http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:CharlesFransis&section=today deviantART RSS for by:CharlesFransis en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Tue, 22 Dec 2009 00:54:10 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/10639750/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/10639750/ Mon, 06 Nov 2006 17:44:06 PST
:blowing off dust:

Lotsa stuff. Lotsa changes.

]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/8562996/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/8562996/ Sun, 23 Apr 2006 16:30:43 PDT
none of them. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/8478992/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/8478992/ Sat, 15 Apr 2006 12:50:17 PDT Holla!

pictures should be up by friday...

very long hiatus... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/7044061/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/7044061/ Mon, 14 Nov 2005 10:26:54 PST
To keep doing this; to pretend that I'm happy would just be fraud, a total dishonesty to anyone who sees this, to anyone that trusts me.

Slowly, I am going to dismantle this brick by brick. It will take awhile to get the mechanics right, but soon enough, it'll be done and over with.

Everyone, I'm so sorry. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6976581/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6976581/ Sun, 06 Nov 2005 23:28:16 PST
guess which one lost?

*sigh* ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6572444/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6572444/ Thu, 22 Sep 2005 12:17:25 PDT ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6431811/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6431811/ Tue, 06 Sep 2005 12:31:53 PDT
I've started a new account, for joint projects, can be found here: [link]

The point of this, is that I've been doing co-operative work with a couple of people, been wanting to do work with other people, and don't give a damn about some other people.

I hope to have some character sketches, or perhaps even (hoping against hope) a flash animation up there, done in co-operation with my friend Kris, who isn't here, but has a MySpace account somewhere. Said flash is going to be a pilot to a cartoon show that we're pitching around. A few people've expressed interest, but I don't want to say much more, I don't want to fuck it up before it's out of the stable.

let this go through...

Dammit, Steve, you should answer your goddamned phone.

That's it.

CF ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6179346/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/6179346/ Tue, 09 Aug 2005 14:17:53 PDT ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5733086/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5733086/ Thu, 23 Jun 2005 11:06:57 PDT
I haven't done much with this. I've been working on two projects. One, an actual story, the other, a self-indulgent peice of tripe.

At least I don't paint myself too flatteringly in it. I will say, though, that the second one is a matter of catharsis, and combines elements from three or four other scuttled things.

But I'm not putting any writing up. No one likes writing. So pictures it is.

Until tomorrow... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5312558/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5312558/ Mon, 09 May 2005 15:36:20 PDT


"I know you. You are too short. You have bad skin. You couldn't talk to them very well. Words didn't seem to work. They lied when they came out of your mouth. You tried so hard to understand them. You wanted to be part of what was happening. You saw them having fun, and it seemed like such a mystery--almost magic. It made you think that there was something wrong with you. You'd look in the mirror trying to find it. You thought that you were ugly and that everyone was looking at you. So you learned to be invisible, to look down, to avoid conversation. The hours, days, weekends.

Ahh, the weekend nights alone. Where were you? In the basement? In the attic? In your room? Working some job, just to have something to do, just to have some place to put yourself, just to have a way to get away from THEM. A chance to get away from the ones that made you feel so strange and ill-at-ease inside yourself.

Do you ever get invited to one of their parties? You sat and wondered if you would go or not. For hours you imagined the scenarios that might transpire. They would laugh at you. If you would know what to do. If you would have the right things on. If they would notice that you came from a different planet. Did you get all brave in your thoughts? Like you were going to be able to go in there and deal with it, and have a great time. Did you think that you might be "the life of the party?" That all these people were going to talk to you and you would find out that were wrong. That you had a lot of friends and you weren't so strange after all. Did you end up going? Did they mess with you? Did they single you out? Did you find out that you were invited, because they thought you were so weird?

Yeah, I think I know you.

You spent a lot of time full of hate. A hate that was as pure as sunshine. A hate that saw for miles. A hate that kept you up at night. A hate that filled your every waking moment. A hate that carried you for a long time. Yes, I think I know you. You couldn't figure out what they saw in the way they lived. Home was not home! Your room was home. A corner was home. The place THEY weren't, that was home.

I know you. You're sensitive, and you hide it because you fear getting stepped on one more time. It seems that when you show a part of yourself that is the least bit vulnerable someone takes advantage of you. One of them steps on you. They mistake kindness for weakness, but you know the difference. You've been the brunt of their weakness for years and strength is something you know a bit about because you had to be strong to keep yourself alive.

You know yourself very well now and you don't trust people, you know them too well. You try to find that special person, someone you can be with, someone you can touch, someone you can talk to, someone you won't feel so strange around. And you found that they don't really exist. You feel closer to people on movie screens.

Yeah, I think I know you.

You spend a lot of time day dreaming and people have made comment to that affect telling you that you are self involved and self centered. But they don't know, do they. About the long night shifts alone. About the years of keeping yourself company. All the nights you wrapped your arms around yourself so you could imagine someone holding you. The hours of indecision. Self doubt. The intense depression. The blinding hate. The rage that made you stagger. The devastation of rejection.

Well (sigh), maybe they do know. But if they do they sure do a good job of hiding it. It astounds you how they can be so smooth. How they seem to pass through life, as if life itself was some divine gift. And it infuriates you to watch yourself with your apparent skill in finding every way possible to screw it up.

For you, life is a long trip. Terrifying and wonderful. Birds sing to you at night. The rain and the sun, the changing seasons are true friends. Solitude is a hard-one ally--faithful and patient."

Yeah, I think I know you.

-Henry Rollins , "I know you" ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5061258/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5061258/ Mon, 11 Apr 2005 14:26:54 PDT -Vincent Van Gogh ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5051442/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5051442/ Sun, 10 Apr 2005 12:54:00 PDT my dreaming, so I got out of it. And to my surprise my eyes were wide and
already open. Just my nightstand and my dresser where those nightmares had just
been. So I dressed myself and left then, out into the gray streets. But
everything seemed different and completely new to me. The sky, the trees,
houses, buildings, even my own body. And each person I encountered, I couldn't
wait to meet. I came up a doctor who appeared in quite poor health. I said "(I
am terribly sorry but) there is nothing I can do for you (that) you can't do
for yourself." He said "Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that would
help." So I sat with him a while and then I asked him how he felt. He said, "I
think I'm cured. No, in fact, I'm sure of it. Thank you Stranger, for your
therapeutic smile."

So that is how I learned the lesson that everyone is alone. And your eyes must
do some raining if you are ever going to grow. But when crying don't help and
you can't compose yourself. It is best to compose a poem, an honest verse of longing or simple song of hope. That is why I'm singing... Baby don't worry cause now I
got your back. And every time you feel like crying, I'm gonna try and make you laugh. And if I can't, if it just hurts too bad, then we will wait for it to pass and I will keep you company through those days so long and black. And we'll just keep working on the problem we know we'll never solve of Love's uneven remainder, our lives are fractions of a whole. But if the world could remain in a frame like a painting on a wall. Then I think we would see the beauty. Then we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges, like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.

Bright Eyes, Bowl of Oranges ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5002750/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/5002750/ Mon, 04 Apr 2005 22:28:17 PDT red car, music, she smiles
what does the night need? ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4868075/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4868075/ Mon, 21 Mar 2005 00:08:27 PST bad circulation's old news
always cold skin now burns. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4851130/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4851130/ Sat, 19 Mar 2005 03:06:42 PST the ad boldly tells me
BE RECONIZED, GET INSTANT RESULTS!
everybody wants to be reconized
ACCOUNTS START AT 9.95! ACT NOW!
I feel urged...
PROS AND AMATUERS ALIKE!
everybody wants to be a pro.

What are the real pros doing?

Right now, they're asleep.

In very expensive beds, which they can afford.

Because they're "pros"

And not reading advertisments on websites.

at six oh six in the morning. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4841903/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4841903/ Thu, 17 Mar 2005 22:51:52 PST
As of late, I've been deliberately shutting down my brain with whatever non-chemical means I can get my hands on. This means, more internet time, lots of meaningless junk reading (nothing too heavy), revisting my comic book roots, et cetera.

Tonights movie of choice (after watching highlights from Return of the Jedi) was my room mates copy of One Hour Photo.

All said, a fine peice of cinema. And, to boot, unsettlingly thought provoking. The setting for this film (by and large) is in a warehouse style discount department store. which, for copyright infringment purposes, strongly resembles a particular establishment, but is differently named.

I, at one point, dear reader, worked in such a establishment, as a night time stocker. My job was to hustle furniture off wooden skids, and onto shelves. Not to mention candles, picture frames, lamps, et cetera. Torward the end of it, I was doing pretty much anything that was needed, so I got to see (and subsequently learn) the entire store. It was always unnerving:The bright florescent lighting, terminally white walls, the depressingly bare break room with vending machines with overpriced, stale Chee-Toes, Oreos, Pepsi, and the like. What made it so odd, though, is that in moments between top forty country music songs, the store was quiet.

Indulge me in an exercise for a moment.

Take your concept of quiet. Stillness. No motion whatsoever. Take the surroundings that come with your concept (I'm a visual person, I associate sounds with pictures 99% of the time) and blank them out. Give them the absence of color: Pure, unabashed white.

RGB scale 0,0,0.

In an enviroment where you're nothing, less then nothing: You are designed to not stand out. Your visage slides off the consumers eyes, ears, and brain in less then one minute. You deal with a dozen, maybe two dozen people in a day if you work nights. Hundreds by the end of the month. During days, by the end of the week if it's a high-volume store, like mine was.

Have I said unsettling already? Well, I'm going to say it again.

Yeah.

Jarring works, too, in a pinch.

And somehow, somewhere along the line, people go into this enviroment, and they arn't scared. They arn't put off by the music. The large, open space. The lack of color. They are focused on what they need at the moment, what they want, or what they think they might want.

This isn't universal. I know people who get headaches, or get sick under those lights. I had a female friend who would refuse to visit me at work after she came early on in my shift, when there were still copious amounts of oblivious spenders in the store. She waited for me, alone, for three minutes. She kissed me on the cheek, thrust a Tupperware container with my dinner into my hands, and literally ran out of the store. Later on, she would tell me that she had never felt so depersonalized in her life, as she did in that store. Questioned how I managed to stay sane. Almost convinced me to quit, really.

But warehouse retail isn't the brunt of this. People are.

One bitch-cold winter night, while working, a family of four knocked timidly on the glass door. Assuming they were insomniac consumers (there's a lot out there...) we went to the door, to tell them we are open from six a.m. to midnight every night. They launched into their story.

They had just moved into the area, and were settling in. The Christmas tree they had bought had just been decorated, and they were tucked in for a winters nap. Mom and dad, snug in their beds, children with visions of XBox danced in their head. They were happy, they were complete. Matched dishes almost brand-new. A blossoming family with everything to live for in this world.

They went to bed, forgetting to turn off their lights. Perhaps they decided to leave them on in Christmas Spirit. Their reasons, motivation, whatever, remains unknown. What is known, though, are the consequences:

The tree combusted. The heated air charred the ceiling, causing the drywall to heat, and also combust. Apparently, firesafe drywall was too expensive for this company to use in construction.

You see where this is headed. Their whole house burned down. Numbly, they ran out, and watched their new dream go up in smoke. What did they do? They came to us. Bypassing the fire department, the insurance company, family, neighbors, they came to shop, with nothing but their SUV and the emergency credit card in the glove compartment.

Sensing a fine P.R. opportunity, the night manager found it in her little blonde heart to let them in. A collection was shortly taken up of employees.... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4764711/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4764711/ Tue, 08 Mar 2005 21:54:59 PST I write three or four poems a day.

Oh, really.

I write about the world and how I see it. My friends say I'm good. They say my shit is real, and hard. I was homeless once, I would sleep under an oak tree in a park, in Boston, in the summer. It shaped my poetry.

Oh, really.

I saw you once, reading, in New York City a long time ago, in Casa Del Sol. You talked about lust. Wow, man. Reality.

Oh, really.

Patsy then crossed her long legs high, and lit a cigarette.

Will you ever write about me.

I leaned forward and touched a kneecap. Cold, and bony.

We'll see, Patsy.
We'll see. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4689432/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4689432/ Mon, 28 Feb 2005 00:44:46 PST
This isn't by far a whole artical, rather, reflections from my notes
while in Atlanta, GA, particularly concerning The Westin Hotel, the
obvious brain child of Facism in the hotel industry. A full Atlanta
report will be on file at the Buffalo front desk after a fashion...
-CWmC

My first impression of the Westin hotel was harsh. I had just survived
walking through Five Points, a place full of shops and thrill seeking
yuppies taking the day off from the office. They come and gawk at the
locals...I beleive I heard the term "coloreds" coming from one of
them...I myself was insulted by this, as I've never really considered
myself to be a member of the white man culture, too much Machivelleian
type power struggles and old money in it.

During my rumblings about, walking down old alley ways, I found myself
in a small dive soul food place called the Three Pigs. As I sat in my
darkened corner, chainsmoking Luckies, I saw the same couple come in,
again, slumming, to gawk and get "authentic cuisine" (the quotes are
not mine) and I studied the guy:
Khaki pants
Off-white button shirt
brown tousled loafers, the kind that you'd see your girlfriends dad
wearing (if she's rich, that is)
and short hair. I know his type. He's a thrill seeker. He'll go back
and laugh about it later, when he gets back to whatever hole he
crawled out of. His wife was remarkable in the sense she wasn't really
remarkable. Just a average white woman, skinny legs, no ass, crows
feet under her eyes, no tits, cheap perfume and shoes. I imagine she's
saving for her G-D botox injection.
I had every intent of assaulting this man. I didn't like him. I'd do
the world a favor if I cut his testicals off and handed them across
the bar to be pickled and served. It was then I realized that everyone
else in the bar felt the same way about him, and for that matter, me.
Because as much as it grates my nerves, I, by color, am white. I am
viewed (initally) with the same set of eyes. What a crock.

"Hey, white boy, whatchoo doin' uptown?"
Lou Reed, Run Run Run

I went to the bar to settle up, and see how harsh Atlanta laws on the
subject of castration. I placed myself between white man and his lady,
leaning heavily torward her side, just to get a closer look, see if I
can glance any thigh.

I felt shamed by not noticing before, but he was wearing a
conventioners badge for The Westin Hotel, something about
international Finance. Bright Red paper, black lanyard, yellow
lettering. I leaned against the bar, and put a twenty on the counter.
The bartender, who was pouring a Pabst Blue Ribbon (for whom, I don't
know. maybe more slumming, although PBR has been long considered a
rock n' roll, or Punk Beer, due to it's advertisment in Blue Velver,
and price...) put down the mug and walked over to me, asked if that
was all, took my money, and walked away to the register. Yuppie looks
down, and says in a loud indignant voice "EXCUSE ME! CAN I HAVE MY
DRINK, PLEASE?" I look over at him and grin. "Cash talks." I say,
almost under my breath. But his hearing must be good enough, as he
responded "He was helping me, first."

I am a large man. I have a shaved head, and was wearing a large,
billowy coat that can hide a lot, as well as a leather studded wrist
band that peeks out when I move my hands. So, when I pounded on the
bar and said at the top of my lungs

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

he shut. Maybe shat. I rattled him.

Truth told, I'm a timid person. If he had taken me up on it, I may
have run. Who knows. But it sounded good. I heard laughter. Bartender
walks back with my change, smiling. I slide a five across the counter.
He shakes his head.

"Baby, you done good enough. Come back anytime."

"You know where the Westin is?"

"Peachtree station, abouts."

"Thanks."

I walked out the bar, feeling like a hero, Pretty Boy Floyd. Whitey
looked like he had a stinky brick in his britches. Little did he know
I was hitting close to home.

[link]

TO GAIN ACCESS...NO PARKING ANYTIME...BELLBOYS WITH MACE

"And the sign said you gotta have a membership card to get inside...OOH!"
Pete Townsend, Signs, signs...

I am here under false premise. I came here to scope out these people,
like that Austrailian whos name escaped me at the time, Steve Irwin is
it? I might... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4567360/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4567360/ Sun, 13 Feb 2005 03:31:38 PST
a) a priest in the Roman Empire who helped persecuted Christians during the reign of Claudius II, was thrown in jail and later beheaded on Feb. 14.

b) a Catholic bishop of Terni who was beheaded, also during the reign of Claudius II.

c) someone who secretly married couples when marriage was forbidden, or suffered in Africa, or wrote letters to his jailer's daughter, and was probably beheaded.

d) all, some, or possibly none of the above.

If you guessed d), give yourself a box of chocolates

Valentines day?

A minor overlook...

ri-i-i-ight...

as a kid, we would have paper bags that we would decorate for this...holiday...everyone got a paper card and some candy. Cute kids got more.

I used to be cute.

As I got older, I got less paper card, the girls got increasingly fickle. By the end of elementary school, I wasn't getting a damn one. Me and this one kid Patrick would whisper about how so-and-so got to first base. Together, we'd talk about Star Wars in the back of the room, or Alf, or whip out the comics (a couple of pre-teens reading The Punisher...)and let the other kids run around, make themselves look and smell pretty for the others. There was a total lack of interest in them because they wern't interested in us. And I'm sure neither of us would have ever admitted that we wanted them to be. But, by and large, I think we were.

After grade school, due to zoning, we went our separate ways, and didn't bother to keep touch with one another. Not because of any malice between us, we simply drifted apart, and we were both okay with that. No big deal.

So, when we ran into each other in a bar downtown not too long ago, it was surprising. We embraced as old friends do, bought rounds for each other, and settled down at a table. Independantly, we had both taken up smoking cigarettes, done our fair share of drugs and now have the subsequent contempt for them, learned everything we were supposed to and some things that we wern't.

"Carl, hey, good to see you."
"You too, boy o. Remember back in school, the Valentines day bags?"

He nearly choked on his beer.

"Yeah! Yeah! I remember those! How we never got anything, and just sat back, called the other kids, god damn, what was it?"
"A wandering pack of fucking morons?"
"That's it."
"Yeah...yeah."
"Carl, my dick is falling off."

I nearly choked on mine.

"What?"
"The girl I was engaged to, she was fucking around behind my back and not telling me. When she does tell me, she lies and said she could have done it without me knowing."
"And she gave it to you?"
"Yeah. Guitar player for some modern rock band."
"Rough."
"He got it from his drummer. They're skinny dippers."
"All guy band?"
"Ayup."

We both drank quietly. Not knowing what to say after that.

"What is it called?"
"Something Latin."
"No, the band."
"I dunno. Balance, Blade, The Buftie Boys, something with a B"
"Are they any good?"

This caused him to smile wide, and light a fresh cigarette.

"Actually, no! They're horrible, unoriginal! Sounds like most of the other shit you hear every day on DC101."
"Damn hell, son, you got the Vee Dee from a Neuvou Metel band!"
"It ain't pretty, and I ain't proud."
"So what are ya gonna do?"
"Stay single and let the shit fall off. I figure I'll let my urethra dangle in the breeze from here on out. But here's the kicker."

He reached into his beaten leather coat, and put a envelope on the table, slides it across to me using his middle finger.

"Check this shit out."

I opened it up and saw the typical dollar store Valentines, complete with chalky, nasty chocolate on the front of it.

"Open it up."

I opened up the card, and read, in typical female hand writing (very curvey, stylized, loopy, illegiably neat)

"I'm sorry about what happened. I hope we can be friends.
Yours,
T."

"T?"
"Tiffany"
"Anyone I know?"
"If you did, you wouldn't like her. She runs with the liberal art house crowd. Thinks the Democrats are Gods gift to earth, and Libertarians are nothing but repressed, stoned Republicans."
"Sounds like a real winner to me."
"Here's to girls at election parties."
"Here's too."

We clinked our pint glasses, finished our piss yellow lager, and leaned back.

"Gotta run, Pat?"
"You know how it is, Carl."
"Be seeing you?"
"Maybe. Don't hold your breath."
"Ditto."

This seemed t... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4130031/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4130031/ Wed, 22 Dec 2004 18:12:33 PST ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4077684/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4077684/ Thu, 16 Dec 2004 01:25:07 PST Oh, Alison, my aim is true.

Well I see you've got a husband now.
Did he leave your pretty fingers lying
in the wedding cake?
You used to hold him right in your hand.
I'll bet he took all he could take.
Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking
when I hear the silly things that you say.
I think somebody better put out the big light,
cause I can't stand to see you this way"
Alison, Elvis Costello ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4050628/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/4050628/ Sun, 12 Dec 2004 14:33:41 PST Frances Bacon ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3999015/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3999015/ Sun, 05 Dec 2004 22:23:22 PST The flickering eyes
By flourescent lights
Supplicate before machines,
Self-reflecting
The legend of modernity:
The phosphenes explode
God's eternal strobe
Through the holy filament,
Graven image "
-Mike Patton ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3969107/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3969107/ Thu, 02 Dec 2004 00:53:46 PST
My room is perpetually trashed. It seems to get that way. All the trappings of my life begin to stack up on top of one another, no matter what form of organization I try to impose. THe only thing that really stays stationary are the books that I've read, and have put aside, writing in their margins, dog eared, highlighted, stacks upon stacks. Seems I have a bizarre collection happening here, the compiled life of another unguided, once brilliant star in the skyscape, now burning out from lack of direction. I feel the need to do something definiative. God damn, all the options I've had. Join the army (rejected for bad knee, ankle, and mind), helping children in a Christian Orphenage in Romania if I can pony up several thousand dollars in cash to show how eager I am, countless jobs, people who've said that I'm welcome to their food and couches, only later to make snide comments about things like apperances, trust, what not.

You're right not to trust me.


As Fur Elise tinkles on in the background, something soothing and yet I find remotely haunting, I'm thinking about my actions earlier. I pulled off my bedclothes, just a pair of scrub pants, really, rummaged through my dirty clothes to find pants and t shirt. Not caring whether or not they match, the wonders of owning a practically monochrome wardrobe is the ability to get dressed in the dark. On with the battered brown boots, something like three years old, worn with the scars of work and extensive travel, but the only pair of shoes I've had that haven't fallen apart on me aside from the last pair of boots I had, ugly black monsters with a serial number imprinted on the leather right at the top of the shaft of said boot, identifying them as having belonged to someone, somewhere.

I used to tell people that I did some research, traced them back to their original owners, made up some stories about how i came into posession of them. My favorite one was from a poker game played, and this man, after having lost his money, his watch, gave up the last thing he treasured the most, a soldiers best friend outside a gun (he'd lost that, too), his boots. In this story, they would clunk down on the table, and I bluffed the boots out of said soldier with a pair of threes, while he was holding something like a full house. I'm more of a man, weareing another mans boots. Yeah, check out my balls, bigger then yours.

That particualr story bought me a couple of drinks, a phone number every now and again. Truth is, (and whether or not you want to see this as truth you decide) I got them from a friends mom who watched me watch these boots sit in the corner of a house for three months. When she finally gave them to me, winter was settling in, and she saw that I was sticking to a ratty pair of chucks, held together with electrical tape. So maybe a kind of pity move.

But now, big brown boots, a old christmas gift, having been with me up and down the east coast, walked on New York City streets, placed under velvet couches, trudged through marshy wetlands down south. God damn it, I hate them.

As I pull on my seven leauge blue light specials, I walk around in the middle of the street, sometime after three thirty in the morning, having fished out half smoked cigarettes from the outside ashtray from the house where I live, making sure they're my brand, knowing where they've been.

Oh Lord, it's dark outside right now.

It's almost winter, the air is clear and crisp, the moon hangs on kite string in the sky, giving everything a whitish light. Around me, ninty five percent of the houses have their lights extinguished. Some have blue lights flickering, some forgotten shread of Television. Others have just the solitary light burning of those trying to fend off the midnight hours.

Me. In the midnight hours, with my mounds of shit, which can be boiled down to the following to be salvaged, if in a desparate grab-and-dash relocation which I'm prone to:

One Bible, KJV, Old and New Testiments.

One copy of Leaves of Grass, annotated by me over a period of several years, held together by rubberbands and paperclips.

One pair of ugly-as-sin boots, weathered, brown
(james taylor would call them thirsty brown boots)

Three notebooks, spiral bound.

One box of pens.

One car, blue, bad breaks and exaust

My lived in Army coat, and finally

a twenty gauge shotgun.

A life on the run, combined with a fearless abandon, has left me with not a lot of a... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3960675/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3960675/ Tue, 30 Nov 2004 23:08:45 PST
Right now, I'm listening to something called "Moon Dreams" from the Miles Davis Nonet (nine? is that nine members?)

It never fails to amaze me how sometimes, music can perfectly capture a moment. In my instance, this brings me back to New York, being in the arms of someone who said they loved me, whether or not they did really isnt the point. In fact, the person isn't the focus of this epistole, rather, where I was, what I was doing.

Laying in her arms, listening to the traffic drift up seven floors in a shitty Y hotel called The Vanderbuilt, a attempt (and failure) to sound classy, a hovel where the rooms were either bunk beds, or a single twin. I chose bunk beds, more space to put my shit, and the possibility of making a fort later on using bedsheets and pillows.

As I lay there, not really appreciating the potential hindsightedness of that night, strands of jazz floated through the air. But to what extent? A shitty rock and roll station had been on the radio earlier, and, despite my best effots, nothing soul pleasing could be found on the AM/FM bands of the clock radio.

The wind moved a curtain, giving it a small ruffle, what looked like a fold in the fabric. The woman turned on her side, coughed, and returned to sleep. I, on the other hand, was electrified. First night on my own, no expectations from anyone, in a new city. Not just any city: The place where, according to fables and poets, dreams can be born, or, if you're more cyncial and twenty-something, dreams can be utterly smashed, destroyed, like drunks throwing rocks at stained glass.

Yeah, that kind of tragidy surrounds that city. At least one person reading this knows what feeling I'm talking about.

We do our best to avoid these moments. Some utterly embrace the fact entirely, not observing, but becoming part of it. Others allow their minds to wander, riff, like a Ritalin high at full speed. Maybe jot down some thoughts that come to mind. Others focus on the cold, how the wind comes rushing down through the buildings, blowing through the concrete and glass not jungle, but labrynth. Jungles occur in nature, and have beauty. A labrynth, like a city, is designed to keep people in.

Right now, in virginia, the curtains are doing the folded fabric trick, the cold air moves in late fall swirls, the leaves have already fallen this fall, and I fall in fall to fall forward into words, something to provide me escape from the meloncholia that cold air brings to my mind. A little rain, too, adds to it, making both my mind and streets slicker'n shit, causing damage if you go fast too fast, doing things you'll regret when you look at the damage in the morning, but hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

That is why I was out with people, sitting in a dinar, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee I spent my gasoline money on. Hopefully, my loose change'll add up to something substancial so I can get to my job tomorrow. The west calls out to my soul, but so does the south, and the south is winning this tug of war, I long to see Confederate ghosts, stuck up rich white folks parties, and magnolias in moonlight, all of which i know are bullshit, I never saw them before, perhaps I'll see them when I go.

I think well on bright, clear nights. Nothing is obscure.
I made the southward bound decision on a cold, clear, bright night. I don't doubt or second guess myself.

I know how I feel. What is the point? Who knows.

I'm out of words now.

almost.

Thank God. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3933506/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3933506/ Sat, 27 Nov 2004 17:29:24 PST "None of which made sense to me until much later when I realize everything I thoguht I'd retained of my encounters added up to so very little, hardly enduring, just shadows of love outlining nothing at all. "
Johnny Truant/Mark Z. Danielewski
House Of Leaves ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3790079/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3790079/ Mon, 08 Nov 2004 23:30:34 PST Henry Rollins, ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3789619/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3789619/ Mon, 08 Nov 2004 21:54:44 PST but not deliberately.

Internet has found its way back to my house, seems that the DSL fairy saw fit to visit us good little boys and girl. So I made use of it, throwing pictures up. In otehr news, everyone right now (the hosue is packed full of people at this hour) is fucking around with Halo two. I didn't even make it a full round, I just felt really bored with it. Normally, I love a first person shooter, a great way to take out frustration, but it was just...meh. Like controlling a cartoon that goes around shooting people. Yeah, sounds cool at first, but just didn't quite strike me. Ah. What really made it worthwhile was listening to one of the fellow gamers bitching about load time, I, out the corner of my mouth said something along the lines of don't bitch, you just shelled out fifty bucks for this.
Shut the fuck up.
Ooh, seems I struck a nerve. I watched people lined up around the block, waiting for midnight so they could rush in and buy this, they couldn't wait long enough to hand over hard earened cash. Makes me wonder if I'm in the right line of business, why can't I have people waiting to hand over money? Is there so much in passive entertainment? While standing in line, someone was pulling into the parking lot, and on his heels, obviously following him, was none other than a member of Loudoun Countys finest, flashing his blue lights. I beleive the sherriff deputy followed him in from speeding, and pulled him. Hey, at least he was there. It was enough to put me in a mood. Seriously, people. Enough preaching, I'll hand the soap box over.
For now ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3785747/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3785747/ Mon, 08 Nov 2004 14:27:14 PST
Christ.

Okay, so this is a warning to whomever looks at my page, or cares what goes up-I'm going to be putting up a slew of photographs. On, or around that date.

Other news, I decided to invest three digits in a actual camera, a Canon Powershot A75...took it with me to NekoCon, got some decent photos.

Yep. Time to go back to work. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3691045/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3691045/ Wed, 27 Oct 2004 23:38:37 PDT
It occurs to me now, that in three days from today, I had originially planned on getting married. I'm not telling this to anything to get a sympathy pat. Or a nasty response. Just putting it up, I guess I just want to see this written. I write for m'self, moreso than anyone else. Whether or not I put it somewhere it can be seen is entirely a different matter. It makes things seem a bit less severe, gives matters a more easy going persona. Do you beleive that? Persona shining through words?

Three days, in three days I was supposed to be wedded in Central Park in the middle of Manhattan, what with glass high rises, horse carriages, so forth, so on, the whole thing out of some kind of fucking story book.

As I write, I'm listening to Dexter Gorden play "Tanya". You can infer what you want from that. But it was deliberately picked.

What would I have done in New York? Settled in for the long winter, those nights when everything is hopping and a rush, walking around Rockafeller Center while lighting the tree, the crowds of people, the steam coming off my words as I just ramble on and on (must like now) in the city winter dark, some of the coldest dark that I've ever known, chills you to the bones, even the most healthy man, or woman.

Yeah, that was me. Still is me. But now, my thoughts carry me out west, looking torward the suns direction at dusk, chasing it a couple thousand miles out there in my beater car, where the weather is warmer, and hopefully, so are some people.

The east coast has frozen my flanges. Who reads these on DevArt? Who cares? Don't know. Again, an audiance of one. I find myself continuously looking out that way, having a pretty good idea of what's out there, and dying to see it.

Rational thought be damned. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3531153/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3531153/ Wed, 06 Oct 2004 23:40:08 PDT Henry Rollins, Solipsist ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3507480/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3507480/ Mon, 04 Oct 2004 00:14:29 PDT
around one or two in the morning, when it's the height of night, the cold air seems to swirl. Depending on who you are, it could mean a lot of things. Lovers, young lovers, it's the best part of the evening, every word is magical, every touch and kiss swirling.

Others, it's the middle of the night, I'm trying to sleep, geddafuck out of here.

A Drink. A party. Sleepers. Screwers. Means a lot to different people.

WHAT THIS TIME MEANS TO ME:
I pull on my battered cross trainer sneakers, a pair of once very respectable looking New Balance shoes, the most I've ever paid for a pair that wern't patent leather, but I'll pull on those little puppies, a pair of loose fitting pants, and a t shirt. Doesn't matter if it's dirty or not, I don't even adminster the sniff/check test, which i KNOW some of you are familiar with.

I pull off my glasses, put them on the nightstand, and, with eyes closed, knowing the way, walk down the hallway, torward the front door, brushing past the dogs, and out on the porch, and

aaaaaaaaaaah.

Night. Everything, everyone, looks better, sounds different at night. Your skin, my dear, I remember it better at night. My memory capture (mine, and mine alone, stay away greedy bastards!) may be of you glinting in daylight, but your skin, your feel, your scent, how good you felt, tasted...yes. Night. Senses sharper. As I begin the nights task.

I run.

First, just pacing myself, two sharp inhalations and a deep grunt letting out, letting go. On the balls of my feet, to get a bouncing motion, to increase speed, and distance. Also works on my leg muscles more.

I have every intention of looking better now then ever before. But that's not the entire point of why I do this. But, more on that later.

Down the hill I go. Past the backlit church (see photos), through the park where I see children climbing on as I drive to work every day, taking care on the speed bumps, don't want to go too fast over them, as I go through the gate, and up the street of the neighboring development. At this point, after I leave the park, I can give myself a little bit of a rest. Walking.

A power walk may look silly, but. I want to keep that feeling of low oxygen. I can feel my muscles tensing so much better when i'm not breathing as deep. Right about now, my sweat breaks, and I feel the first trickle. I won't notice anything else until I'm lashing it from every pore in my body, as I continue walking. Somewhere, then, in the back of my head, I hear the voices of old bullies.

"Hey, fatty! Fatty fat fat! Want some of my candy, Chubby Carl? Too bad! Don't have enough for ya! Yep, don't have enough for a FAT kid."

Run. Run. Run.

Every time I wanted to punch. Every time I wanted to push, scream, hollar, kick, hurt. Every time I sulked away,wishing I could hurt them somehow, and they not knowing it was me. Every time I went home to my mom and she, in her infinate wisdom would just say

lose weight

and I would go to my room, two peanut butter sandwitches (made on hot dog buns) to watch The Jetsons or some damn shit.

NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU
FATTY
LOSE WEIGHT

I want to hurt you. I want to fuck you up. I want to make you hurt, scream, die. I want no blood on my hands. Run. Run, fatty.

And I do. Hard. I push myself. Two sharp intakes, two sharp exhalation. Push. Harder. Fatty. Run.

Make it to the end of the block. I can make it to the end of the block.

Look at Fatty, he's trying to run. It's almost like being hypnotized. All that jiggling blubber on him.

Fuck you, Kevin. Fuck you, James. Fuck you, every moody person having a shitty day, from a stranger behind a desk to a stranger on the phone with a familiar voice.

Close your eyes. Tilt your head back. Can you hear them? Are they there?

Good. Run harder. Keep them at bay.

So I push. Push. Push. Until I need to keep my eyes shut not out of pleasure, but to keep my balance. Until all sound roars in my ears.Bod y gets harder. I can feel my muscles moving on themselves. I can feel my stomach moving down on itself, forcing it in. Push. To the lamp post.

I can't do it.

Fatty can't do it. Big surprise.

Thank you, Kevin.

I make it to the lamp post, dark brown, slathered in gummy black tar, the smell is so very strong it nearly knocks me out. Anything Could knock me out. My entire body, everywhere that conducts blood through it feels like it carries pins and needles. I can walk, no more.

After a minute, I remember my rythem, and fall back into it. The r... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3394296/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3394296/ Sat, 18 Sep 2004 20:30:30 PDT ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3393339/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3393339/ Sat, 18 Sep 2004 18:08:36 PDT Please? ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3372554/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3372554/ Wed, 15 Sep 2004 19:08:22 PDT Carl is rad. carl is rad. carl is rad. carl is rad. carl is rad.
(i didn't make that one up, I swear...)
Carl is now and will always be a developer, and never stops writing software
Carl is mesmerized by the gears at the Palo Alto Jr museum
Carl is a fag
Carl is older than dirt compared to me
Carl is best known for his strong, soulful, and angelic voice
Carl is a fantastic dresser.
Carl is in a mad scientist's lab. His hand is on a big switch. Word balloon: "At
last!" ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3371753/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3371753/ Wed, 15 Sep 2004 17:31:35 PDT ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3312921/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/3312921/ Tue, 07 Sep 2004 23:26:31 PDT ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2819459/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2819459/ Tue, 06 Jul 2004 17:58:14 PDT ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2730482/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2730482/ Thu, 24 Jun 2004 21:27:01 PDT
I just want my camera back. ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2670452/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2670452/ Tue, 15 Jun 2004 22:20:29 PDT
Don yew speak english? Gimme the Skool, ya towelhed. Yain't gawt time fer dis! My ole ladeezin da car.

The clerk, a dark skinned man of Middle Eastern extraction, looked dumbfounded at this...American, for lack of a better word, trying to discern a single word that this human was spouting at him. In his native tongue, I imagine, the clerk, whos name I don't know because I have never felt comfortable enough to ask, he was thinking, or least I hope he was thinking, this man is nothing compaired to me. I stood behind the redneck, listening to the slurry of words.

The man behind the counter held his head high, refusing to look down, away, or in the slightest bit subserviant. He kept his steely gaze on him, and stared him down. This only infuriated the redneck more.

In Egypt, on a street corner in Cairo, there is a old man to be found. Really, any street corner in Cairo, really, you'll find a old man like this one, but not this precise one.

The old man, the particular one who's story I'm relating, is called in some laguage a fakar. A mystical man, capible of performing many acts that defy any logical explanation. This particular fakar, on a baking hot Cairo afternoon, when most natives know to hide in the shadows of bars and homes, but this old man stayed on outside, playing a wind instrument, a peculiar device that doesn't have a name, as he had invented it himself.

However, he was doing something very familiar, almost cliche with it.

Dressed in only a white wraparound, and a wet white cloth draped over his head, he sat crosslegged, what we used to call "indian style" in grade school. He played his, well, let's call it a flute for quick reference, all the while tapping his foot against the ground in rythem and counter rythem to the instrument.

In front of him there sat a large wicker basket. Two feet wide, three feet tall. The basket trembled and wobbled. THe sides of it seemed to breathe in the heat. Perched on top, rather precariously, was a lid, not having been placed there with any seeming care torward what was contained inside.

At first, the lid began to percolate off, jumping up and down, until it finally slid off, hit the dusty road of Cairo city on its side, rolled a couple meters, and flopped down, handle side down.

Slowly emerging at first, a emerald shape, moving slowly, appearing to float. A close observation will note that said emerald has eyes. But no one seemed to be watching, only a young, pale, fat American tourists child wearing a bright red Offspring T Shirt. He stood next to the old man (who resembles the clerk of tonight), and watched the basket, bored and slightly offended at such a commonplace sight. Please. How cliche. A snake coming out of a basket.

Make it do something, he said to the old man.

Who was busy ignoring him, concentrating on his ancient Sauromancy, handed down from his father, and his father before him. A fine art. Something a lot more delicate then most of the movies let on. The art, and the ability to make a large, venomous snake slither on top of it's dead alikes, and knock the head off the basket.

The other snakes are dead for the simple reason that they killed each other. The one that managed to survive happen to had been the one of the largest build, the most powerful venom in the whole basket, as well as having killed the lions share of them. And this snake was now knocking the lid off the basket, causing it to roll down the street, full of vendors cries for cheap goods, government officals in white uniforms listening to everyone and no one, americans in cut rate closeout casuals, and a Pale, chubby, obnoxious child wearing a commercialized punk rock bands logo splayed across his very female looking bosums.

MAKE HIM DO SOMETHING!

The American child then did something that most Americans are very wont to do: He shoved the fakar into the dust. No one noticed.

DO SOMETHING! MAKE HIM DO SOMETHING!

The fakar just laid in the dirt, looking up at azure skies, feeling the heat of Sol on his tanned leather skin. He filled his ears with the music of Jajouka, to drown out the screaming of

DO SOMETHING!

And suddenly, something happened.

The Cobra extended itself three feet across, and latched itself into the childs face, not letting go. A brain signal, instinct, really, told the venom glands to open the floodgate... ]]> ~CharlesFransis http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2663025/ http://CharlesFransis.deviantart.com/journal/2663025/ Mon, 14 Jun 2004 23:42:08 PDT
Ah, yes. Baba Yaga. One of the advantages coming up in a household that was still very closely connected to the old world. I remember my grandmother, fussing about her kitchen. Back in those days, before I became older, and more cyncial, I would, during the summer, find myself sitting in her kitchen, in one of the high backed wooden chairs that my grandfather Wells had crafted, God Rest his weary soul.

Everything seemed larger than life. Magical. The clocks were kept an hour and ten minutes ahead, for whatever reason. During winter, two hours. The kitchen was bright yellow, full of steam, and had a old fashioned rounded Refrigerator, which my grandmother would call the Icebox, despite my insistance that it's called a 'fridge. She didn't want to hear it.

I was full of questions then. I'm full of questions now, but it's not as charming. It's just called being nosy. So, sitting in my grandmothers yellow steam filled kitchen, I asked her about the clocks. Over
and over. And over.

And went to the piano, which hasn't been tuned in thirty five years. I'm twenty six now. But to that piano. I'd play the keys, hoping for some sort of melody to come out. And it was because of that my grand mother stepped out of yellow kitchen, and into the brown and blues parlor and said do you want to know about the clocks?

Yes.

The clocks are like that in case Baba Yaga comes by.

Who is Baba Yaga, I pleaded. I was kicking my shoes at the ground, brown corderoys hissing. Who's Baba Yaga?

Baba Yaga is a witch, she told me. A witch who flys around in a kettle. When she gets into her kettle, she yells a indecipherable word, and flys away to her house. Her house, apparently, was a wonderous thing-a living being on chicken legs, being able to run through the forest. Scooping up its prey in thin, scratching claws. It could grab people by the wayside, pick them up, and just keep going. And it would do something very particular to keep them in place long enough. In fact, Grandma would say, the house would stop, and Baba would lean out and ask a question in order to keep them still enough for the house to grab them and pull them inside. Baba would eat fine if they listened to her.

You know what is coming. So did I. But I asked.

What does she ask, Grandma?

She asks what time it is.

My childs logic fired up. So you keep your clocks to confuse her, I asked? I don't understand.

My grandmother laughed an old womans laugh, and walked back torward the kitchen. I stayed on the piano bench. One day I hope to have that bench.

No, dear. Babushka keeps them set that way because I need to think that's actually what time it is.

I'm confused. Why?

Because, she said. I know for a fact that she has a clock right above her oven. ]]> ~CharlesFransis