Revisit, FF

A quick revisit of form and function.
I've spent my first day on vacation learning about design.
If you're interested, you can watch these three films.

Between the Folds
Helvetica
Objectified

I've learned a lot today.
I miss school. :(
Later, G

Dear Reader,

Have you read this blog?

Please post a comment, any comment, constructive or otherwise, on this post.

This is not an ego stroking opportunity, it's just that the traffic tracker for this website blows, and I genuinely cannot tell if anyone is checking it out!

Thanks,
;) Gabriel

Spooning with Heather / Jack Knife

Heatherton Weatherby looked like a zombie
She walked and she talked like one too
I wasn't quite sure ’till she opened my skull
And ate all my brains with a spoon

/

Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner
With a dull and rusty knife
He cut off his thumbs
And his toes and his tongue
And said what a good boy am I!

the Request, (Revised)

Part 1


There was once a man in Russia who owned a shop dealing exclusively in boxes.

He sold every single type of box you could possibly imagine, and some you would never think of. His shop stood on the corner of a lesser known street in a small town, and had impressively tall windows with gold script which read: Immanuel’s Glorious Gallery of Boxes. Immanuel was a young man, tall, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and eyes like a deep blue lake. People of all sorts would travel from around the world to gawk at his exotic inventory, or to make specific requests.

The bell over the shop door rang pleasantly. An enormously obese man with a mouth like a bass inquired in a booming voice. “Do you have boxes for cigars?”
“Of course.” Immanuel replied, and provided the man with a box carved ornately of dark cherry wood, with little foxes and bears dancing on the lid.

“I need a crate to ship an elephant.” Demanded an extraordinarily tall man in elaborate maroon raiment.
“Right this way,” said Immanuel proudly, “I keep those in the back next to the tiger cages.”

“I have a magic wand I wish to display.”
Immanuel provided a fragile glass case with delicate etchings which carefully plotted the movements of the stars.

Once, an old lady buried in scarves timidly entered his business. “I’m looking for a bag...”
“Terribly sorry, miss,” Interrupted Immanuel. “You have the wrong store.”

Business was booming; every single request from every guest was filled.
Then, one brisk autumn afternoon, the bell over his shop door dinged, and a beautiful young lady in green stepped in.

“Hello.” Immanuel smiled his best smile. “How may I assist you?”
The young lady turned, “I’m not sure that you can.” She replied, and her voice was heavy with sadness.
“I would be surprised if that were the case. You see, I have every type of box ever created by any earthly craftsman.” Immanuel proudly proclaimed.
“Alright,” sighed the lady in green, “I require a box to contain all of my love.”
Immanuel took a step back, then composed himself. His face was somber, his brow furrowed in concern. “Why do you wish for this?”

The young woman turned away her gaze, and her voice broke. “You see, today is the one year anniversary of my husband’s death; and I can no longer bear the burden of my love for him.” She paused and took a purposeful breath. “When I heard about your store, though I’m sure it’s impossible... I had imagined that I might be able to confine all of my love in one of your wonderful boxes, and place it in my attic that it might burden me no more.”

Immanuel was concerned. He had never received a request quite like this before. He knew this was going to be a difficult order to fill.

The young woman spoke up. “Your advertisement said you had boxes for everything, so I just thought, I know it’s stupid...” Her voice trailed off disappointedly.
“I will be completely honest with you,” he hesitantly replied. “I have never received a request quite like this before.” The young woman had tears in her eyes. Immanuel went on, “But I swear to you I will not rest until I can find you such a vessel.” A little light entered her face at this small hope. “I will search my entire inventory all through the night. Please leave your name and address and I will hand deliver your box tomorrow afternoon.”

So Immanuel searched his entire store, opening every box; thoroughly checking every shelf, nook, and cranny. He searched under the counter, and in the impressive windows, and behind the shop. He ran his fingers over wooden boxes, and smelled boxes made of ivory, and tapped boxes made of glass. He overturned his neat displays which had been meticulously stacked on the shop floor. He even looked in his apartment above the store. He searched all through the night and found nothing.

As dawn crept over the horizon, delicate frost glistened on the impressive windows of Immanuel’s emporium. He put on his coat and walked into the streets. It was very cold outside and the air burned his lungs. Soon, the tip of his nose became numb. Finally, he arrived at the address she had written down. He rapped on the door with the brass knocker and waited.

Several minutes later, the young lady arrived at the door, wearing a long, bright yellow robe which she pulled tight against the chill air.
“May I come in?” Immanuel inquired tentatively.

Timidly, she replied, “Yes,” and stepped aside.
Immanuel stepped into the house, standing awkwardly in the foyer. The young lady studied his haggard expression with concern. He raised his tired eyes, and for the first time, realized now how beautiful she was. She was thin and fragile like a flower. Her long auburn hair flowed in locks past her shoulders. He was momentarily captivated by her bright green eyes. In his head, he recited her name, Klara. He almost forgot why he was there.

“You have found a box for me.” Her tone was bright and hopeful.
“No.” Immanuel replied raggedly. “I have searched my entire shop, all my boxes, my entire inventory; and I have no such box.”
The young lady was crushed. “But you were so sure.”
“Yes,” Said Immanuel, “and I intend to keep that promise. However, I am afraid it will take a while longer.”
“How much longer?” He could hear her desperation, her depression.
“Give me one year.” He replied, standing tall and proud, hoping his confidence could be a small comfort. “On the eve of your late husband’s passing, not quite one year from now, I shall return with the box you require, or I shall retire from the business and close my gorgeous shop.”
This seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded, “Take all the time you need. Only, save me from this burden of sadness.” A tear glinted in her green green eyes, reflecting the morning sunlight.
“I have a book in which I keep the names of all of my suppliers, all my manufacturers, all my craftsmen... I will search the world over and find you the perfect box.” With this, He bowed, and left.

Part 2

Immanuel boarded a train that afternoon with his little black book in hand, and set off for South Africa. In this region, where the air burns hot like the sun, Immanuel knew of a man who made the most marvelous boxes designed for containing demons and spirits. His name was Umbutu, and he was only a few years older than Immanuel.
He was a small man with strong wiry arms and piercing yellow eyes. His boxes were black like the darkest night and small enough to fit in your pocket. Yet, despite Umbutu’s magic and his great skill, he did not possess the box Immanuel required.
Next, Immanuel travelled to the Himalayas where there was a woman named Asri; who lived high up in the mountains above the circle of the earth. She too was skilled in the ways of making vessels which could hold things somewhat insubstantial. Her boxes were tall and thin and made of gold. They had red lettering on the outside in a tongue which man no longer spoke. Her boxes held stories. They contained the history of all the Hindu gods and their exploits and teachings. She made thousands of them, and hid them in a cave in the highest mountain peak. However, she slowly shook her ancient head at Immanuel's request; for she knew not how to construct such a container.

Immanuel continued his travels. He crisscrossed the globe by train, and boat, and camel, crossing out one name at a time in his book. In Israel he met a child whose boxes contained the very nails which pierced Christ’s hands and feet, and the crown of thorns which pierced his head. In Ireland he found boxes which held faeries. In China he found boxes which held vampire’s blood, and in Australia dragon’s scales.

Seasons past, and still there was no hope in his quest. At night, he lay awake with his hand on his heart, thinking about Klara. He pictured her green green eyes, and replayed her musical voice in his mind.
He opened his book to the final page. There was one name left.

To reach the last man on his list, Immanuel crossed Antarctica by dog sled. There, amongst the mad mountains of the vast southern continent, he found an explorer who was collecting the earliest forms of life on earth. Painstakingly, the ruddy and bearded man tucked them away in boxes of ice and crystal. It was this barrel-chested fellow who instructed Immanuel in his booming voice to seek out an ancient shaman in America. The explorer assured him that if anyone on the planet could help, it would be him.

So Immanuel boarded a ship and sailed for America, seeking out a man who was not even on his list. Eleven months had passed since he had embarked on his journey, and this mysterious elder was his final hope.

Weayaya’s face was as old as the earth. His skin was like leather, tanned by decades under the sun. His eyes and mouth were surrounded by deep wrinkles from years of laughing and weeping. His head was crowned with long silver hair, braided throughout with beads and feathers. He sat in front of his tent, beneath the whirling constellations. A small fire smolders before him, his figure was wrapped in fur and wreathed in smoke. His eyes reflected the burning embers.
Immanuel bowed respectfully, cleared his throat, then explained his plight. Weayaya listened intently to his story, then sat in silence for what seemed like centuries.

Solemnly, he answered.
“I can create almost anything your heart desires,” He explained, “right now, in fact, I am building a box which I will use to contain a dying star who has been a dear friend to me.” Weayaya scratched his beard, then continued. “But even I cannot instruct you on how to go about such an ambitious endeavor. I am truly sorry, my friend.”

When Immanuel heard this, he felt a pain in his heart. It was like the old man had taken a sword and pierced it. He saw Klara's face flash before his eyes, her tears and her sadness.

His heart broke in half.
Immanuel cried out in pain, and the world faded to black.

He awoke in his hotel room with a physician standing over him. “Your heart is broken.” The doctor announced. “You require months of bed rest and medication.”

“I cannot.” Immanuel replied, assertively, “I have to return to my shop in Russia.”
Shaking and grimacing, Immanuel picked up his luggage, and his little black book, and boarded a train to the east. He took a ship across the ocean, then more trains. It seemed to be raining the entire journey, and he kept his hand clutched to his chest. The pain was excruciating, and Immanuel must have aged five years on the journey home.

When he at last reached his shop, he pushed the door open, coughing in the swirling dust.

At the back of his shop, behind the counter, there was a shelf containing one box. There was nothing unusual about it. It was a brown wooden box with scrollwork burned into it, about the size of a large novel. Immanuel knew that the following day, he would have to face the young lady with the news of his failure. The pain was too much to bear, so Immanuel placed his broken heart in the ordinary box and closed the lid. There was nothing else he could do for her.

That night, he slept like one who is dead, and there was a fever on his brow.

As the sun rose on the eve of her husband’s death, Immanuel was struck with the answer in a dream. He shot bolt upright in bed and clutched the place where his heart used to be. Throwing on his clothes and stumbling down the stairs, Immanuel grabbed the ordinary box containing his broken heart. He seized his coat and hat, and slammed the door behind him.

Winter, spring, and summer had passed while he was away, and the chill of late autumn again burned his lungs.

Immanuel stood on her front step, and rapped on the door once more.

She opened it, and was surprised to see him after such a long time. She beckoned him inside. “You have found the vessel for my love?” She asked.
“Yes,” Said Immanuel.
Going down on one knee, he tenderly opened the ordinary box which contained his broken heart.
“This is my heart, torn for you after having failed to find a container for your love. You see, I have traveled the world over and could not find anything suitable which could hold such an incredible thing. That is, until I realized this morning in a dream, that whilst I have been travelling the world over searching for the perfect vessel; the answer lay in my chest beating for you since the day we met.” His eyes met hers. “If you will take my heart, broken as it is, I will cherish you forever, and keep your love safe inside it.”
A single tear fell from her breathtaking green eyes. “Yes.” she said, “Yes, I will take your heart as my own and pour out my love into it. I see now this is the only way I can ever be whole.” Immanuel stood, and they embraced and kissed, tears of bittersweet joy mingling on their cheeks and becoming one.

Afterward, Immanuel and the Lady in green were united forever. They raised three children and taught them about love, and joy, and sorrow.
They lived happily for many decades; until one day, they were placed in dark wooden boxes of their very own, and buried side by side in the earth.

The End

Epilogue

Five thousand and four years later, Weayaya walked the wasted earth under a deep navy sky, tracing the tail of a star as it slowly fell from it’s place in the cosmos.
There, on the edge of a beach set against the dying sun; he saw two silvery translucent forms, walking hand in hand on the golden shores. He swore to himself that he had seen the young man many years before.


~G

Nine Bastard Fathers of My Fictional Writing

C. S. Lewis
H. P. Lovecraft
Neil Gaiman
H. G. Wells
Jules Verne
J. R. R. Tolkien
Robert A. Heinlein
Frank Peretti
M. Night Shyamalan

National Poetry Day - Insex / Holocene Extinction

She had six arms
And compact eyes
Two antennae
But gorgeous thighs
Here in space
It gets so cold
Eight million miles
From wife and home
It's been so long
My will is week
As above my head
The comets streak
She wags her finger
My fears subside
I unzip my spacesuit
And slip inside
Her sexy exoskeleton

/

We stand on the brink
A billion burning suns
An endless void of midnight

We don’t even stop to think
We are the only ones
When nothing will be alright

Melting ice shelves sink
I can taste your tongue
As the oil wells burn bright

We are the architects of our demise
The snow of ash descends
Our skeletons, embracing, face night

/

Coffee makes me poop.