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Khari Thompson
Mr. Craddock
Writing Across Cultures
16 January 2012
Reflecting on Hard Things/Changes
This marking period has been a toughie. College stuff unfinished and desperately
needing to be finished, midterms to study for, work, obligations, homework. Ive had to make
some sacrifices for the sake of time, and not having enough of it. Mainly my writing portfolio is
not bulky in the least, and Ive had to skimp on some physics assignments (cant say Im too
upset about that).
Honestly, my hearts not in it these days. My plate feels so full that dedicating large
amounts of brain processes to the creation of stories seems tedious and out of my line of sight. I
dont feel much like a writer, as I hone my portfolio for presentation to my art schools, and I think
Im feeling the weight of that statement. My brain has been largely geared towards illustration,
forms, lines, colors, and the concise statement of ideas and representation of characters. Its
tough to put it on a totally different creative track, dealing with plot, dialogue, thoughts,
emotions, development. Its interesting, throughout the years I feel like Ive been sort of driving
through to this point of creative minimalism, where the things I write I want to be half a page
long.
But this isnt to say that I havent had ideas of things to write. After finishing 100 Years of
Solitude, I can sense the cycles in my life, the archetypes, the way things work. Id love to write
a story similar in style but it feels so far out of my grasp right now. I feel like my command over
the English language and its conventions in regards to storytelling, and even poetry, have
dwindled over the years. I started trying to write a story about what Ive mentioned, but I couldnt
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find the proper voice. The proper connections from thought to thought. Its like those elusive
powers of language take an even greater leap to elude me. and its pretty frustrating. I know
with practice comes everything, but honestly, I dont think Im going to end up in any careers
writing stories.
Now, for my actual reflection. Im including two stories and a bunch of drawings, just to
show you what Im working on. The first story, On Not Existing; The Cloud Pepole of the
Andean Region was really really tough for me to write. The essay basically starts off and ends
how I feel--non-existence seems so much better than existence. I feel like non-existing would be
fantastic, and I look at us humans and all the crap we constantly create and really wish I could
build a device to do the opposite of make things, to create voids wherein everythings natural
and unchanging. Originally the story was going to be about this technology, but it was
impossibly for me to do it. Like I wrote, a story was very difficult for me to pull off. An essay was
easier.
The end of it kind of came out of nowhere, as I was trying to make it make sense to
someone who wasnt me. I thought it was nicely ironic, kind of giving a different light to this
whole global warming business. The speaker of the story was perhaps the orchestrator of it,
trying to bring about the extinction of the human race.
The other story I wrote was something that I started a while ago, based onA Clockwork
Orange, but didnt finish, and still havent finished. Im very fond of dystopian novels, and I
thought itd be fun to write one of my own. The voice comes almost directly from Alex in the
movie, so dont be surprised if the whole thing sounds kind of overly familiar.
The drawings Im including to show you some examples of what Im working on for my
portfolio. Ive also got some animation ideas that, given time, I wouldve at least storyboarded. In
fact, Im including an example of an unfinished script Im writing for one (Sometimes, Spirits
Go) and a clip of the animation that sprung that.
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On Not Existing; The Cloud People of the Andean Region
I wanted to write a story about the cloud people of South America, who dont exist. I
wanted to write a story about them because Im thoroughly intrigued by the idea of not existing,and I wonder how they accomplished it. The only way to do that would be through a story, since
theres no tomes or history books detailing them, and Im not all that great at stories. So Ill write
a essay on the cloud people, and explore their non-existence.The cloud people are a secluded people in the South American mountains. No one knows
which, particularly, only that the air surrounding them is large and as heavy as a bear and as
warm as its fur. An explorer, Dr. R. Harvey, details in his bookOn Mountains and Walking
Them his search for this particular mountain range, using a number of wonderful contraptions(like the walking four-fingered hitch trap) to feel the air. His writing becomes rather
unintelligible after the 600th page, though not due to any damage to his sanity. His writing
becomes less attached to this world, pressed into the pages and translucent, which makes it seem
that they might be those extremely valuable clauses heralding the discovery of the heavymountains. Of course, well never know, as rumor has it that he faded away.
Not much is known about their society, other than whats been observed by airplanepilots. The occasional pilot who has been able to see the cloud people on their high terrace
observe that theres nothing there. Theres a winding path to the summit of the mountain (which
the pilots admit is guesswork, since they say the atmosphere about the mountain has the
consistency of very thick syrup), thick with columns and hanging terraces and beautiful towersand proud obelisks. They claim that theyve seen things from every culture; Lamassu from
Sumeria, smaller versions of the Louvre and the MOMA, images of the Buddha, great
greenhouses the size of the Colosseum. Each pilot reports something new and special andProfessor R. Harvey, an expert on the cloud people, makes sure to chronicle the sightings in his
twenty-one hundred paged ledger. He purports that the fact that there are so many sightings, and
many of them overlapping, reveals that this society of cloud people must be so advanced, sowonderfully detached from our time and its development, that theyre able to pick and choose
and era, and utilize it as they please. The evidence is all in the book, he says, and if it were to be
wrong then it would mean that all of science is wrong, and that the basic laws of physics need tobe rethought. Its currently on display at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History.
The actual people, however--who are they? Well, excavator Rod Harley, upon trying to
clear the mountains of their tops to mine a new vein of pig hearts, says he had the experience of
meeting a young woman from the tribe. He calls her Holly-Susan, because the first time he sawher thats what she looked like to him. Later, his colleagues would debunk his theory, testifying
that she was actually Patricia-Jackson, or Campman, or, not a girl, but a seven foot tall bear.
Confusion abounds on this point, but the real interesting meat comes from Mr. Harleys accountof his time with her. He said it spanned about seven years, in all, and that he stood in the same
place the whole time. Originally, when he was surveying the mountain, she managed to sneak up
behind him and tack him on to what he describes as realitys weird mine cart and drag him upthe mountain with her. They entered the village and Mr. Harley saw nothing but shit sticks and
poor people. He was disgusted, immediately, and stormed back down the mountain. This is the
part, he says, where he got stuck for seven years. It was like walking through molasses, and the
girl just stood by him the whole time, not existing. Everything was kinda shimmery, kinda
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weird he said. Most of the scientific community doesnt accept his testimonial, but his account
has given a you get what you see, reputation for the cloud people on the heavy mountain.
Now, what Im most interested in is how exactly it is that they dont exist. Its simpleenough to speculate and study the fact that they dont exist, but to know how it is that they seem
to rise above this earth and relinquish the bonds of existence is where science should really be
going. My hypothesis is simple. They were most likely born into families of four by ancient birdswho then left them, muddling their gene pool and severing any kind of ancestral grounding these
people were to have. Of course, this explains why theyre on a heavy mountain. To stop their
wings from growing, the birds came back over decades with sweet honey and bits of bear fur andregurgitated them all over the mountain, until the air was thick as molasses. This soldered them
to the land, ensuring that theyd either sink in or suffocate, a better alternative to flying to and fro
like their forebears and creating more children (although their forebears, most likely Argentavis
Magnificens [or, the Thunderbird], were all eroded into tiny particles of space dust).Further, I postulate that these people, like Rod Harley illustrated, are a people connected
to the very threads of reality, riding along its mine cart, if you will. According to Mr. R.
Harveys bookVibrating Against Reality, its possible for one to fade away into the world by
involving oneself in it so aptly, with such a hunger, that one looses oneself in the heat of it all.Optimal conditions are warmth, inner coldness, longing, forlorn spirits, etc., all of which sound
like they apply perfectly to the situation of the cloud people, the bastards on top of a heavymountain.
Im jealous. This has been an objective essay, but I cant help adding my personal
sentiments to this. Im very jealous of the cloud people, Im very interested in not existing. It
seems so surreal and natural to not exist. Feeling myself fall against the fabric of clouds and skyis something that lights up my world at night, before I go to bed. Would I be trapped in an eternal
negative? I wonder what that realm would feel like.
Im also tired of existing. Life is heavy, and I myself am part of the problem, along witheveryone on this planet. Unfortunately, we have no huge teratorn to trap us where we are and
force us to lose our hands scraping against a hard, sweet substance, until theyre not nubs but
nothing. This is why I propose we begin warming the earth, and filling the air with pollutants.We cant go to space, and underwater is a very difficult place to populate. Therefore wed be
stuck. With enough carbon dioxide in the air we could trap the sun here, and use it to solidify
those pollutants into a huge covering, a blanket of desperation and beauty. With that, wed clawto escape, feel around the earth, trying to find a bit of loose thread in the cosmic array, and our
senses would become so acute that theyd get larger and larger until they were the things that
theyre sensing. It would be the most spiritual, beautiful, and not to mention beneficial thing for
the planet. Wed be peacefully gone into one another and everything else, without thoroughlyharming the earth (which itself has cycles, and can do away with any man-made issues within a
few centuries).
Though the cloud people are the resident authorities on not existing, there is no reasonwhy science cant catch up to these ancient wonders. We can break through the barrier of our
world and become one with the various fabrics and natural laws of all that we see here. Perhaps
one day, when extraterrestrials descend, they will see us as Rod Harley saw the cloud people,except instead theyll see reflected a beautiful model society wherein everyone lives in peace.
Perhaps theyll take this earthbound discovery with them and free it across the universe,
becoming the Thunderbirds of the cosmos until all living creatures cease to exist.
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Valentines Day
Dear diary. They call me Fella, and I do believe that I am wholly satisfied with my life.Every day I go to work at a nice, easy job, working at being a law-ist, with right and proper co-
wies, and on the usual day, straight from there I visit the darkness-- a "very" prominent scare-fest
with a delightful atmosphere; a delightful atmosphere and "very" radiant staffing. At nights I amaccompanied by a lovely lady with the name My Miss-- a lady long since taken from public
domain and plopped, quite nicely, into a grand empty house with an almost impressive number
of exotic shiny and new collars. I believe you would like it, my dear Diary, if you were likewisea fine lady. Our domestic life is "quite" nice, and she is "quite" content as well. We have a rotor-
motor, and an automatic shutter-cleaner. Quite nice, easy living, indeed.
The reason why I do turn to you at this time, my Diary, is because, as it happens, mycontentment and well-being is well at risk of being so sadly and viciously ripped to unfortunate
shreds that I myself may fall to pieces. Yes, my Diary, this little life of contentment and possible
perfection that I lead is quite nearly, and might I add not-of-the-humanly, threatened, what
with this being My Miss and Is four set ani-verse. At this do I have nothing but complete terror;I practically broke the relations in two when I fraught the thing up! and Im sure, my Diary, that
deep beneath your bindings and green-slate pages is a dreaded and gut-wrenching sick-feeling
for my future, and O what a powerfully painful resentment and truly empathetic sorrow you havefor my circumstances! I have to thank you for your concern, my Diary; this amount of human
emotion is the exact reason Ive come to you for asylum and shelter. You, my Diary, have been
charged with the great toll of seeing me through this vancing valentines day.
Oh but not to bring our spirits down too far (or, at least, to lift them up a tart higher sothat they have more room to fall), I think I shall give you a teasey-jab into just how perfect my
life is. As follows, my Diary, is my schedule as it runs, on, say, a sparkled, brilliantly tin-
kestreled and ringy-ding day, from beginningtimes to the end:In the morningtimes I go to the speakers, to work at being a law-ist, with my co-wies.
Times are good, times are nice. If youre wondering, as you are an infant, my sweet sweet Diary,
what a law-ist does, I think I shall be as good as a loving parent to tell you. What a law-ist is, my
dear, is a man who sits at a desk and reads aloud from the large book as its printed. You must
know what the large book is, its infamous in our community, from westerly to easterly, and its
me and my co-wies own jobs to read the laws as theyre printed across its pages. Its an honor,
but more is it a leisure, as me and my co-wies (or budbuds, as I most usually like to callthem), play very vorastrovous games and pranks on our fellow budbuds. Why, just last set,
while at the speakers, my budbud Smalls was sitting on one of the jelly-making good-seats,
swinging fullways backways and fullways frontways with the inability of falling, and all of us?
we were made very jelly indeed. Now, Smalls is not as the brightest of chops, and we call him
Smalls as so for his assumed very small mingly-centre And so, my budbud Larkstry (an odd
name, yes, but he is Parish, the thing cant be helped) decided to get the great roman that we use
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to slice our food for the lunches, and place it behind the swinging (and unsuspecting) Smalls, for
some nice old rev-enge. We all, the knowing budbuds and me, sniggered a fal-goofed, and made
eye-contact with one and the other, and watched with great mirthies as Smalls went up! and then,
with our mouths a-gape, and our hearts a-whole, he went down again, mistaking dumbly our
obvious devi-evi pleasure for happiness and jelly in his laughable galumphing around, and
unsuspectingly, he leaned back right onto and into the great roman! Oh Diary, at this we lost it!
How we laughed and laughed, each of us in our caddersnackers and yellow and blue over-coats,
with our stomachs near to falling off. We had the small things in our eyes that drip. drop. and
Smalls loud wails and shouts Fella o Larkstry o any a me good co-wies, help ur brother!
and his loud rattling gasps, and oh the blood! oh the blood!-- these things made us laugh all the
harder and all the harder! oh and we could not hear him, Diary, we could not hear him moan. But
the large book started a-reeling once again, and we gathered up our composure, and we set to
work again.
What it is that we do, my Diary, is read from the large book directly into the speakers, for
the people to hear. You see, the batons are nowhere around during the morningtimes, usually tilthe nights, and the people do surely all need to know about their ever-changing laws, you see, in
order that they not break them, due solely to the movements of their own volitions. This is how
we here in ogrdens set order to our things, my Diary, and for the most part, it works so very well.
It is a beautiful process, really, such that our booms trigger such avid discipleship, such hemmingbuzzes and right-worthies to the king! Yes, my dear, it is beautiful, and O how I love it, my job,
so so so! But thats not to say that there exist not times when the laws are, indeed, halved and
quartered by our, usually, most beautiful and mallow-fallow people, but of course, my dear, ofcourse-- this is not often. Or so it is this that I think, since from mass-tongue only I have heard it
said so; I would be wary, however, of what Ive told you, my dear Diary, since it is quite true
that most all the people I associate with do... in fact... work in the very same source-government light-tower as myself... and it is true, also... that most accompany me to the
darkness... or otherwise... and return to their nice ladys in the nights, or otherwise lurk about the
statues... waiting for a personality to awake and meet them... Come fraught it up, Im not all thesure that anyone lurks outdoors. Never have I thought of this. Never at all. Im very sure, never
at all.
Do hold on, diary. Let me turn my music-box.
Against-likeways, all that is arbitrary, my Diary, and I do not plan to dwindle on it and
bore you half to morgue.Next, after work, I do usually take a visit to the darkness, a wonderful nights-club, and a
very large light-tower indeed, probably several light-towers worth of light-towers, come fraught
it up. I find it in the line of my fancy to take the bar-train directly from the source-governmentlight-tower, because that way, its not needed to have to go rounda-bouts those awful-awful gray-
lands, with the added bonus of the terrific accompaniment of my budbuds. O how fun! Oh what
fun. Were usually in a sort of tanned and readied mood, all quite glad to be out of work, yet
none quite vorastrovous yet (yet!), but fie knows, just about-so. Our saster-jims are so flurriedon that bar-train, helped up with some fine apple-sour, and fresh outfits from the bar-trains
depart-store; in essence, on drive to the darkness, were just a few trialed yet child-like jims, my
budbuds and I. That be, my Diary, in case you were curious, Fella (myself), Smalls (before we
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reason is there to worry about small mechanics in the midst of such great-in-fun? None, I say, to
answer my own quiz. There is none.
In side this awe-some light-tower, you become affronted by damp air, and a slowbreathing sound. Sometimes theres a males voice mumbling, or little interjections of a baby
ever-so-lightly crying or weeping or sounding small booms on the speak-systems. Or so one
would suppose that they come from the speak-systems. Ive heard things like this flesh, thisflesh, get it off coming from them, things like, youre not meant to be here droning on and on,
like from a recording in a broken and skidding music box. Its always so very overwhelming, and
you never know which way is which. Forever disoriented, you are. Such a scare-fest, my Diary.And to note, as well, the floors, they are always deep, lush, and vroof-y; theyre dark, dark
black-- brown in some places but hardly noticeableand at points when youre walking about,
the floor may come up to your kneesers, or you may drop into the floor until your chest. This sort
of thing happens when you least think it will, when you least expect it, when youre most at riskof being a dare sunder-fool. I like it, Diary, I think theyre right experienced in traps and prats. I
do enjoy traps and prats, Diary. I do enjoy scare-fests. They make me flurried, bumbling,
bristling, brashling, vindicive, vorastrovous, MALINCINTAVEROUS. I feel good, Diary. Even
thinking about it. I feel very good. My saster-jim is almost full-fledged, and with no apple-sour, no fire-fire-forn-and-frost. I must turn my music box, shake this wonderfully affectatious
affectation right off me, so that I may return to you, my diary, with full fie-canner.
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Sometimes, Spirits Go
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His name is Mr. Kitesencan, his friends call him Blood of Peach. Watch as hestands still. His cold heart silently beats.
He's got this thing inside him, that's awfully nice and sweet. He calls it Juicy Spirit,and sits it on a seat.
He also has something opposite.
(Very opposite indeed.)
But Blood Peach never feels, never cries, only sees.Until he gives his spirit a little room to breathe.
Watch, quietly, beautifully, as the beautiful thing is freed:
Forests filled with monsters
Cities filled with bees
Deserts with statues of hawks and lightly dressed trees
But back home, Peach misses his sweet Juicy Spirit. He crawls in his bed and
doesn't know what to do. He puts ear to the ground in hopes that he can hear it.For he dreadsThe Opposite's
Coming.
Juicy spirit,
Out on sea,
Waves
(beat)
Waves
Sea smells right
Flying bees
Waves
(Beat)
Waves
Whales come outSwallow whole
Down the hatch with
Waves
(beat)
Waves
On land dehydrated
Despondent
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Diluted,
Crying and sprawling, Blood of Peach lay drained and staring
Perfectly empty
A shell
Ready for the red clutches
Of chaos and deepDark
Black to fill
Like a well of putrid oil
Stinking
And on fireTwisting turning bone-splitting churning goring and roaring with drool steady
pouring he's off...Clay
In the belly of the whale sits spirit nice and fine
With a flower in its mouth and a breeze on its spineIt greets the nice people and gazes starstruck,
At the skylight above where a heart shape is stuck
It thanks the new flowers for deliciously blooming
And the citizens laud it proudly for its devilish grooming,And thus douse the spirit in sweet cloth and honey,
And give it gracious offerings of bounteous bags of money
And the crowd let out a roar!
And roar through the streets comes Opposite
Banging and bristling, hunched shoulders, sharp claws,
The ground crumples beneath it in frightened shapes;
Stinkhole of bees
Forests of pawns
Deserts full of things that are dying or dead
Empty things
Dont understand
The fullness
Of life
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(work in progress)
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(album cover for this guy)
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