Friday, March 6, 2015

ADAM BRYAN'S ARTWORK


Adam and Bree
 Close-up
Marker outline
 Close-up
 Black Marker
 Close-up of Skull

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Wheels a Turning


“A microcosm is no different than a macrocosm. To speak of the human body and its faculties is tantamount to speaking of the cosmic body and its faculties, and to aver human qualities to the Brobdingnagian universe is tantamount to revealing the cosmic functions within the small-scale human body. Darwin’s theory on the origin of species is not radical but rational and too soil-centric. Proof abounds above our heads as well as below our feet that everything is interconnected.”                                                                                                                       
That is how the fiction writer, Apa, spoke.  In truth he spoke better than he wrote, and the poetic and philosophically inclined narrator, couldn’t escape the need to explain everything in writing, so much so that his fiction contained rational and verbose headers to every chapter, didactic precursors, quarterbacking the reader to begin with axiomatic bias, moralized bigotry, grounding the fiction to read as something other than fiction, allowing for no fruition of ideas as art or playthings in the reader’s mind, deciphering the meaning for the reader and coffining the fiction before the breath of imaginary life ever entered it. Others had the same tendency to domineer design. It had been said before that William James, albeit he wrote philosophy and elucidated theological themes, camouflaged himself in the process much better than his brother, Henry James, a writer of fiction, revealed his perfunctory use of characters and plots, plots laudatory to a Victorian reader, as the means to grandstand his own moral and philosophical bent. Whereas William James remains mysterious and veiled with mysticism, and above all else is still readable and timelessly relevant, Henry James’ books remain birth-naked but aged, and his intentions are birth-naked but aged in every paragraph, sentence, punctuation mark put to page, put to the finality of the printing press death nail. His is the perpetual problem of an American-turned-European in thought. Continental myopia and negligible historical age parading around in the fossilized vestment of the Roman Catholic stole.

Silly Angels; Nasty Demons


Silly Angels and Nasty Demons

Mary started her day by nearly downing a full bowl of Cheerios in near record time, chewing, the art of mastication neglected, until an non-minced Cheerio, a single lifeboat-like assassin, lodged itself in her throat and she choked and choked with no one around to hear the frantic gurgle of liquid and air scuttling and caught between the vacant space and all that redness that made up her desperate face. She backed up, about to pass out, and an amazing force thrust her against the wall so hard that the yauling projectile ring flew across the kitchen counter in frustrated wobbles and smacked so hard against the stainless steel refrigerator as to break it into four small pieces (the cheerio not the fridge), the dog would find later in the afternoon. She regained her modest composure quicker than the red spell of near misfortune faded away from her ridiculous face, finished her jentacular two-percent milk in three uuup-uuup-uuup gulps, and set the empty bowl next to the spoon.

            She walked the two blocks to the bus stop while her usual state of stupor transferred even to her mode of walking: unusual swerves, herky-jerky knee bends and soft then hard slaps of the heel of her shoes against the pavement. The neighbor girls stopped, long ago, walking with her because they found her lack of cadence a nuisance and heaven forbid Mary answer a question put to her, or acknowledge she heard the question, or make them feel as if their voices constituted an authority more persuasive than the passing thrush’s squawk at any moving object.