Dham Drathoy

Dham Drathoy sat at the large wooden table in the center of his cooking den. He placed the dirty dishes from the morning's breakfast and placed them in the water tub to be cleaned later. Just now he had something else on his mind. He's in trouble. Today is the day he must decide what to do.

Drathoy walked into his upstairs bedroom. Above his clothing cabinet was a framed drawing of his dead wife, Syentha, Ghelfunn's mother. He carefully removed the drawing from the wall. He placed it on the small table near his wooden bed. Hiding behind the picture frame was a small metal door with a locked latching. Drathoy installed the small safespace after he purchased the house fifteen years earlier. He kept his important documents in it. At the bottom of a pile of papers Drathoy gripped a small square-shaped note:

Dham Drathoy, the noted began. Remember you owe me a great deal of Koines. Interest is getting higher by the day. You must pay your debt by the end of this week, or someone will suffer the consequences! I would hate to see your son pay for the sins of his father. Don't make me come see you in person. It won't be a friendly visit.

Drathoy folded the note and held it to his breast. What am I going to do? He closed the metal door to the safe, locked it, replaced the drawing of his wife, and stuffed the note in his vest pocket. He looked at the drawing of Syentha. Wife, he said, if this crook believes he's going to extort me, he's crazier than I give him credit for. Drathoy was being threatened by the district tax collector, to pay money he did not owe. He was not going to put up with it any longer. 

Ghelfunn and Tooloo

_{Scene 3}

Ghelfunn awoke like most mornings, with his tweedmouth goosican licking his face. The goosican was the friendliest breed in the Fifth Realm, beloved for its hunting abilities and loyalty to its owner. When born, the four-legged goosican would emotionally attach itself to whomever it first licked, in an instant. Luckily, Ghelfunn passed that test and for the last four Winters has been at Ghelfunn's side. 

"Get off me, Tooloo," Ghelfunn said with a yawn. "Silly beast. I'm awake." Ghelfunn sat up in his bed, looking tired. Tooloo looked at Ghelfunn with that soulful grin on his face that meant let's eat.

Ghelfunn's father, Dham Drathoy, found a shop in the marketplace set aside for various kinds of animals. He wanted a tweedmouth for Ghelfunns' sixth Winter Celebration, a time when a child in the Fifth Kingdom began to take on certain responsibilities. Caring for a goosican would be the first step in a long journey to manhood. At least that was Dham Drathoy's plan.

Ghelfunn dressed and walked into the cooking den. His father was making breakfast. Tooloo quickly found his bowl of mashed gruelshu, wasting no time gulping it down. The cooking den was Drathoy's favorite room in the house. He loved to cook. 

 "Sit down, son," Drathoy said. "Your breakfast is getting cold. Did you sleep well?"

"I was sleeping great when Tooloo decided to lick my face off," Ghelfunn said. "I wish I could train that tweeder to obey me. He won't listen. I say let me sleep and all he does is look at me. I know he's laughing at me." Ghelfunn took a bite of his father's bread, the best bread in the Fifth Realm according to those who were lucky enough to get a bite.

"It takes patience," Drathoy said. "You can't give up on him. He's still young for a tweedmouth. I'm patient with you, right? I will never give up on you. Training takes patience and time. He loves you. A day will come when you will be thankful Tooloo was licking your face." 

After breakfast, Ghelfunn prepared for studies. In the Fifth Realm, the young studied together in a nearby temple complex. Tooloo, of course, was never allowed inside. This irritated him greatly. On this particular morning, however, Ghelfunn was going to skip his studies and run to the market. If his father found out, then Holy Grief would ascend on him like a smothering blanket. He had to be careful.

Ghelfunn prepared for a day of study at the temple as he always did. He packed his satchel with writings and books, said good-bye to his father, then walked out the front door with Tooloo lagging behind. Drathoy said goodbye and looked at his son leaving the house, then returned to the cooking den.

Is father still looking? Is he suspicious? Ghelfunn thought. I feel so guilty. Looking at Tooloo, Ghelfunn said under his breath very quietly, "We need to hurry. I must do this. I have no choice. My life, and my father's life, is at stake."

Ghelfunn walked down the street from his house and saw his friend, Stoyvit, standing in the front garden of his house. Stoyvit and Ghelfunn had been neighbors since both were born, close friends whom often spent days playing together in the grasslands east of town. Stoyvit was bigger than Ghelfunn, had long blonde hair streaming down to the mid-waist which was typical for his family's tribe. Ghelfunn often teased Stoyvit about his height and weight, mostly because he was jealous. To be a warrior, Ghelfunn often thought, I need to be as tall and strong as Stoyvit.

Ghelfunn and Cilghor

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Ghelfunn stood his ground. No more running. If the demonlord chased him into the alley for a showdown, so be it. The dark, wet, and crusty alley floor was dirty with garbage, mostly tossed from the windows overlooking it. A pile of old shells was stuffed into one corner near the entrance, a broken gate hung loosely on its hinges creaking in the wind. The smell of rotten food filled the air. 

The rains have subsided at least, Ghelfunn thought. He didn't mind a fight in the rain, but he preferred to stay dry during a fight. The battle with this demonlord was going to be tough enough. He didn't need the rain adding to the mess.

Cilghor the Infected stood in front of him twenty feet away. Cilghor had been chasing Ghelfunn for days but could not catch him. As a swiftfoot from the hills, Ghelfunn ran like a deer. Cilghor was slow, like an oxbeast. Cilghor knew he must trap Ghelfunn in a place like this, in an alley with no exit. The two enemies knew each other from the Old Days when they fought on opposite sides of the Pilgrim Wars. Cilghor hated Ghelfunn's guts and wanted to spill them out and take a bite, as was the manner in which demonlords celebrated a victory. Eating a piece of one's enemy was sacred duty.

"You have decided to fight," Cilghor said. "Tired of the chase?"

"Not tired. Just bored," Ghelfunn said, stiffening his muscles. "I'm hungry, but I don't mind killing a demonlord before dinner." He offered Cilghor a smile.

"The others I killed were not smiling," Cilghor said. "They were not bored, either. They died under my gaze like slaughtered pigs."

Slowly, methodically, the demonlord raised his four arms and took an aggressive posture that Ghelfunn had seen many times. Cilghor showed fisted claws at the end of each upper arm. He was ready to punch, like a fighter entering the arena. His two lower arms were outstretched, each hand holding a blade. The knives glistened in the darkness of the alleyway from the shining lamps nearby. Ghelfunn had seen knives like this before, but usually much larger. Cilghor's blades were smaller and seemed more dangerous. Demonlords were known for their skill with the blade. Their four hands could expertly handle swords and knives of every kind. The blades were made of the finest metal.

Cilghor began to swing his lower arms, cutting the putrid air with each blade as if swatting flimens. The blades moved so fast Ghelfunn could hardly see them. A blur of steel and wood protruded from Cilghor's lower arms as his upper arms tightened and bulged with blood pouring into his large veins, making them pulsate with each heartbeat.

Ghelfunn did nothing. He stood his ground like a stone statue. The smile left his lips, but that was the only sign he was ready for a fight.

At that moment, Cilghor stepped forward quickly and began his assault. The demonlord's clinched fists targeted Ghelfunn's upper body and face. His bladed lower arms were aimed at the waist and below, hoping to critically carve a thigh tendon or perhaps slash the groin. In the old days as a soldier, Cilghor quickly overcame an enemy this way, by pounding the head, strangling the neck, stabbing the lower extremities, using his four arms to punch, grip, strangle, slash, and stab an enemy from head to toe. 

Ghelfunn knew these tactics. He was ready.

As Cilghor came forward, Ghelfunn immediately hit the ground in a slide. Using the wet surface to move smoothly and quickly like a snake, Ghelfunn slid under the demonlord's lower arms and their knives. Cilghor harmlessly slashed through the air making no contact. Cilghor's upper arms were also useless, having nothing to punch. Ghelfunn's slide took him straight through a path between Cilghor's enormous legs. Once through, now behind Chilghor, Ghelfunn swung to his feet facing the back of Cilghor's agitated body.

The entire movement took Ghelfunn seconds to execute. 

Ghelfunn quickly reached for a circlespar hanging on his belt. He had to hurry. With his right hand, Ghelfunn tossed the circlespar like an arrow tip directly at the back of Cilghor's neck. Before the demonlord could turn around and face Ghelfunn, the circlespar entered Cilghor's neck and sliced its way through the throat, completely separating the demonlord's head from his torso. Cilghor crumbled to the ground in a heap of sweaty bewilderment. Ghelfunn had moved so fast, with such confidence, Cilghor never had a chance. The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. 

The small, thin, cylindrical circlespar took a reverse path to Ghelfunn's waiting right hand. Ghelfunn placed the deadly serrated blade back on his belt. Cilghor's blood dripped from the blade staining Ghelfunn's pants.

Ghelfunn stood over the dead carcass of the demonlord Cilghor the Infected. He removed the two blades firmly gripped by Cilghor's lower hands; the tendril-like claws still wrapped around the hilts. Ghelfunn placed the blades in the small of his back beneath his cloak, snuggly using his belt to hold them in place. He smiled at his old enemy.

"Time to eat," Ghelfunn said. 

 

++++++++++++

_{The Coffee Shop}

Noname sat at a coffee shop patio table, shivering. Damn it's cold. Why does it have to be so cold? It was the wind. It would have been much warmer had the wind not blown so hard. This time of year, it was normal, so he accepted it.

The Standard Coffee Shop was like a thousand other coffee shops in LaLaLand. People standing in line, workers behind the counter running madly to keep up with the growing crowd, filthy bagel crumbs and dirty napkins littering the counter top. The place smelled like the inside of a coffee cup that had been sitting in the sun all day. When Noname purchased his large cup of coffee he thought about leaving. This place is a dump, he thought. Instead he took his coffee and found an empty table outside on the patio.

Noname needed to work. He was by nature lazy, but a writer must work no matter how much he wanted to be somewhere else. Words had to hit the page consistently no matter what, day in and day out, or the bills would remain unpaid. He had no choice; he had to write at least five hundred words or feel like more of failure than he already felt. Writing kept him sane. 

His novel had no title. In fact, it had no setting or plotting or even a good character. Not yet. Noname's favorite professor, Dr. Asswipe Numbnuts, taught him to begin a story with either a strong character or an interesting setting. From these starting points, a plot would emerge like a string of vines growing on a brick wall. Dr. Numbnuts knew how to write, Noname was sure. The professor was popular among his students and was respected for having written fifty-four novels over a span of thirty years. Dr. Numbnuts was tall, lanky, had huge hands and liked to play the banjo. Yes. The banjo. When Noname visited the professor's home recently he had seen an expensive looking banjo in the corner of the living room. Ivory frets decorated the finger board, walnut being shined to a high brilliance. The well-worn drum head showed grease and dirt from the constant strumming of the professor's right hand as he finger-picked the five strings that were tightly stretched along the length of the instrument. For a banjo, it was beautiful. Was it possible for a banjo to be beautiful?

Five hundred words. Noname was stuck. He stared at the computer screen waiting for something, maybe a word to magically type itself into the manuscript from an unseen hand. He drank some coffee. It was getting cold now, too. I'll start with a setting, he thought. I'm at a coffee shop, so why not write about the coffee shop? I need to write five hundred words. That's all for today. Just five hundred words.

Noname began to write, forcing his hands to hover above the keyboard. He waited. Soon his fingers began to tap the keys and words began to fill the page. Suddenly he glimpsed downward toward the word count on his manuscript. Five hundred and twenty seven words. 

 

The Bunker is a Mess

As I look around the Bunker all I see is a big mess. Boxes piled up in the corner with cobwebs, paint brushes stuck in jars, tubes of oil paint stuck to the shelf because they like to leak, paintings still hanging on the walls undisturbed by months of apathy, trash everywhere.

I hate moving.

The Bunker is my studio in Marin County. It's the size of a one-car garage, finished out nicely by the owner who originally wanted to lease it out as office space. A narrow staircase leads to a basement I use mostly as storage space. It is amazing how much junk a person can collect. I had no idea moving the contents of the Bunker was going to be such a hassle. 

The idea of moving is never fun. It is well known that relocation is a top-three stresser for people, right along with death and taxes. So I know it's going to be a major headache.  

The junk is piling up. I hate moving.

The only saving grace behind a move is that it provides an opportunity to fill up a dumpster with unwanted junk. That tennis ball I saw in the parking lot, which I thought at the time would be a nice desk ornament, goes to the dumpster. The used artist stool, en plein air easel, and ugly second-hand frames are being tossed. The dozen large burlap coffee bean bags I collected from the coffee shop I will keep; they are like works of art, after all. I try to keep in check my tendency to collect junk. It's clearly not working. 

To make the move easier I rented a small storage unit. Storage facilities are creepy. When you visit, it's like entering a mausoleum. Cool, quiet, calm, eerie. We all collect junk we will never use. I think most people are hoarders. They don't admit it. Like me, they hate moving, too. Storage units are junk magnets. 

I'm glad I have the time. Moving is hell when you are under the pressure of having to meet a deadline. I have a three week window to get things done. Time is on my side for a change, if I don't waste it. Tomorrow I'll make another run to the storage unit and hope I have room for that old soccer ball I found while walking a trail in the foothills of Mount Tamalpais.

Seven Things I Learned From My Battle with a Hornets Nest

I spent three days with a hornets nest this week.  Here are seven things I have learned.

1.  Be prepared before going into battle.

Just above my doorway, behind a porch light, in the small hole leading into the netherworld between the exterior siding and the wall boards, I hear them. Buzzing. Thousands of hornets are building a condo inside the wall near my front door. I can hear them moving in. They began attacking me a few days ago as I left the house, swarming around my head. I hate snotty neighbors.

The field of battle. Persistence paid off and I survived.

I knew a fierce battle was about to begin.  I had a can of spider spray I used recently to kill a black creepy crawly thingy in my basement.  I used the remaining spray on this new threat, but evidently spider poison is like dessert to hornets. The buzzing continued. I was pissed. Be warned, spider spray will not kill hornets.

2.  He who hesitates may get stung.

I made a trip to the store and purchased a spray can of RAID hornets and wasps poison. "That will kill the little bastards!" Returning to the field of battle I began to spray the buggers, but forgot to twist off the safety nozzle. Nothing happened. As I hesitated, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong, they attacked! I ran inside the house, slamming the door, cussing my pathetic show of force.

3.  Strength in numbers does not guarantee success.

After twisting off the safety nozzle, I practiced a shot of spray by taking target at the trash can. Yes, it's working now! I'm ready to go back on the offensive. They have me outnumbered but my secret weapon, a spray can full of poison will take them out. You may have more men at your disposal, but I have the fire power.

4.  Watch your ass when fleeing the scene.

Satisfied I was winning the battle, if not the war, I turned to leave. A soldier hornet assassin decided to take revenge on me and targeted my left ear. I slapped the little buzzer but it got away. "Get the hell out of my ear you little fuckterd!"

5.  Spies may live among us.

I won a massive and decisive battle, killing most of the invaders. However, to clinch the victory my plan was to caulk up the hole and seams of the exterior siding, effectively closing off any remaining hornets cowardly hiding behind the wall. It wasn't easy. I had caulk all over the wall and my clothes. I went inside the house to clean up. A very angry hornet followed me in, taking a seat on the rim of my trash can. Die, sucker! "Say hello to my little friend," I said, as I sprayed the hornet with what seemed to be a gallon of wasp poison.

6.  Size doesn't matter.

Bees, hornets, wasps, flies, mesquitoes. I hate them all. They can do a lot of damage. How can things so small cause such problems? I'm not worried about the large dangers in life, like getting hit by a bus or struck by lightening. I'm concerned about the smallest of things. A cancer cell can be really scary. Hornets can all die a painful death, as far as I'm concerned.

7.  Persistence wins battles.

I'm reminded once again that persistence is the key to overcoming most problems. Giving up should never be an option. Also, remember spider spray is only for spiders.

The Idea of Time: How Do You Perceive Time When Looking at Art?

I came across an interview with Christian Boltanski the other day. Boltanski is a French sculptor, photographer, painter and film maker, most well known for his photography installations and contemporary conceptual style. He brought up the concept of time, and it’s influence on art.

“Being a painter means speaking with visual things. But it’s also interesting to note the difference between filmmaking and painting. The question of time is the thing here. When you watch a video piece (or painting) you can stand there for two seconds or two hours—there’s no beginning or end and you can move around while you’re doing it. When you see a film, on the other hand, you sit there watching it from beginning to end. In films, novels, and music there is always this issue of time; when you’re looking at a static image, there isn’t that progression.” 

The idea of time. It raises questions. Film has a beginning and end. Painting does not. I might stand before a painting and study it for an hour, or walk past it after a few seconds. Reading a novel, though, requires an investment in time. Watching a film takes time, too. Films, music and novels have a beginning, middle, and end. The dramatic structure is based on Three Acts, with an arc of movement that progresses over time. A painting is different. It just exists in its own space and time, without past or future. It just is, hanging there on the wall. How does our perception of time influence the way we perceive art? Has the perception of time, the way people use their time and perceive it, changed since the rise of the Internet? How has it changed? Are people less patient?

The study of time in the sciences is continuing. Research is underway to study how we perceive time. The use of language is important. Studies have shown that the words we use, the language we speak, influences how we perceive time. (It could also be the other way around, the perception of time in certain cultures is reflected in their language.) Different languages frame time differently. Swedish and English speakers, for example, tend to think of time in terms of distance—what a long day, we say. Time becomes an expanse one has to traverse. Spanish and Greek speakers, on the other hand, tend to think of time in terms of volume—what a full day, they exclaim. Time becomes a container to be filled. These linguistic differences, according to a recently published study in the Journal of Experimental Psychology: General, actually affect our perception of time’s passage.

I’m interested in how time is experienced in the observation of a painting. Studies suggests that our perception of time is based in memory (Thank you, St. Augustine. Augustine postulated that when we measure the duration of an event or interval of time, it is in the memory.) The assumption is that we measure time by remembering what just occurred, providing a reference for what is happening in the present. “How long have I been staring at this painting? About five minutes? I remember when I first started looking at it. I am now still looking at it. I think it has been about five minutes.”

 All of this makes my head hurt, but it also makes me think: some paintings grab my attention in an instant and won’t let me go. I have to keep staring at them. Conversely, some paintings fail to make an impression on me and I keep walking, never giving them another thought. “Not wasting my time looking at that!” On Instagram and Facebook, this becomes even more profound.
As I’m scanning paintings online, which ones make me stop?

 This brings me to the Internet, and how images of art are perceived online. What images make an impact and stop a viewer in their tracks? What images fail to register at all and barely get a glimpse? Is art perceived differently online than in a gallery or museum? Let’s assume a certain painting in a gallery immediately impacts a viewer and makes them stop cold, forcing them to take a longer look. Post that same painting on Facebook. Does it have the same impact on viewers? How important is context, the venue, the set up, of the art?

I assume people walking into a gallery or museum spend more time looking at art, than they spend time scanning images on Instagram. Perhaps in a gallery, your painting has 1 to 3 seconds to get someone's attention. On Instagram, you have tenths of a second, maybe less. We need more research in this area. As visual artists, we need to know the best way to display our work online, and in the gallery, in order for our paintings to have the impact we desire. Time is of the essence. When viewers online scan thousands of images per second, how do we get their attention?

I also wonder what role memory has in the perception of art, and how it impacts the amount of time a viewer looks at a piece of art.