3/100: Self Destruct

I want to mostly refrain from posting photos during this challenge, but as I learned today, that may not always end up having to be the case.  This was more of a hand-written exercise that explores not only paper real estate, but the connection between the flow of the hand and of the mind.  The result is fairly interesting, if not somewhat artistic and beautiful in form.

Day 3: Rip off a piece of paper and turn off the lights. Begin writing on the paper, but make sure you cannot see what or where you’re writing it. After 25 minutes, destroy the paper completely. 

What did you write on that paper that you couldn’t write before? Did the “anonymity” of the writing help you bring out things that you previously couldn’t?

Riddles in the Dark

2/100: Zombie Invasion

Oh, look.  I made it to Day 2.  This reflects mild proof that I'm holding myself up to this commitment. Though I probably shouldn't even mention the word 'commitment' until I at least hit Day 10.  Better yet, Day 25. You don't tell a girl on the second date that you want to commit yourself to her, no matter how cool and/or relationship-hungry she is.  That's dating suicide.  A quarter-of-the-way milestone is something to be proud of, and mighty presumptuous of me.  I'm going to stop there before I blow my load too early and disappoint nearly everyone in the room.  ...Because that was a porn metaphor.  ...and I would be the actor in the porno–nevermind.  I'll get on with today's bit.

Day 2: At this moment, the area you’re in is suddenly ravaged by zombies. With the internet and phone lines cut off, all you have at your disposal are things in your room. What sort of strategies do you use to get out? How do you see things differently now that they can be used for your survival?   Length: 400 words

Zombie Invasion:

They're coming. Hordes of them. Zombies. ...and they have us surrounded.

Looking down from our 5th Floor office into the chaos unfolding across the streets of Downtown Portland, the feeding frenzy we witnessed just a short few hours ago has now evolved into a large herd migrating slowly through the city. Across the way, other survivors have retreated to the rooftops, with little to no means of survival. For them, it's only a matter of time. For us, it's a different story.

All the doors into our space have locks, but the glass can be broken. Using our desks, we've successfully sealed those exits. There's 17 of us here, with enough resources stored to keep us alive for the immediate future.

What we don't have are means to defend ourselves. This is an advertising agency and the only sharp objects here are Exacto Knives; creative problem solving at its finest. And not a minute too soon.

The old stairwell has been compromised. We're safe in here for the moment, but they're in the building. With their numbers growing, it's only a matter of time before they get to us. We need to get out of the city, and fast. Nigel takes charge, orders everyone to grab what they can and follow him. The screams from the stairwell are getting louder. We think the floor below us has been attacked. The zombies are close.

"We're trapped!" someone yells, while Nigel utilizes a metal bar from the coat rack to pry open the elevator doors.  

With a final heave, the elevator doors spring open and Nigel desperately gestures everyone to climb inside. Just then, the stairwell barricade begins to buckle and the snarls of the horde's insatiable hunger echoes into the room. They're nearly here. Nigel turns to the group.

"This building was once one of the oldest breweries in Portland," he claims. "and this shaft leads directly into the old Shanghai Tunnels. We can repel down and follow the tunnels to the river.  Getting to the water is our only hope."

We all nod in agreement and two at a time, begin to slide down the cables.  Nigel and I are the last to go, just as the barricade collapses and dozens of undead pour into the room. I grab the pry bar and the doors slam shut behind us.  With a sigh of relief, we descend into the darkness below.  

The 100-Day Challenge: 1/100

A friend of mine at work recently read my last post on here and suggested I take up a 100-day writing challenge over the course of the summer.  As I've been feeling a bit blocked recently, creatively speaking, I took some time to think about this.  Today, during a particularly slow few hours at work, I decided to go for it.  As I've done 100-something creative exercises before, I've never actually committed to a writing challenge.  I used to write quite a bit back in the day and then at some point, I just stopped.  I'm not sure why; phases of life may have something to do with it, but it was always a past time that I enjoyed.  Maybe it's time to fire that back up, sans photography.

So, I'm using Qwiklit.com's 100-day writing challenge as a guide.  If you haven't used it, you can find each exercise here: https://qwiklit.com/  My first task reads as follows:

Day 1: Where are you? Your room? A hotel lobby? the top of a burning building? In the finest detail possible, describe everything you possibly can, from the sound to the smell to the temperature. Be extremely specific.  ...And, we're off.

Location, Location Location:

6th Floor Office, 1120 NW Couch St, Portland, OR, U.S.A, Earth.

I'm sitting on the left end of a couch. I decided to leave my desk earlier today and try out our new office space that we just acquired. I'm sitting now, as opposed to lounging as I was before. Due to a particularly vexed email from HR, my shoe-laded feet now rest firmly on the newly-finished cement floor. My dog Kino is resting on the floor to my right. His twitching foot and soft, punctuated whimpers tell me he's dreaming. He at least has the sense to keep his feet off the couch.

The newly-renovated, 5,000 sqft. environment is extremely open and sterile. The whiteboard walls create a vibe that could use a bit of color and personality, to be honest. The window to my left looks over Burnside, Old-Town and the northern end of Downtown Portland. The interior hills of NE are slightly obscured by a chilly drizzle. It feels like mid-fall.

In front of me is a rustic, wooden-block coffee table that intersects the space between the couch I've claimed and two leather chairs.  To my right is a large, conference table-sized work station surrounded by seven white, netted-back chairs.  They look somewhat comfortable.  Beyond that is the kitchen, which consists of an island and counter-top, sink and cupboard area recessed into the wall.  It looks clean and untouched.  Eight elegant white desk lamps stand proudly on the island, waiting to be placed among the workstations. Behind me are two arm chairs.

The workstation table to my right is one of four, each being separated by a divider-wall that holds a Plasma screen on one side and a whiteboard on the other. At the far end of the room is a glass-encased conference room that has yet to house a table, further driving home the feeling that this space is still a work-in-progress.

Beyond the kitchen to my right is a short hallway that branches off to three other team-designated areas.  In one of them, a presentation is being given to a client right now.  With the lack of rugs around us, their voices carry across the empty space. I can hear every word.  Privacy is not an option.

Above me, fluorescent lighting and paneled ceilings span the room, what I'm told is the result towards the high cost of exposing the ductwork and structure of the building. This is unfortunate, as the dropped ceilings take away from the creative energy the space needs.  I can't help but feel sadness here. The exposure would've united the transition between the old and new.  Here, I feel as if I'm within the confines of a completely different company.  Maybe, that's the point.

It smells new, yet at the same time...doesn't. It feels new, yet there are traces of Portland that help accent the design.  Minimal, but rustic.  Not cozy, but not uncomfortable either.  Warmth is non-existent.  Ideation is encouraged.  This is our new creative space.  This is AKQA.

Fatherhood

My kid shat on me today.

He did it in excellent fashion.  Upon noticing that he was particularly high-strung that morning, I had just taken him out of his high chair to let him run it out.  This is best accomplished by chasing him through the house in no particular direction whatsoever.  Being just under a year and a half old (16 months, for all the anal-retentive moms out there), his sense of direction is best determined by his ability to mimic the grace of a drunken ostrich.  He wobbled his way through our living room, the dining room and back as I attempted a pathetic version of Hide-n-Seek with him from behind one of his tiny chairs.  I may as well have hid in front of a wall, the good it did me there.

From the other side of the room, I heard the familiar 'Uh-oh!" from him that my wife and I find so damn cute.  In most cases, he applies this phrase to his exploits about as often as I use a comma, which somehow makes it even more adorable.  (i.e. Kid drops his cup of cheerios: "Uh-oh!," Kid falls flat on his face: "Uh-oh!," Kid shits his pants...you get the idea).  Then I see him.  He's rounding the corner, and coming at me full steam ahead, arms outstretched and smiling at me with that half-tooth, wide open grin. You know the one; the same grin hitch-hikers usually flash their victims moments before they drop the punch-line.  Pray that you never see it.   It will haunt your dreams.

His momentum drove him headfirst into my arms, laughing hysterically.  It was that quintessential moment shared between a father and son that Harry Chapin could've only dreamt about. He was pure happiness, and in my best Monster-voice I warned him,
 
    "Here come the TICKLES!!," and proceeded to tickle the living daylights out of him...a move that would end up being my downfall.

He threw his head back in hysterics, his mouth open at the ceiling in laughter. He wiggled through my arms and we rolled onto the carpet as I searched for the sweet spots between his ribs.  He couldn't resist the tickles. I would tickle this kid into a coma if I could.  ...And that's when I saw it.  The brown smear across our new white rug.  The hairs stood up straight on the back of my neck.  And then...and then, I got hit with the smell.  ...And it was pungent.

I tickled the shit out of him.  Literally. It was everywhere. It was on my arms. It was on my legs. It was on his legs. It had exploded violently out of his diaper and smashed its way into the fibers of our rug. We were both completely covered in shit.  And not just us.  The dining room.  The living room.  His high chair.  I never noticed it, but in the span of 30 seconds, this little Fecal-demon had successfully covered 50% of our house, my person and his clothes in diarrhetic stool.  I felt like that little Indian boy in Slumdog Millionaire, only I didn't get the autograph. ..I just got covered in baby-poo.  Which is about as awesome as, well, getting covered in baby-poo.

Maybe one day his subconscious will reveal the memory of me hosing him off in the shower while he screams bloody murder.  More likely, one day I will be harassing him about this in front of his would-be girlfriend.  Even more likely, a day will come when he may be looking after me in a nursing home, feeding me ground up hotdog through a straw and helping a nurse change my bedpan.  And on that day...I'll bend my old ass over and shit on him. It's only fair.

Instagrams of Fiction: Vernon's Return

It had been a long while since Vernon had been here last.  So much has changed.  So much has evolved.  Gone were the expansive railroad yards and industry that spotted the area.  Gone was the dirt and grime that coated the streets, abandoned warehouses and blue-collar cafes, giving his former home an industrial charm that in all his travels, has rarely experienced since.  The street names have stayed the same, of course.  But the rest...well, the section of Portland now aptly referred to as the "Pearl District," bore little resemblance to the neighborhood he remembered as a child.

As he stared out the window, flashes of memories returned to him.  What was now a small park in the center of the neighborhood, once stood one of the many columns that held up the ominous Viaduct, now long demolished to open up the streets for the development of art galleries, loft apartments and a number of seemingly over-priced restaurants and boutiques.  It was beautiful, in it's own way, but met him with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia.  His former home had long disappeared.

     "11th and Everett," the conductor announced over the intercom.  This was his stop.  Vernon stood, wheeled his bag behind him and stepped off the trolly.  Young professionals and a number of commuters stepped off around him, each hurriedly making their way to work in the brisk chill of the morning.  He took a deep, long breath.  Even the air was different, fresh, clean...unfamiliar.

With a long, heavy sigh, he turned to cross the street and started walking east, towards the river.  It was there, in the heart of the city he once knew, he would reunite her remains, those of his long lost love; the woman he had not forgotten after all these dozens of years, with the waters upon where they had first met.

There were familiar moments as he strolled along; the Park blocks and the century-old facades of Old Town stroking memories of a simpler time.  Yet, even China Town was different...abandoned, empty...even desolate, save for the occasional beggar.  He closed his eyes and shook his head in sadness.  He knows that she would've done the same.

The water-side markets and docks underneath the Morrison Bridge were a distant memory now.  Condominiums and High-rise apartments had spawned in their place, another reminder that this was no longer the city he had once known.  As he approached the promenade railing, the familiar scent of the river waters rose up to greet him.  It would be close.  Vernon casually paced up and down the promenade, bicyclists and joggers passing him as he searched, silently, until at least he found it; the unassuming, iron-cast mooring post, carved with the initials VC & BD.  It had been painted over a few times, but the outlines were still there.  He could make it out.  And he breathed a sigh of bittersweet relief.  

He would turn the ring thrice upon his finger, the ring she had gifted to him in their youth...the ring he had never since taken off.  He would apologize for not being there for her all this time, for allowing her to live her life without him.  He would tip his hat, and wish her farewell.  He would leave, never to return, and would travel again, from city to city, from town to town, reclaiming the way of life he's ever only really known...with her memory haunting him, every step of the way.

Instagrams of Fiction: Miguel's Last Quarter

I've been struggling with a bit of a creative block lately.  It happens to the best of us, so in order to wrench myself out of it, I've been exploring a variety of creative exercises to help get my head back to where it needs to be.  From painting to writing to continuing to sketch out my dreams, each one has helped me regain my footing creatively. The following is no different.

I take an absurd amount of photos.  Some I post, most I don't, left to sit in my digital album as 1's and 0's, taking up space in my camera.  Each of those photos has their own particular story, the majority of them I can only guess.  ...so, in the effort to strengthen my right brain's process of thought, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

This entry will start off with an previously-posted Instagram photo I took a few weeks back.  Future posts will revolve around newly Instagram'd photography.

It was his last quarter.  He had one chance left and after that, well...he didn't want to think about it.  With nervous fingers, he dropped the coin into the deposit slot and slowly dialed the seven digits he was given earlier that morning, carefully making sure that he didn't accidentally phone up the wrong number.  As his index finger released off the final button, a heavily finger-printed "4," Miguel drew in his breath and placed the receiver against his ear.  A second later, the phone began to ring.

     "Are you alone?" asked the voice on the other end of the line.  It was distinctly muffled and laced with a grit that instantly set a pit in his stomach.  It was a voice he had never heard before, but was immediately frightened of.  
     "Si. ...Yes," Miguel answered, trying his hardest to disguise the fear in his voice. 
     "Turn around towards the newstands across the street. You will see a man with a red suitcase approaching the corner."
     "I can see him now," he replied, noticing a tall, gauntish man with chalk-white hair walking briskly down the sidewalk across the street.  His bright red-suitcase contrasted heavily against his dark, slim-fitting suit and black gloves. His lips moved silently as he walked, and even from here, Miguel could see the hollowness behind his eyes.  They were terrifying, as if made of the abyss itself.
     "Follow him.  Now," the voice ordered.
     "Si, Senór. ...I was told--"
     "Do as you're told and further instructions will find you. As will your reward." And with that, the connection was lost, preceded by a sharp click across the line.  The voice was gone.

     Miguel hung up the receiver and turned back to face the man in black he had been instructed to follow.  Taking a deep breath, he began to tail him from the Old Town intersection with the payphone on the corner. 

    Miguel was never seen again.

Five Reasons Why My Dog is Worthless While Packing to Move

1.) He just flat out refuses to pick up a box.  There are dozens of them, and they're everywhere.  Instead, he just sits there and watches me break my own back doing it.  ...Worthless.
 

2.) He can't take apart a bed for shit. I mean, how hard is this?  It's like, four screws.  Worthless. 

 3.) He's lazy.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to infringe on your eighth nap of the day. I'll just step over your sleepy ass and grab my drill so I can take down these paintings.  Don't strain yourself, it's all good."  ...Worthless.

4.) He's nothing but an obstacle. Where do I need to go?  Out the door.  Where is he?  Right in the middle of the door, and he... Won't. Flippin. Move.  ...Worthless.

 

5.) All he wants to do is play God of War.  It's an awesome game.  I know this. But, seriously?  Pack a bag, man.  Carry a candle to the car or something.  Do your part.  Ugh...Worthless.

If I ever move again, at least I know what to expect.  Jeez.