Cuddle Fish Video: "Home" 1000 Times

Merry Christmas, fellow AlphaNuRoswellians!
--Q and Weldon

Opposites

This is a question to all of you. How many words or phrases are there that literally mean opposite things but have come to mean the same thing.

Examples:

I'm up for it, I'm down for it.
That sucks. That blows.
That girls hot, she's stone cold.

And also we've been playing this game at the office lately where we try to get really obvious movie titles like

"What's that thriller where that guy gets trapped in a phone booth"..."Phone booth?"

or

"What's that movie with Cameron Diaz and Ashton Kutcher where something happens in Vegas?" "What Happens in Vegas?"

Sonnet for a Hindu Goddess

Sleep! The only fear is Her arousal./
An Intimacy that will still our hearts,/
lest peace stirs, and my courage less than full!/
Daft denial - the cup spills over; art/
becomes what it once wasn't: we decay./
Forgetting our trysts, we crucify pain,/
and serve an injustice, both night and day,/
that tortures love, and puts trust in our chains./
Witness this death! Destroy this enemy/
of truth! Love this death that pertains to you!/
Burn the pride that betrays this memory!/
Adore Her, and the marriage she owes you;/
and see her retain all strength, "La Morte"./
Only then, we can retain what is true!/

Final Farewell

Open Your Eyes When You Put Things Into Perspective

I couldn't believe I had said that.
Wait a minute! I can't believe I almost began to feel that I was the one in the wrong. I have both felt things and been in the wrong before. But I was so far past it, I shouldn't have gone back to feeling again.

I know that it was his insecurities asking me for direction. Leeching on to whatever disgusting soul that came nearer. He was the one who had walked into the room and noticed me noticing his new haircut and fresh shave. I like to believe that if he had simply walked into the room and not made a big deal about it, the whole thing would have been, "close the book and put it on the shelf".

That's what old Nelson would have said. Nelson was the dog I had found alone on a construction site; the site I used as a shortcut to get to the coffee house, where I did my people watching. I use to take Nelson there and I'd say, "close the book and put it on the shelf" after everybook I finished. He like it when I talked to him. People should always talk to their dogs, or dog, if you only have one.

Only I didn't have a dog anymore and if I did he wouldn't be talking back. He had been silenced by the same thing that had silenced Little Macky. Little Macky was silenced after he had seen his mom and Mr. Ramirez doing the deed. He was trapped in the closet and he had seen Mr. Ramirez slap his mother across the face while they did the deed. Little Macky was not a dog, but he had been silenced.

Getting back to my story at hand, this guy made it so much worse by talking about it. Announcing to the public that he had these ongoing issues with hiding himself from people. Never truly embracing his own wretchedness, and so he went on stumbling within his own society because of it. Every man has an inexplicable wretchedness inside of them, dying to be revealed; so he makes himself a master at burying his wretchedness. And he buries it next to where he buries his heart. Most of us don't dig that deep and both resurface from their graves!

You must continue to embrace that wretchedness within you. Once you've understood it, "close the book and put it on the shelf". Let others read it if they want to. Let them eat from the tree of knowledge and drink from the tainted fountain. We all die, and at least someone will have read your story!

I am speaking of an inexplicable wretchedness, and what is worse is that people can't make up their minds as to whether or not to speak to dogs. Dogs notice the stuff other people notice; this is why they whine when there is nothing to whine about. Dogs want you to recognize their cognition. Dogs can even see your emotions.

If old Nelson would have been there he would have seen through his defences like one can see a light bulb through a paper wall. He was so unsure, or insecure, that he recognized his own transparency and began to shake. No one could speak of it, for it would have made them seem like a child calling out amongst grey folk. It was bad enough that he was so anxious in front of us, but there were women around. He truly proved himself despicable.

I hope those girls go home and tell their grannies about it and they all have one big ol' laugh over it. I sure didn't, not even when I was alone at home later. Since I didn't immediately laugh in front of his face, I had pretty much lost a desire to do so at any future time.

I tried to observe the faces of those around me to gauge how awkward my society had become because of this human being. I felt as though, between the two of us, one had betrayed the other. I admired and feared the pragmatism that shone on all their faces (except his, of course). I began to like this fear, it felt safe within itself.

"Stonewall Nelson!"

I use to shout that at Nelson and he'd bark for my guests. He was such a good dog, and I loved him.

I glanced at Stacy, and she hadn't missed a moment of this company's interactions. I loved her for that. Later I would get the chance to thank her for the tea.

It had to be done

ANR Origins: Weldon

This is a recollection of some of the specific racist experiences I had growing up in the Roswell/Alpharetta area.  Racism is surely one of the defining factors of my early life, and I'd like to share a few of those experiences with you.  I'll spare real names because I don't want any blame put on these individuals.  I blame racism on the fear of what's different, and I believe that's a product of cultural ignorance.

[Note: You'll notice I use the word "Chink" a lot.  It is a derogatory term for a Chinese person.  Kind of like the N-word, not as socially severe though.  The word itself isn't that offensive, as much as the manner in which it was directed towards me.]

- A good friend of mine in the 3rd grade tells me I can't sleep over because his dad won't allow it because I am Chinese.  All the White kids on our soccer team get to sleep over though. 

-5th grade: There's two sides of the neighborhood I grow up in.  There is a Chinese boy on the other side.  The older White kids from my side organize with the older White kids from the other side to have me fight the other Chinese boy.  They cheer us on as we have a fist fight in "the ditch" -- a sewer drop off in the back woods behind some guy's house.

- 6th grade: A White boy from a different class cluster approaches me to ask me why "I think I am Black."  And that "I should act my race."  I punch him four times in the face.  He leaves me alone.

- 6th grade: A boy one grade older than me yells "Chink" at me everyday when I step off the bus.  This goes on for most of the school year.  I build up the courage to physically confront him and I threaten him.  A few days later, one of his bigger friends throws me into a wall in the hallway.

- 6th grade: A White friend of mine tells me that another kid that he know is acting real "Jewish" referring to his something greedy that he did.  It was strange hearing that.  I knew this boy wasn't used to using those types of racial adjectives, so he must have been taught it.  I also think to myself that if he's slurring Jews, which I had previously lobbed into the "White category," then what is he saying about Chinese people behind my back?

- 7th grade: I recently went to summer camp in New York City, where my friends in the camp were Latino, Asian, and Black.   I come back with an attitude that I can't be friends with any white people anymore.  I have a general hate towards them.  I cut my ties with almost all of them.

- 8th grade, One of my Chinese friends starts hanging out with his older sister, who goes to Chattachoochee High School and is part of the Asian social group, "Asian Pride/Korean Pride."  Eventually, he  adapts their cultural belief that I am a "disgrace" because of my mixed white blood.  He stops being friends with me.

- 9th grade: I get into high school.  There's Black students from South Fulton County that I do not know, who treat me worse than the White kids do in these days.   Their racism is blatant.  I get in a couple of fights.  I stop sitting at the "Black table."

- 9th grade: I make the decision to act more "white."  A Mexican friend of mine feels the same way.  We go on a shopping day at Abercrombie and Fitch.    We only come out with like two shirts each.  It's really expensive to be White, we discover.

- 9th grade: A popular White kid that took a liking to me wanted to call me "Chink" as a nick name.  I agreed to in order to garner acceptance with him.

- 9th grade: I go to visit a female friend of mine in the neighborhood.  As I am leaving her house, her older brother and his friends yells "Chink" at me from their bedroom window.  "Yeah, you!" he yells as I look back at them.  I walk away with them laughing at me.

...

The memorable incidents linger off towards the later high school years because I found an artistic outlet (filmmaking) that shifted my focus away from fitting in socially.  Also, these were the years where my friendships with my fellow AlphaNuRoswell members began to develop.

Elementary School is where I began to really notice I was different than everyone else -- at least racially.  Perhaps  this benign physical difference forced me into a self-conscious state much earlier than my peers.  In middle school, I reacted by rejecting both of the racial groups I was from, and I whole-heartedly threw myself into basing my general character on Black cultural norms.  I was a "wigger."  Or a "Chigger."  Whichever one fit better for the person putting the label on me.  But I wasn't White or Chinese -- that was the important fact I had come to.  I found salvation in my friendships with my Black peers.  I may have experienced a lot of racism from them, but at least I didn't have the feeling of racial betrayal.  We were minorities together, and that's what was important.

I'm originally from Brooklyn, NY, a much more racially diverse place than Roswell/Alpharetta, GA (note: There's still plenty of racism in Brooklyn, I'll get into that later).  When I lived in New York City recently and finally got to experience Brooklyn as an older person, I would sometimes fantasize about what my life would have been like if my family never moved to Georgia.  I'm not sure if my artistic side would have ever been even triggered.  While it is enticing to think that I could of had a "normal life," I'm glad I don't.  I prefer to be different.  I have the racist environment I grew up in to be thankful for turning me into an observer and a creator.  I do not suppress those unique instincts and thoughts that I feel most people run from because "it's not normal."  I indulge in the unusual side of my brain.  And it has led to an extraordinatry life.   When you're told you're different from an early age, it becomes an accepted factor of your life.  And I am forever grateful that those racists told me that I was different. :)

"Cold Eye" cover

I wanted to learn this song when I got home from the Doctor and found out I was Free of S.T.D's

I was like Hell ya. I also thought a lot that day.

My Memories, Age 0-3

-I was trying to feed a duck a bit of bread. The duck bit me. I was alarmed, but my Grandad assured me I was okay, for the duck had no teeth.

-I shit my pants and farted loudly at a party my parents were hosting. The judgmental adults all laughed at my expense. I retorted "It's Natural!"

-There was this kid in my apartment complex that only had one hand. His stub looked like the end of a hot dog. I was quite impressed when he set a little toy airplane atop his stub and simulated flying as he made a propeller noise. I concluded that he could play with the best of them.

-There was this one Walrus i was afraid of in one of my ZooBooks. I skipped that page, but not that magazine, I enjoyed the rest of the content.

-My mom corrected me that the "E" in "JOE" had only three horizontal lines, and not four. I liked it better my way, but conceded to the experts.

-My older friend Ryan (5), had more GI Joes than me. One day I will be old, and have a similar number of GI Joes.

-My Dad commented on my sitting position, "My knees would break if I sat like that." It was that position where each of your legs are bent, and resting on each side, toes out. Its almost impossible to do now. I replied "It's called 'The Eagle'." Because the legs looked like wings kind of.

-Adults were strange, always smelled funny, some good, some bad, and generally "didn't get it."

Everything is Funny - Beginnings

The stars were aligning in my small and naive universe. I had spent my ninth grade year shamelessly laying the groundwork for a tenth grade spent not on the fringe, but in the mix. To this point, I had carved out a noble existence as a big-for-my-age, guitar-playing quiet guy who might have some funny things to say if you pulled it out of him. I had fingered a girl or two. I would soon have my own car. By most accounts, I had all the life stats in place to continue down that well-paved path and achieve Alpharetta enlightenment; safety, security, and a golf membership. I took to the path willingly, for in the gayness of my 9^th grade ego, all I wanted was to move forward, upward, to what I thought was better.

I didn’t know it then, but my greatest hurdle to breaking through to all that I would later discover was “giving a fuck”. I had plenty of fucks to give at this point, a surplus of ego, and I subconsciously searched my small landscape for ways to portray myself in a positive light. Among these self promotions was football. I genuinely liked the sport, but my motivation for joining came more from wearing my jersey through the halls on Thursdays than excelling at the game. Football and expanding one’s mind do not often go together, but the sport can lead to wonderful things when combined with my second favorite sport: observing and making fun of people.

There was no environment richer for a budding maker of fun than football practice. There were more awks, man-childs, meatheads, and overzealous ROTC kids per capita here than anywhere else in my world. It was as if the sport attracted colorful outliers for my amusement. Despite my aforementioned ego surplus, I had always had an exceptional ability and strange interest in watching and imitating people. Perhaps being so ever-conscious of myself allowed me to clearly see the ways that other people dealt with the world. It should also be noted that I have never felt badly for this talent. It’s called “making fun” because fun is made where there was none before. This is always a positive thing. I’m the first to appreciate when fun is made at my “expense”. There was plenty of fun to be made at practice and I looked forward to it each day, though my audience for such shenanigans usually consisted only of Goldberg, an aspiring in-crowd disciple in his own right; and he only laughed because he was waiting for bigger things to come along.

Boz farted his way into my world in the midst of a long summer practice, as the team’s leaders led us in a very focused and serious stretching routine. Some of the more daring on the team had broken formation and risked running laps to relocate and scoot their pads over towards Boz, as he was about to perform his famous sideshow. With his feet over his head for a particular back stretch, Boz could intake a pint or so of summer air into his ass with a sudden rushing sound, then blow it all out in what amounted to a “10” of a fart, consistently and repeatedly. As one can imagine, for some on the team, this was the greatest thing they had ever seen or heard. I happened to be stretching nearby, and noticed the concentration on Boz’s face as he worked hard to please his audience. Throughout practice that day, I took note of Boz’s uncanny skills in the arts of making fun.

Boz was another great observer of men, and it was impressive to watch him work. Everything must be done subtly at football practice as the environment is not friendly to boisterous discussion. Boz was brazen enough to use the long, afternoon shadows in combination with his forearm to produce a shadow penis that he could use to subtly hump unknowing players and coaches for the amusement of anyone standing behind them. He had a prominent brow ridge that provided an array of funny imitative faces to work with, a naturally funny walk, and a low, distinctive voice that always registered just below the ears of whoever he was talking about. This allowed for a pointed analysis of our coach’s inhuman posture or for quiet imitations of Shep, our valiant senior captain, angrily pleading for us to pay attention and learn our position. Boz did learn his position well enough however, and developed a reputation as a punishing, hard-hitting linebacker. This was partly due to his expanded mind, with which I am actually referring to the many cubic centimeters of mind that filled his very large cranium. Boz would use this wrecking ball atop his shoulders to hit opponents with total disregard for himself. As it turned out, my cranium was also large enough to be noticed by the older kids on the team. This put us in immediate company as the big-headed kids and fun was made on our behalf. Unfortunately for Boz, his big-headedness and years of throwing himself at people with Cro-Magnon invincibility would weaken his neck and force his early retirement from football, creating his next chapter as one of the leaders of a movement.

Boz was funny and all, but as I mentioned, I gave too many fucks at the time to share the social ballot with a fringe third-party candidate like Boz. Besides, Boz already had a running mate, the quiet maniac known as Benjamin Busby. I didn’t know much about Busby, but I had heard he was crazy. In middle school, he was the kid who was a little too serious and too interested in covert military operations for the comfort of his peers. He was intense and quiet and had heavy eyelids and a dangerous smile that suggested he was about to do something crazy. A few weeks earlier, he had shown up to first period with vodka on his breath and after a few loud laughs and untimely outbursts, he had vomited next to the teacher’s desk. In the fallout of this incident, which was well known in our grade, I would see others ask him innocent questions about this, and he would laugh loudly and flash his red eyes and Socratically turn their questions back on them, confusing them and earning his reputation as crazy. Ben’s iconic laugh was increasingly bold and robust that year as he grew away from his days of discipline as a skilled second basemen, and, like Boz, was increasing drawn by life beyond the path paved for him.

Rather than any one enlightening moment on my part, it was the absurdity of the high school social landscape that drew me, a “normal kid”, closer to these two icons of iconoclasm. As metro Atlanta transitioned from summer to fall, our sophomore class underwent a social renaissance thanks to the power of the automobile. This milestone opened up a diversity of hang-out spots unimaginable before; the power lines, Newtown Park, Emerson’s basement. Each hosted large gatherings on any given weekend, and everyone was finding their place in a newly-shuffled deck. Boz and Busby were always there and found their value quickly. Boz found he could use his Spanish to talk the Mexicans at Cub Foods into buying beer for us and Busby could drink his share and create controversy, which was his love.

Unfortunately, the quantity of new hang outs did not ensure quality. There was lameness abound. In the great driving reshuffle, we had all three landed in what would be known as Pop2, a highly defined second tier of popularity that involved some “early drivers”, b-level hot girls, and a melodramatic leader, Emerson, who was constantly enduring some epic tragedy. I had somehow found my own way into this fracas and was proudly playing chauffeur each weekend to a younger girl. We would frequent these parties and make our rounds while Ben and Boz were also at every dirt lot party and basement hangout without fail. Inevitably, being the social scientists we are, the three of us converged to discuss the amazing popular stratification that had taken place in those months. We laughed our way through a full system of Pop1, Pop2, Intermediate, and Untouchable groups and all of the ridiculous people in them. In our own interests, we managed to keep our funny little splinter cell under the radar until Emerson, leader of the Pop2, found out he was a central part of this labeling system and, being the Emerson he was, didn’t like this very much. Boz was confronted and, thinking quickly, was able to divert all of the heat onto Goldberg, who was still trying his best to find Pop1 anyway. So we maintained our precarious position as observers of all and allies to most, forming a group of like minds that in the coming years would only become crazier, always changing but always striving for the infinitely funny and real. In the hilarity of it all I found that I had given up my inane pursuits and was happy to delve in this new world.

STD before death

My actual bucket list as of now:

Poop Underwater
Sex on a Plane
Streak through business district during lunch hour
Surf
Eat Snake
Throw one of those styrofoam planes off a skyscraper
Marathon
App Trail
Build a house...

I hope to add more periodically, if you do it, you have to retain your overzeal... its tough. I tried to keep it honest, and just a little challenging.

Bucket List

For the past month and a half, Proph and I have been collaborating on a feature length screenplay, DOUG IS GOING TO DIE.  It is a comedy about a young man named Doug that finds out he has a rare form of leukemia that is incurable.  He has a few months to live.  It is a satire on the those inspirational movies that are about someone that is about to die (for example, THE BUCKET LIST or THE LAST HOLIDAY starring Queen Latifah).  It has a very goofy sense of humor (Think kind of like WAYNE'S WORLD).  Also, it takes place in the suburbs, so we make fun of suburban culture a lot too.  We're planning on having a first draft done in about a month.

We have a "bucket list sequence" in the film.  In it, Doug and his best friend Calvin decide to do a bucket list for him.  It's going to be a very fun montage.  Lamar and I were brainstorming to the song "Bad Kids" by the Black Lips (here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tAdG2D5fZQ).   

If you guys have any funny ideas for some funny scenes or funny little jokes to throw in the montage, throw them our way!  Even if it's just a funny situation.  Or even if it's a real one, that maybe we could make funny (for example, we have a skydiving scene that goes wrong when another make-a-wish kid is there on the same day, taking all the shine). We want to make the montage as funny and exciting as possible.  

Here is what we have so far:

- Shoplifting at the dollar store scene

- Going Christmas Caroling in the summertime

- Start a riot at the post office

- Go to a real jazz club and decide that "jazz is weird"

- Play in the ball pit at discovery zone

- Try crystal meth

Doug is Going to Die!  Yeahhh!

harglebargle

I want an ego, there i said it. I want an ego and a god complex. And I want tuberculosis just so i can give it to some proletariat housewife. Then im going to have sex with a bagel and name it the wanderer. Then me and the wanderer are going to go from downtown to downtown solving riddles in public forums and the downtowns people will quietly exclaim to each other, 'did you see that? Did you see what happened there? Him and the wanderer solved another riddle, we must tell other downtownsmen of his tales and fables lest he should arrive in other lands.'

i'll have a knapsack just to create batteries of children. I'll need them for storming warehouses. My ego is going to be huge, bigger than an apothecary's. When i say then word gum the entire world will go into a flashback involving me and a romantic liason that went poorly thus, necessitating my need (and the world's) to find and clitorily stimulate the god ego.

When i find a baby in a shopping bag i wont just throw it away, i'll give it to the ego so it becomes part of the greater me. Ill sometimes wonder if the ego was actually inside me all along. I'll be solving a riddle and the wanderer will be mesmerizing the crowd and for a brief moment, a flicker in time, a young boy in the audience will catch me in that moment where he sees a bit of doubt while i pensively glance into the pollution. He wont know what it is though. Then that boy will grow up and wonder what happened to the guy who solves riddles with a bagel. And he'll use the internets to track me down and he'll find me with the ego orb huddled in a corner of a darkened ally, gently rocking back and forth muttering the phrase, “paragraph four subsection a. actions receivable...”

and it happened that my god had no pants to hold the change so he quickly turned into lenny wilkins and coached the greatest basketball team of all time.

next week: sports

Ice Breakers

I like to get close to people very quickly. Philosophically, emotionally, body functionally.
In my last relationship it took me a few weeks to get "there."
In my current relationship, it happened on the first night.

Y'all may know, I can fart at will by sucking air into my ass and blowing it out.
Well, many females can also queef like this.
The act of farting and queefing with your new sexual partner is hilarious and a good way to build rapport.

It sounds like two alien retards trying to have a conversation, and two humans cracking up at it.

Do other people read this?

uhhhh

I'm not into fecalfelia or anything...

Me and My Money

It's just me and my money
Yeah, my money loves me

Love to show off my money
Just so everyone can see

Roll around in my money
Roll around until three

Gonna french kiss my money
Make my mouth turn green

Wanna eat my money
So I can be really healthy

I'm gonna marry my money
Give birth to a dollar tree

It's just me and my money
Yeah, my money loves me

The heterosexual nut slap game I played in the navy, performing rough sex on your girlfriend.

Two things were happening 3 years ago in my life simultaneously. The first was this never ending game of revenge played by me and my co workers onboard the USS Nimitz. We were all employed to maintain and operated Catapult 3 and 4 on board this ship and we took a certain pride in slapping each other in the nuts repeatedly. To say the least, we got really creative at injuring the other person's testicles and the more creative the funnier. The second thing that was occuring was a relationship I was having with a local civilian girl from San Diego at the time. The readers are fully aware of my reputation as a sexual person, and I think it important to mention that this girl was an extremely sexual person also. Calling her a Nympho would be an understatement. She demanded sex all the time, was eager to commit "dirty" or "trashy" sexual acts, and was always eager to try new things. She really outdid herself. She also demanded that I give it to her harder, and as I tried doing it harder I noticed there was a range of nut pain from my nuts slapping into her butt. I would do it hard but it would eventually hurt my balls and I couldn't go harder, even though she demanded me to do it harder still. It really messed with me because I wanted to satisfy her urge to be "smashed" hard, but i couldn't ignore the pain in my nuts. After returning from a 6 month deployment and an unrelenting 6 month game of slap your co-workers's balls, I was finally able to bang my girl hard. So hard, in fact, that she had to beg me not to do it "that hard" and would remove herself from my path of "smashing". So to put it blatantly, the completely heterosexual nut slapping game I participate in, with other guys, desensitized my testicles and allowed for me to satisfy my girlfriends desire for rough sex. To this day I am facinated by this reality and have done research on the Kung Fu form the Iron Groin Technique (which is claimed by many to produce incredible sexual performance results) and I now believe that it does.
Thoughts?

Part Three of Zero

Creating small worlds he paces his cell,
a meta anasthetic, this third person helps,
but step back I can not from omniscient reactor,
may I take a nap and lie my fate to the actor?
*her, whispering*

The omniscient reactor. Shake it and watch it flicker and pop. Sliced by shards of time and space.

Everything is shifting and moving

in a new pace.

Ah pull the air up and puff up the chest. Feel the bump bump bump beating by your breast.

Thump thump thump.

Speak up my creations, and deliver me grace,
Bear this burden for a moment, take control of my fate.
I see now I did nothing but eat those two stupid eggs,
but if you bear my burden, you take control of your end...

*her*

Back bearing load. When will the straw be placed? When will the bones brittle and buckle?

When will it say 'no more!'?

When the horse takes the reins and rides furiously under it's own hand pushing past the point of pain.

My lady where do you send me?
I have not listened for years...
You back breaking bitch
I am too old for fears

To the moon! To the stars! and to galaxies near and far. To the amygdala. To the feel.

Are you ready for a spin of this deadly wheel?

My lady break my back, I have no fears,
just the intense desire, to disappear,

AH! in the face of this choice I want to absolve you...
I want to know why you are doing this,
Do you understand what you undertake?

I could have squashed you like a bug,
Why would you do this?

Foolish bear. I am no bug but a snake. I like the child, enjoy playing and dancing with fire. It hypnotized and one can't truly express why. We just do.

Step on me. I'll strike at the ankle. Two hits. Down you'll go and I'll curl up under your muzzle to help you to your feet.

Oh my lovely lagoon I smile green with your feist and your blooms,

Bite if you must, as we curl and thrust,

The end is near and she lies in your womb.

Part Two of Zero

And to THE origins they went, only to find out they were merely origins,
Pancho Pattern was older than he thought as was described in the archives scribed upon lines in the sky and tracks in the mud and thoughts in the eyes.

Baffled by his own seemingly infinite journey the distraught Pancho's legs became weak.

Damn these unregistered entries, twas not til my friend, the Lagoon, shed a wave did I recognize the brevity of my self awareness.

Yellow beckoned Pancho back out of his confusion as green did her best to offer diversion, blue relaxed so gratefully present and Ed and Joe sunk their toes into the puddle of origins. And ate eggs.

Pancho coagulated. In his search for origins he found only misleading components. He could no longer flow.

The eggs were pretty good, as was the green, yellow and blue.

Ed and Joe, aloof to eternity. Only the creations of Pancho they knew.

With limited resources and seemingly infinite time they began to piece together the fossils of the Patterns creation.
Joe would collect footprints and scrawls and tales that told all but all seemed somewhat limited to the theme of describing allself.

What a selfish Artist, this Pattern, thought Joe to myself.

Meanwhile Ed chased blue yellow and green and found the faster he became, the more he was deceived, as they juked and jived and hid behind split apart and put orange and beige into mind... E d be ga n t o d iss and stop. Wait. Orange. Blue. Where's Joe?

"It's all about itself!" Yelled Joe into the ether... still black from his perspective.

"I am in orange! what's all about itself?" said Ed.

J - "The Pattern, it seems to have created itself"
E - "I dont give a fuck, and I dont think yellow gives a fuck, much less orange"
J - What about all these piles of artifacts?
E - "Just get up here, its weird"

Joe had already committed himself to the pattern just as the pattern had committed itself to him. He looked for Ed in the blue, who sat ever so patiently waiting for you.

Ed had no choice but to explode so as to liberate his vision from one frame of the spectrum.

Joe's artifacts became illuminated with hues.

At his disposal was a relative infinitum of colors, accompanied by vibrations, sounds and waves and ideas that spawned from the factors perceived.

His palace was a plague of expansion.

He soon realized he was alone in the factors perceived.

The dry, cold, dark, where am I?

Why am I still here?
---------- pauses for a relative eternity ------------

As the sad music plays, to its evocations Im enslaved,
Why place the twinkle if its intention is to fade?

A new part comes alive and joins in the sorrow,
and momentum ensues to a rhyme with tomorrow,

Why have you forced me to dance? I am a trillion thousand years old,
too old for romance.

Why in this fatigue I suffer, but still let out a smirk?
We could just go to sleep if we weren't always at work...

Part One of Zero

Out of the chaotically fateful barrio squirmed the resiliently squirmy Pancho Pattern. Pancho Pattern's will was not willful but rather innate based on his inability to relate to the chaos of his barrio. As much as Pancho Pattern felt fatigue and dreamed of returning to the mucky static from which he was spawned, he could not, his sentience seemed to have a rhythmic and predictable effect on the muck. The more he tried, the bigger his world became.

Footprints left behind, loops of reference left in mind,

"Who created me?" Pancho Pattern would ask himself, "Why must I walk this barrio in solitude?"

Kicking the mud, creating veins to flood, the muck seemed for a moment to cooperate,
In this moment, he was not alone, a new sentient system seemed to have its own fate!

This lagoon of factors pulsated and flowed, Pancho Pattern now had a friend.
They communicated in forms of hot and cold, fantasizing about a means to an end.

Swimming one day, discussing slow chills, Lagoon expressed gratitude for Pancho Patterns creation.
To which Pancho Pattern imagined a time before he could imagine and pondered the fingers that made him.
Were they graceful, obtuse, dark, light, or hot? Where was it now, why could he see it not?

At some point in Pancho Pattern's history, his horizon lied at his toes...
Now he looked up and realized the vastness and depth, to this distance now his toes must go.

In exuberance he rattled and the Lagoon ebbed and flowed, and as a favor to Pancho, he made these Eds and Joes.

Ah, in these factors, with a perception direction, might I make breakfast of eggs and toast?
The horizon illuminated in a bright new tint of perspective, now we see green blue and yellow.

May the heat of the color dry out this mud so that I may travel at a faster speed!

To the origins we go as we create the unknown Eds Joes eggs toast blue yellow and green!

gorsch

seeing as i have no inclination towards maintaining a readily accessible stream of conscious thought (comma) blatant disregard for decency. for seven years the underwriters for national public radio, or npr as you call it, have seen to it that the words slippery and fecund are only allowed to be spoken on air in conjunction with statements involving randolph scott, johnny winters, and/or the ubiquitous john d. and kathryn t. macarthur foundation. what does this mean you may ask yourselves, why would you toss such a political hot potato upon our already heaping plates of corn mash, smelling salts, wellsly brand ham nuggets (wellsly brand ham nuggets does not endorse nor authorize wellsly brand ham nuggets for human consumption; ham nuggets to be used only as directed; apply to skin to remove vericose veins, gangrene, healthy skin; remember if you've got to eat, eat ham, wellsly ham) wallabies and space lab?

Statement 4 reads:
Do not answer the question.

next week, sports

Boz's Directorial Debut

Coin's Anatomy

This is the first triptych I've ever done. I didn't even know what a triptych was, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triptych) until one of my coworkers suggested that I turn the two pictures I had done into a series of three.

The first picture was this guy with the coins for eyes, and I drew it because when I inherited my desk from the previous owner they left this big bag of coins. I was looking at those and at the scratch pad I had on my desk and I just started playing around tracing the quarters. Then I thought I might be able to draw the buffalo on the back of the quarters well enough to pass for an actual life-size drawing of a quarter.

I think the thought came to me because I'd be talking a lot about the word buffalo with a co-worker, how, "Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo." Is a grammatically correct english sentence that means something like Bison from Buffalo, New York, who are intimidated by other bison in their community also happen to intimidate other bison in their community.

I have also been trying to draw things that look like the things they are supposed to be lately, what I mean by that is, I've been trying to draw better. Anyhow after the first quarter was done I thought I'd make a face out of the whole thing.

The paper I was using was a re-used scratch pad made out of old scripts from the show I work on. If you didn't know, TV shows do a ton of revisions on scripts as they go from the initial drafts all the way through production and each new draft or set of revised pages is printed on a different colored paper so that at a glance you can see what draft you have. The script writing is on the back of each of these pictures so it adds another layer of "art," for the discerning viewer like a picture of George Washington with a piece of the constitution on the back of the canvas.

I won't name the show I work on for fear of violating the non-disclosure agreement I signed but based on the name they stamped on the scratch pad I bet you can figure it out. For my purposes the show name seemed to lend itself to the theme of the triptych I had started...ANATOMY...more specifically, the anatomy of the coins that had inspired the project in the first place.

So you can see how the other two pictures came about rather quickly after I had figured out the form and tone of the project. I do this stuff a lot at work when I have down time, I like to draw pictures from the materials at hand and this is pretty much the pinnacle of that methodology for me. There seem to be two categories of people when you show them something like this, they either say, "Wow somebody has too much free time on their hands," or "Neat." What was your first thought?

Note to Contributors

Dear fellow ANR Minds,

I hope this blog becomes a place for all of us to go to share things and be inspired by one another. Even if not a single person outside of the ANR reads it, let's write and read it for each other. Feel free to make this YOUR blog. I wouldn't want the ANR blog to be a place where you cannot feel free to express yourself.

For me, this blog means we can stay connected to each other. And I mean connected beyond an email or phone call or any traditional means. Yes, we have facebook. But (in my opinion) facebook has become a culture of its own, and it does not fulfill that AlphaNuRoswell spirit that supports and inspires me so much. I want to know more than just your status; I want to hear about your impressions on your personal experiences, your opinions on past and present events, your poetry, your funny one night stands... And now as we are growing apart, I want to stay connected so much more so we can all continue to inspire and be inspired by each other. Let us keep growing as individuals together in our very own AlphaNuRoswell Artist Community.

POST WHATEVER YOU WANT. Share stories, poems, photographs, one-liners, reflections, memories, ANYTHING! Have fun with it. It's AlphaNuRoswell -- we love you no matter what!

Love,

Weldon, aka "Brother Motivator...of creative endeavors and inspiring some other overly emo things"

Confession

Hi, I'm Joe Boswell, and I'm a Hexum. Just kidding, I'm a blogger... and an alcoholic... sometimes. I think I can speak on behalf of Weldon when I say this blog is meant to be a "team building" exersize for the non-association that is AlphaNuRoswell. No, seriously, he said that.


Anyways I look forward to seeing y'all getting better at using the INTERNET and becoming professionally self-righteous, i mean creative. So... here is a drawing I did




My Raz and I are trying to learn latin. Just cuz. We are drawing lil cartoons (started today) to show an action, and captioning it in Latin. Maybe it will work... Can you figure out what it says? Tis quite literal FYI.

Thanks for taking the time for reading this bloglet. Please add. Even if its stupid.

*Weldon didn't really say that.

*This blog is not in any way, shape, or form, affiliated with or associated with the IWBO.