excerpt – Pinky Symmetry
He awoke in a dark mixture of pressures, textures and temperatures and light which his mind went on to describe as a cold puddle of water on a clear starry night in a forest. Right quick he felt a pain in his side, and sat up feeling positively refreshed. The wind blew and branches creaked in their most typical way, or as such as it seemed to represent the secret of. Not really interested in secrets, he farted, which effected a weak yet poignant bubble from the puddle, and then he stood up. I mean, what else could someone expect him to do? He stumbled from the puddle along the direction of the creek he had formerly been following, and immediately stepped into a deeper pool, very cold, his pants soaked, he stood there under the menacing squirt of the moon and wet his pants. I mean, they were already wet. It didn’t feel very good, except the warmth swirling into the cold water, it felt more like gas than liquid. He wondered if a god would feel that way at the moment of creation, a sexual and creatively zoned warmth spewing out into the cold dark nothing. He coughed and tasted blood, took a few steps from the pool and collapsed on the bank. All was black again.
Communication; He was speaking to someone but the only way to do it was to write what he was saying in a bowl of soup. A bowl of warm soup, which would hold the trace of his words for a vegetable broth moment, and stubbornly coalesce back into its hearty chunk mélange of flat gravity-directed lack of communication. Slurping noise occasionally, the other yelling I don’t understand I don’t get what you’re saying you’re not making any sense, and he was trying- his finger was covered in healthy sticky nutrition he was fucking starving his finger was the tongue the soup the air he shaped in the bowl of his mouth and then bright fucking light and cold fucking wind.
He awoke. The soup had been orange with carrots and tomatoes and onions and curry. He was very hungry. It was very bright out, early morning, birds here and there doing their chops, cold mid fall beauty reigned around him. The brook even burbled hello. He sat up, he was only wearing jeans now, the scab in his side was painful but there would be no infection. He was already infected and the bacteria-like festering his own cells had created into the body of him jealously guarded their host and dinner, would let none other pass, no scraps for hangers on, etcetera.
He stood, stripped, washed himself in the brook, cleaning the shit out of his jean pants, the dried brown stains off his buttocks, the mud from his hair. From dust to dust only happens in deserts he thought. Everywhere else it’s mud to mud. In a sudden burst of desire for a bit more symmetry, he bit off his right pinky finger and spit it onto the bank. The bone was tougher than he thought, he chipped his tooth on it, had to gnaw on it for a moment. The blood tasted good in his mouth, salty juice it was, he sucked on the finger for a while, and then, like I said, he spit it on the bank. Some happy raven for that one mused him. Donning his wet jeans and only casually noticing the sharp pain of pulled pubic hair as he zipped them up, he continued his trek- what seemed northerly along the creek brook stream etcetera.
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