http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:darkjericho&section=today deviantART RSS for by:darkjericho en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Sun, 20 Dec 2009 23:22:58 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/20889267/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/20889267/ Wed, 08 Oct 2008 12:39:21 PDT
As the chinese put it in their deadly curses:
"May you live in interesting times;
May you get what you want
May you have the attention of those in power"

This is another thrice damnings, eh? More interesting than inquisition's "You are hereby damned by action, association and belief" thingie anyway.

Pictures from my journey are here somewhere. It's up to you to enjoy and, if you want to, comment.

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/20680382/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/20680382/ Fri, 26 Sep 2008 03:52:41 PDT
It's been a long time since I updated or did anything relevant with the dA. Got stuck in damned triangle of Thesis, Graduation and Selecting a Master's Programme, applying it and trying to pass their exams.

Thank God, it's all in the past now. Ah, another thing that happened is I broke up. Which is not cute... not at all...

Anyway, this is a I don't know, update message maybe? I really liked new design but didn't dig whole pseudo dark-knight joker wannabes filling up my screen... Guys, he is a fictional character, and no you won't be like him by dressing his facial makeup and no you probably wouldn't like him if he were real. So... get over it, ffs.

Goodbye, for now...

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/11063184/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/11063184/ Thu, 14 Dec 2006 14:41:46 PST
I'm driving this Mack truck you see. It's old and corroded in many many places but it has a feeling for me... it feels like home, smells like home... and it's scenery is always good. I was hauling this cargo from L.A. to Boston and I stopped in a driveby foodstore. At least it claimed to be one although its beer was tasting like piss and meat had probably mixed with some things I don't even want to think. It was there I met him.

He was eating a hamburger when I entered in. I ordered a t-bone and a beer - same order everywhere. He finished and approached me saying: "hello I'm going to..." I shook my head, "no pal, I don't take hitchhikers. I had cut my teeth on the road and one thing I have learned is... if you want to get mugged take a hitchhiker so... piss off" He didn't look crestfallen. "Ah no no no. I want to pay you for my trip." I raised an eyebrow. "How much?" "A hundred bucks for your trouble" I quaffed my beer - fuck, I was so thristy... "Where are you going?"

Afterwards I learned that his name was Jack and he was a sociology student in Berkeley and was studying us. I mean truck drivers as a new type of worker class who is disposessed and... bla bla bla. Half of his words seemed gibberish to me. But boy he do looked fine. He asked me several questions and noted my answers while shaking his head and after a minute or so he flurried his questions again. Whether we drink on the road or not, what do we eat on roadside establishments... and so on.

Night came slowly as we were heading to east. It came slowly and surely and I had stopped on the road. I let him take the backside bed and watched him go to sleep. Afterwards I went back too and..."

That was where the diary of the truckdriver ended. I don't know what had happened to him really. But this diary came to me in really mysterious ways. A boy who was wearing an old leather jacket with a scowl gave it to me saying "I heard that you were writin' stories; write that. It'll make a good one." So I took it. He took and lit a cigarette from his shirt's front pocket while leaving. I read the diary page by page, his handwriting was quite readable and his style wasn't like a truckdriver. Perhaps this was that guy's imagination running amok and... I can't and don't know. I transcribed the end to you, because apart from being a mildly nausating porn novel it has only this part with a story quality albeit having no closure.

I believe college student stabbed him with a swedish army knife, took his money and hitched another ride to a roadside bar... and then he continued his quest for looking an honest truckdriver who wasn't trying to fuck him in the backside of his truck.

But it's only a speculation of mine.

Have a good night my dear readers...

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/11061163/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/11061163/ Thu, 14 Dec 2006 11:19:14 PST
I remember saying "OK" and turning my back and walking to the main street looking for a cab, while weeping silently. You were shouting my name but I didn't, couldn't turn back. Perhaps you want to ease your conscience by telling me why's and when's and who's... but I didn't care, I still don't.

My home was in a mess 4 days after I broke up with you. Uneaten corn flakes was on the desk, gathering and feeding a small colony of flies and whatnot. I woke up, semi-sober but willing to make it gone by the night, and turned on the computer. I checked my mails, perhaps looking for your mail adress but there weren't any. I deleted spams while thinking about the past... I mean why did it happened? I was a good lover wasn't I... seems I wasn't... but I think killing blow was my own doing. I thought you were cheating on me so I retaliated. Retaliated... what a word huh? Funny, it feels like success but actually it's a whole failure through and through. It means you acted on rage, anger and pain... it's in that order. I fucked that 18 year old buck whom I had met in a bar. Told that I was an artist, and I was, and can make her famous as anything. So we drank and laughed and went to her place and I fucked the hell outta her. I wrote a note to her, including my cell number and went out.

I was feeling smug... the day smelt like newly minted money. All settled and all balanced! Sunshine was good and warming my heart and body. I whistled while coming to home and you asked "Honey, What's the matter?" I shrugged... "Nothing sweets... It feels like a job well done" You see I told you that I was working late on a friend's project. You didn't suspect anything. I ate a full breakfast and kissed you afterwards, feeling satisfied and won... maybe. But now you are with someone else and I am... I feel broken, beaten and battered.

The girl who I didn't know her name called me that day, while working on a photo. I answered the buzzing phone. "Yeah?" "Hello Jonathan" I looked at the number it wasn't recorded, "Well, you know me, who are you?" "I'm Sandra." "Sandra?" "The girl you bedded last night..." memories were unfolding and I stood speechless for a moment "Y... yeah Sandra. What can I do for you?" She giggled "Nothing, you silly. Are you up for another rig tonight?" I should have said No. But I didn't and went... saying another lie to you... and this went until she took an eliza test and resulted positive. And yeah... I didn't protect myself... and told that to you. I could see your heart was broken beyond any recognition, and I understood... there wasn't any man in your life... never was and is. I said I'm sorry I thought... you shrieked at me, clawed my face and sobbed.

We drove to hospital without uttering a word. I parked and we went to the bloodtest laboratuary. They took our blood and sampled them. You passed clean and I got what I deserved.

I'm writing all this for you Jen. After I finish, which is pretty much now, I'll go to the medcab and take any pills I can manage. I'm sorry honey... but that can't change anything now can it...

Good bye
Jonathan.

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10774722/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10774722/ Sun, 19 Nov 2006 07:29:21 PST
that is an ourobouros. At the moment you are buying something you instantly know that there is and will be better version of it which is beyond your financial scope. That is what divides the poor and the rich. The acquisition and the usage of signs. You can win the lottery but still you won't be considered as "rich" because you don't know how their world of sign works and you can't enter to that world. That's why paris hilton and all that media publicized richs' lifes are so meaningless to us. They have a moral which is more moral than the moral. They became our sinner prophets and our virgin whores... so near but so far away which is ideal background for the idealized sex - like pornography - just an idealized copulation which is available at any moment. and of course like any recycled object turned into a sign it needs other signs to interact. For getting that item - sex - you should possess other items. Aesthetic isn't a concern right now because of society's horrible way of sign economy; ugly is a concept which does not exists - even "ugly" has its admirers and therefore it's a beauty of some sort. You can't escape from this horrible alienation.

Everyone is so addicted to this consuming craze that they can't imagine a life without it. We are living in a lie and we're loving every moment of it. We love to choose between coke and pepsi or mc donald's and burger king. They may produce the same product - refreshment and food - but we are apt to think different modes of thinking before them and that is a lie. We love their sterility we can drink a pepsi in anywhere and can be sure of its taste. No locality... we are living in a big market and we expect it to obey to us and it obeys... by supplying the same product over and over...

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10744502/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10744502/ Thu, 16 Nov 2006 12:03:07 PST
You see... teabag was a teabag born to a family of teabags. Grandpa Teabag was very happy when he was born. That old bag with wrinkles all over it and he heard from his mother that he has a fungi colony inside of him... growing and destroying him tealeaf by tealeaf.

Like all children teabags he was sent to lipton high when he came to age. He was one of the selected students who would travel the world. They packed him in a box with 24 of his friends and bade him goodbye. All he had was a wallet with his family's photographs in it. School was paying for their journey.

Oh how glorious it was... London, Berlin, Istanbul, Honolulu. He rode in planes, boats, busses, trucks... and one day he felt that his packet was rising in the air. His heart pounded twice! "Yes! YES! someone will drink me!" was he thinking.
***
After two hours or so - teabags are very sensitive to the passing of time... or how could you predict the future from the tealeaves? - he saw the light again. He was in a white place. He had never seen a place like this before. Water was boiling somewhere - he knew that immediately. He had passed with an A from the "Boiling sounds" lesson - he remembered proudly. A guy with red shirt filled a white mug with boiling water... "Pick me pick me!" he was shouting wildly. But sadly he didn't heard that voice and he chose the teabag who was sitting on the front. He looked at him with sadness mixed with proudness... he was one of the teabags from his village. The guy drank his tea and left.
***
Teabag was dreaming. He saw great intestinal ridges and mount pancreas and of course mouth trench. He was looking forward to see them all - it was his purpose in life! His dream and mission...
***
He woke up with the sunlight, they prayed in chorus to the Teagod. And waited for the man to come and choose the lucky one... lucky teabag who will fulfill his or her purpose in life. Alas... he wasn't the chosen one again...
***
Thirteen prayers were passed and he was beginning to lose hope. "Am I dirty?" he was asking to himself "Am I too stale... or Is my tealeaves are too small to see?... or or maybe my teabag isn't white as it should be?... Great Teagod help me please!" And his day had come on the fourteenth day.
***

Stephen woke up and yawned. "Another bloody day" he muttered. He was an accountant for a law firm in Texas. He crawled to the kitchen... "Man... Do I hate mondays or what?" He turned on the kettle and went to wash his teeth. He dressed and filled himself a cup of hot water. "Mmm... maybe I should drink coffee..." if he could hear teabaggish he would be very angry. He frowned and looked at the teabox. There was only one teabag left. He took it and ripped its paper open absentmindedly and dipped it into the cup. "I should buy another box today" he talked to himself. "I really liked this brand..."

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10744073/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10744073/ Thu, 16 Nov 2006 11:07:52 PST
***

As I thought it happened. The lightning struck me and threw me for a good fifteen meters or so back. People had called ambulance I think... because when I opened my eyes I saw two white uniformed person was checking me.
"I.. am good" I hated this part... my mouth tasted like rusted iron and my body was aching all over.
"We should check you anyway... can you move your feet?" asked the doctor... I wiggled my toes. "I know the procedure Doctor... " "Francis" "Look Doctor why don't you check my history. Name's Conroy... Edmund Conroy." "Oh? The lightning man?" asked the nurse as she smiled I grinned acidly. "at your service madame."

***
Lightning first struck me when I was five. Should have killed me on the spot but it didn't. And peculiarly I started to get hit whenever sky turned to that steely gray tone. None of them were lethal although I survived second degree burns, a car crash and occasional broken legs and arms because of that damned short range flyings. My insurance company voided my contract. Two man in black came to my house and explained it to me. Said they wouldn't continue the life insurance for my usual lightning hits and my treating costs are slowly draining them away. I said ok and they left. What could I do? I was hit 153 times since...
***

I refused any treatments and wanted to be discharged. Hospital obliged easily and I was hobbling to my home. My leg was hurt. I opened the door and laid down on the bed... I closed my eyes into a dreamless sleep

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10729780/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10729780/ Wed, 15 Nov 2006 02:22:03 PST
Anyway. I am writing this because I don't want people to see a journal entry as long as the previous one. That and I want to write a real journal entry for this time

C'ya guys and the girl (you know who you are)... Take care!

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10722884/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10722884/ Tue, 14 Nov 2006 12:26:30 PST
Newsreel told me that I was dead two months ago. An explosion in Sydney... in a condomonium I was killed or committed suicide or... I don't know what had happened. I had done that after I recorded this construct. But I have my doubts.

My name is Christian Tyrell although you may never heard of me unless you are one of the girls I have dated but that's unlikely because I never use my real name. It's ironic really... I, who earns his living by killing people indirectly... by exposing their secrets..., have secrets of my own. You see I was a hacker paid by the great conglomerates for silent kills. When messing their hands is a risk too great to pay.

In this age of supersecurity every action of yours is recorded somewhere. Your dates, your mistresses, your fixes... everything is recorded in somewhere. I remember a guy who begged me not to do it. Not to expose his leather and horse and bdsm and child pornography fetish. I remember what I did... two days later they found him in the toilet with his wrists cut...

That is what I did... or one of the examples which you can generalize. I make people kill themselves in a real sense. It's not a suicide looking murder... it is gen-i-uine suicide and I get paid for that.

And of course like in every human life you come to a point and everything changes 180 degrees. I still don't know who said that... probably one of my friends in California State . But I can't remember still...

Anyway, this time target was a young woman, named Amanda. Blonde, thin, blue eyed. She looked like... nothing special. I mean she was beautiful, of course but it's just that. You don't look to her twice. I took the envelope and tore it - 10000 dollars were shining to me. I slided it to my trenchcoat's left pocket.

"So?"
"You know what to do" said the man in the suit. "After you did your job we'll pay you fifty more. To your bank account" I nodded - we were talking outside of a conservatory and it was cold. Wind ruffled my hair gently. "But why are we talking in... here? You could drop an e-mail just easily." He didn't say anything. Opened the car's door and left. So did I...

I went to my office and ran a quick trace on her picture in the envelope. I first found out her medical records. Amanda Koessler 1,78 m, unmarried, 3 miscarriages... my my aren't we a social person Amanda. She was working on the IT department... head of it she seems. Of course he wouldn't want to send an email which spelled her death. I can imagine her sitting on her webby throne with bright data covering her like a spider...

That's the kink my dear listener. For doing this job you have to learn one thing first and foremost. Hate. H-A-T-E. Or else you can't do your job... pity, feeling of guilt... they all will come to you like mutant condors and rip your sanity like rotten flesh. I think that is what happened to me in the end. I cracked... simply. And tried to save one while damning both him or her and me. Pity...

My research unfolded her life before my eyes. Born to a mother who was working in the tv factory as worker and to a father who wasn't reported in her birth certificate. She was given to an orphanage following her birth. I wondered if she knew all this... found her mother and asked who was her father and why did she gave her up? But I can never know that... not any more. Her grades were spectacular and several corporations fought over themselves to be her "sponsor". I smiled... this sort of corporatial action was not a common thing. In the end a biocorp became her sponsor. It didn't say that whether she chose them or not. Nevertheless she studied in MIT and graduated with highest honors.

I whistled...that was pretty impressive. You don't see that kinda cv in my line of job. Let's see what she had done for they want me to end her...

Her career was skyrocketing of course. Biocorp became a megaconglomerate by the time she graduated. And they let her work on small projects... projects on human fetuses. Turned out that she was one of core researchers in that Yakamura project... which practically ended the age of illness. Afterwards she was promoted and became a general manager. Her notes showed an orderly albeit borderline militaristic mind. She was concerned about "plugging their informational sphincters." In one of her notes she wrote to her assistants said: "I want all of you become very very suspicious of any action from your underlings. I don't want another Gharber-Scia incident in this era". Figures... she was afraid of industrial espionage in such a great scale that the firm which steals has more updated data than the host. I wonde... ]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10712779/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10712779/ Mon, 13 Nov 2006 14:17:28 PST
They said that I had murdered a family. My family. With an axe. I did that, I won't be lying through my teeth with saying "I am innocent." Or I won't say that they were demons and I had to exorcise them...

No. I killed them with an axe. Six words and nothing more. What I hadn't understood was why didn't they send me to chair immediately. Surely there isn't any justice left. A murderer like me is convicted with "madness" and is in the asylum. Preposterous.

I tried to kill myself at my first night in here. Banging my head to the concrete wall, blood stains everywhere... but they stopped me. And put me here.

Pink pink pills. Making me all happy...

I met Johnson in here. He has delusions. Thinking himself as Stalin and Hitler at the same time. Funny... he beats himself shitless and is proud of it. He was committed here by his family... 5 years ago. "I was gonna take Berlin! - Nah you wouldn't (in a very bad german accent)- ARe ya talkin' to me you shitfaced german..." and so on. He lands his fist on his face and orderlies take him to white room...

Last night I saw Luna in its full grace. She showed my exit... a glinting piece of glass on my cell's barred window. I hid it into my palm. Now finally I can cut myself free... and let justice come for me...

]]> ~darkjericho http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10711816/ http://darkjericho.deviantart.com/journal/10711816/ Mon, 13 Nov 2006 12:46:47 PST
Mr. Ballsheimer is a businessman... traveling kind. Probably you had seen him... he was the guy who try to sell you vacuum cleaners on the doorstep... or a set of pans... or anything. The catch is he is selling like five times of the normal price, of course he'll give extras with it... old unsellable products reused.

I met Mr. Ballsheimer in L.a. My doctorate thesis is on kitch objects and their effect on the present culture. And Mr. Ballsheimer - true to his profession - was selling those objects. Hoover vacuum cleaners, garden gnomes... and so on.

We ate lunch on Mc Donalds. I ordered a Hamburger and a coke, He ordered two big mac menus and muttered if that would be enough. I didn't say anything.

"So, kid. What do you want to ask? You were chasing me like an IRS inspector with rabies." I sipped my coke and said
"Nothing. I am not interested in you Mr. Ballsheimer. I want to look and take pictures of your merchandise." His mouth was full but he tried to talk.
"Mrmm ofcourse.. mmram Why didn't you say that before. I woulda take you to my depot."
I said nothing... again. He didn't know that I was coming from my psychiatrist Robbie. I fear from being alone. Forgot the medical term for it. But standing before those old objects... even the thought was enough to give me shivers.

We ate and he drove me to his depot. It was a small warehouse near the port. He unlocked the door and opened it. A dusty smell echoed in my nose. Smelt like grandma's closet. He turned on the light.

"My, my" I said. What weren't there... hoover machines, cards, an army of identical garden gnomes, fake mings... I started to take pictures of them.

"Why are you doing this research of yours" he asked.
"This is a cultural subculture" I answered. "This is the items we don't use or haven't got an aestethic beauty yet we buy them. Just for the sake of buying it." I told of my mother who bought 12 hoovers when I was a child. He whistled. "Twelve huh... " "They were cheap and easy to break and expensive to repair... it's more reasonable this way"

I took my pictures, he closed the warehouse and we went to our seperate lives I want to say but that didn't happen. I couldn't say my mom was dead after 12th hoover... machine electrocuted her. And I hate kitch objects and their sellers. When he wasn't looking I drew my switchblade and cut his throat. He died with question marks in his eyes. I took the keys, locked him in and let him rot with all the dead objects in there..

]]> ~darkjericho