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MOTION THOUGHTS
Friday, October 12, 2007Budgie: A Video Game!HEEEY EVERYBODY! guess what - I made a video game and it is called BUDGIE it is a game about how you have to guide Budgie the parakeet back to the nest. KEYS: [B] bird [N] nest [R] reset [H] help CLICK HERE TO PLAY!!! Labels: activities, birds, games Wednesday, February 28, 2007There are tri-colored, wheat-pasted advertisements on every blunt-sided building in the city. They have a gangly tall model girl knocking her knees together with a round little handbag. He'll Run! says the ad, but it's supposed to be a fine pastime like He'll Light Cinnamon Candles on Your Birthday! or He'll Tie Your Hair Into Knots When You Sleep! or He'll Juggle If You Ask Him! Promise! with the freckled, flat-nosed model pushing up her cheeks the whole time with a kind of bulldozer smileHe'll Run! He'll Run! He'll Run Right Now! and I know she is on a cherry couch in Phoenix, shifting lumps of ash around with her big toe and waiting for the bird to grow up out of a city of uniform remains. I ask the nearest bank teller to produce a riddle or quatrain as distraction, hoping she'll give me the bell that looks like the top of a Russian palace, or even ask me if I had seen the sign "please wait for the nearest available teller" so that I can tell her I have a friend who has given up on waiting and that's why I'm in need of traveler's checks. I do not have an account. "I am trying to establish a person-to-person relationship here, Linda Staz" I say to her gold, sacred-geometry name plaque. She is very sorry. This happens not to be the time or the place. You can't expect everyone to be an outlaw even though most everyone reads dime novels about those activities. Linda Staz even saw Sitting Bull in the Buffalo Bill circuit show when it came to St. Louis. No one in the audience but a few sensitive women from the Methodist church recognized that Sitting Bull had stopped being lonely and had also stopped waiting, a victory that Buffalo Bill saw as heathen and selfish. We all wait. But he wheat-pasted up the ads for the show, which said He'll Smoke a Black Pipe and Look You in the Eye and Not Wait! so the seats filled, to see the thick skinned, self-made man. Labels: birds Thursday, February 22, 2007Americal Doodle Sharpie on butcher paper. Image search: flowers, trees, crab, butterfly, mouse, kitten, cat-duck, elephant, pig, fish, mosquito, frog, bird, bunny, roach, worm, squirrel, spider. Monday, January 22, 2007Birds In Space Doodle Sharpie on folded butcher paper. Saturday, January 20, 2007birdsown the bugs and worms and the treesserve as their towers: they watch over our parks while bums sleep and they keep clear of cats and children and birds own the powerlines we're too scared to climb; they perch in ropes across sunset reds and clutch our lights, our heat, our wires, vibrating against our electric hums and birds own outer space: they shoot through a stratosphere like bullets through a composition notebook; they comprise the color of your average nebula, gathering around the black hole, guarding the open gate Friday, January 19, 2007I've Never Seen a Bird From a Planeiveneverseenabirdfromaplane.movSaturday, December 02, 2006Coloring Book Collaborations Space Bots: Drawn by Cadet Warren, Colored by Cadet Ledet  Space Artist: Drawn by Cadet Tom, Colored by Cadet Warren  Space Shoe: Drawn by Cadet Alanna, Colored by Cadet Tom  Space Birds: Drawn by Cadet Ledet, Colored by Cadet Alanna Labels: birds, crayon, group art, space Monday, November 27, 2006Straight from the Truth's lips:Seven thousand swans exploded over Stark Lake like fireworks, red light and guts splattered over our picnic blankets and parked cars. What a show. And we'll never know how else the evening could have ended. How much longer could we have choked down anecdotes and champagne, avoiding eye contact and chortling? The swans had to go; their numbers were only comparable to our hordes of children, the little bodies of entertainment only money could buy. It's fun to dress them smartly. It's fun to correct their language. It's fun to explain to them the one way arrow of time, the fact that we can't party forever, that we all must explode over Stark Lake water."My head is full of lemons!” little Nora exclaimed, grabbing an empty jelly jar from our picnic basket, and flinging her skirt's wasted bread crusts into our faces. Little Nora proceeded to gather select pieces of the defunct birds, a collection of the best bits in her empty jelly jar. The top half of a black beak, newly unwebbed feet, spinal bones, a slew of white messy feathers, and even a still beating heart. Joyfully the child bounds back to us, frozen under the protection of the poplar trees, ladybugs and aphids crawling over everything. She presents us with the jelly jar, beaming furiously and breathing heavily from the excursion. We are unimpressed. We are older – in our semicircle, in this curve where we're arranged and have sat with our asses grown onto the quilt, onto the ground, unimpressed by little girls, but that dress I put her in. Buttercup and lace. Oh, tell me true, who, when the picnic blanket was rushed to the tip of her nose, snug-bugged-bitten in a rug, who told the bedtime story that said, “Nora Blue, the entire universe is waiting for you?” We didn't have the time, so we squatted in our design, centered ‘round the half-eaten roast chicken and jam cookies. Unimpressed, white birds, beams bursting through wingspans, red birds while we partook of the deviled hams. The graceful arc, skeletal, spiraling, finally spiraling down, the collapsing messy parts. Nora's in the middle, splashing in the blood like mud. Her skinned knees, their skinned bellies, Nora's in the puddle, mixing up the gush. What is she doing? It's nibble night. Nora with her socks off, that dress is stained, daffodil is pomegranate red, positively red with that ruination from the stars, who knew? She's not my responsibility? Nora's in the gobbledygook, Nora's in the soup. Someone, hurry up and extract her from that dirty mess (Seven thousand swans exploded). It was a lonely trot back to the blood spotted Beemers, our arms empty (we left the blankets in the grass to be tossed out with the litter at dawn, or whenever). “Goodnight, Jonathan.” “Good Evening, Beatrice.” “Kisses, Harry.” Thank the good Lord for satellite radio, filling our empty retreats with international sports talk. I've never seen a game of Jai-Alai. Sounds nuts. We faked interest in the interest of ignoring potential interest in our starless sky and the giggling Nora and Norman in the back seat world. No more swan light distraction. No more thick splatter. I've never been so disgusted with the dim cleanliness of our doorstep. “Nancy, put the kids to bed.” New schedule. 7:30: Dig through garage piles for house paint. 7:45: Spread white primer in even zigzags across the lawn. 7:52: Create Jackson Pollock mimicry on stoop with dark brown muck paint. 7:55: Throw on some garden dirt for texture. 7:56: Pick best flower, sandwich it between left ear and skull. 7:59: “Put yourself to bed, Nancy.” 8:03: Roll around the garden bed, particularly mashing suit jacket into ground. 8:05: Smoke my last cigar, extinguish butt in lawn gnome's eye. That was satisfying. Upstairs, the wife and kids were probably in bed, staring at the ceiling, or maybe televisions. Bored. I went for a walk. But, God damn it! The beauty and terror of a streetlight! The inescapable uniformity of images, the unchanging look and texture of an electrical socket. Scents float by me as I walk – trash receptacle, flower bed, dog shit, apple pie cooling on a windowsill. All of them predictable, even similar, the bullshit you can count on, and remain disgusted with for as long as you're required to put up with it, until the day your body or your brain finally says, “I've had it with this world of pills and keys and advertisements for remote controls that operate the white AND the multicolored lights!” But for now you just breathe in the unbearability and move through space with a new knowledge of devastation, the carnage of a fleet of swans and the delight it gave a child. The constant and overwhelming everything pushes in, almost crushing us as we strain to just be. But, God damn it, that's just one more thought to fold up and put away and hide in my desk drawer like a letter from a lover, and one day Nancy will find it and say, “What's this?”, her eyes splattered bugs on glass. It didn't mean anything, honey. That was just that night. I was thinking about straining about being. Do you believe it? I love my daughter. I love my son. I love beneath me, the rugged receding sidewalk because it's like my face in the early mornin' on this late night's salacious escapade, having affairs with all the streetlights, and I feel their arms winding around my ribs, stone-cold wrapped around my waist. From here I see a pretty girl with an eager set of lips – young, the youngest – lean to the windowsill. I want to swoop in, knock the crust out of the way, grab her, let the lights grab her, and Nora, and Norman, and illuminate the atmosphere when they're lifting us up, saying “This is what the swans see.” Do you feel the bones growing, cells extending, the web between your toes, and atoms split, our bodies multiply. The stitches of Nora's buttercup of a dress have finally been severed, and I'm sorry, sweetie, but now I see your wide, white wings unfold in the cloth falling from you, down there. We're all over. We pool on the elastic surface of a cloud, making a V which is quickly ruined, shaping, reshaping, our flock, my kids, there's seven thousand of us, we got away. Watch us go. Explode. Redistribute. Assimilate. Devolution to singular particles free of family ties. Beautiful. But, God damn it. I'd rather be light. I'd rather be sound. I'd rather be a fleeting moment with no evidence of existence beyond a one sense observation. The stoop is beautiful. A muck explosion. Let's redecorate the known universe, break apart the ordered randomness, the clinical patterns. I don't want to be inside. I don't want to be outdoors. All that's left to hope for is morning reports of the world's entire collection of birds amassing in one open field, ready to burst. This story was written in a round by Cadets Ledet, Alanna, and Morgan Rose. Thanksgiving Day 2006 Labels: birds, feet, fireworks, water Sunday, November 19, 2006Hungry and the Seven SkirtsMy feet, my scuffed and pealing leather shoes, will clatter on the cobblestone of a slumbering town! A dress of seven skirts, a dirty cape with a head-enveloping hood will billow behind me! The sloppy tied laces will be slipping! I won’t need you! And I’ll keep running until the road turns to dirt and I’ll still be running when all wagon tracks and horse shoe prints have disappeared and the road too. I will be in a place that never knew peddlers with smirks like yours, those cunning men that peddle shampoos. I won’t need shampoo! A place that is wild, witchy, and cold, silver-washed by the celestial beast that you never once compared me to! My hair will grow a foot; the frosted weeds will crunch under me like brittle bird bones shot from the mouth of the owl in the forest where I’ll go! I’ll go, the trees even blacker than their background, more twisted than my wrist the day you made me try your experimentally flavored eclairs. They were less pretty than glistening plumbs. But you never appreciated light on fruit of any kind, I know. I remember when I put chocolate-covered strawberries in your new suit just as a surpise, to be funny. You got mad. You said that you didn’t want juice in your pockets. But I will be in the woods and you won’t be able to find me if you try! The nearby trees will melt and so will I at the sight of electrically lit flowers! My shoes, lost! I’m dancing, trotting! I am a fox! Your eyes are fireworks! No they aren’t! Stamp, twirl, and dip myself, and beat the hollow drum of a belly that is hungry! Oh! I collapse. I roll through the grass as it thaws leaving thousands of droplets for me to drink. Full orange flowers tipping nectar over the curling edge. The pockets of my seven skirts full of juice for me to drink! And when the electric eels trickle by I won’t be scared; I’ll even be a welcoming committee for the meteorites, God’s very own dandruff! As well as a cheerleader. As well as a strike leader. As well as a plumb as well as sparkling as good as gone from you. As well as a lover of anyone but you.Labels: birds, feet, fireworks Sunday, October 29, 2006The Art Wall THE WALL featuring work by Cadets Ledet, Warren, Steve, Tom, and more  Rocket Launch by Cadet Ledet  Parrots by Cadet Leroy  Break Up by Cadet Warren  Holy Cross portraits by Cadet Ledet Tits and Guns collages by Cadets Warren, Ledet, Leroy, and Rachel  Three Times by Cadet Rachel  Collaboration by Cadets Leroy, Mallory, Ledet, Madeleine, and more  Based on a True Story by Cadet Morgan Rose  Don't Dare Danse by Cadet Tom  Smoke Spirals by Cadet Leroy  Aquatic Play by Cadet Alanna  Sunlight is a Myth by Cadet Ledet  Lake by Cadet Steve  Zombie Drummer Boy by Cadet Warren Labels: birds, crayon, group art
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