A Requiem of Boars and Knives

Before you read, and also for myself so that I may preface what I’m about to post in my own mind, I wanted to explain this poem. If the content or intention of this poem is alarming in its subject material or the volatile darkness of its nature, it is because it is so. This poem does discuss suicide, as it was written in a point in my life where I was struggling daily with intense feelings of anguish and self loathing and was constantly self-prompted to exact hurt on myself. I dealt with these feelings very often, but I stopped. When I moved to college, when I partitioned myself from the old existence that was Frisco and the bindings of my household, by no means a defamation of my family, I gained the strength and the self awareness to seek help for myself. It was a struggle at first, as I was conditioned to think that seeking help was a sign of weakness, but eventually I realized the folly in that. And I’m better now, not completely cured or done with anything, but on a recovering road from myself and my dysfunctional upbringing. I say all that, because in re-reading this, I was shocked to realize that I had posted it on Facebook, where I was “friends” with the vast majority of my high school. Even more shocking was how I posted this in junior year and for a whole year and a half no one ever asked me about it or how I felt or ever tried to address the pain I was feeling and that I would eventually exemplify self-harming behavior in plain sight of my classmates. I think I maybe I scared people with this. I think people didn’t know what to think. I don’t think I ever tried to illicit fear or anxiety, I just had this desire for companionship and attention. Now, I post this poem again, here, because it reads well,and because it communicates a very deep and real pain people experience, and to have something presented in its most articulate volatility is something cathartic. I wish, growing up, I knew more of people who survived these feelings, rather than those who succumbed to them.  If you go through a difficult experience, you owe it to others in that experience to relate to them and let them know they’re not alone. I’m, really, just a person seeking to be functional and to be accepted by others.


Welcome to my hell

With no hope to sell

Upon another the life fell

It is all yours, enjoy

Enjoy the screaming lunatics down the halls,

The constant animosity that greatly appalls

Enjoy that stinging pain in your heart, it calls

It calls to you to end your misery

It wants you to take that damned blade

Let it sing as it, in your flesh, fades

From your conscious, all that you made

Unravels before you, a requiem no one will sing

For there already is one, the belligerent roar

Of two people, relentless and mad, that are boars

They won’t rest until forever closed is that door.

You see that door? I see a prison cell.

I see it through tears, through all the pain

Hoping some soul will reach through my mane

To embrace the crying child who everyday feigns

But lo, the singing blade, it’s all a dream

Because even if I do hold it my neck, no one comes

The screaming will then be directed at me, I’m glum

I cry inside a lot, I hurt; I die in secret, and then some

But I laugh, because I have better dreams to attend to

That knife is used to slice the ingestion of my sorrow

I go about, alone everyday, to my lonesome with no affection

The pain is within, to fuel dreams that seep from my morrow

So, welcome to it, my hell

It’s a frozen little tundra to dwell

In the darkness where loneliness impels.

Don’t be afraid.

It’s a numb feeling now.

Ignore my tears, say ciao

Pretend I’m more dramatic than thou

You can pass by the window, but misery shall always be there.


A Brief Musing on Loneliness

(Written in 2011)

There is an inarticulate feeling that corrupts. It is a feeling that does not know how to present itself in words, or why it exists. Yet, it is a poignant state of being, one that clenches at the very essence of your fears of which holds you back from the world and rockets you into it at the same time. The madness eats you from the inside, the insecurity of it all gnawing away until there’s no more. It makes you beg the question as to why you are not that particular person which the people you so desire to be adored by, to be in the company of, all flock to be with. This insecurity plants the delusional thought in your mind that they possess something you don’t, a godly trait that fixes them upon the highest pedestal of the social order, adored and cared for in the smallest of concerns. All the while, yours cripples you into a debilitating sadness every breathing moment you gaze on this scene. When your world is succumbed into darkness, this delusion perpetuates the reality that no one is there, and no one can comfort you, and it’s your fault.

And, quite frankly, it is your fault, but only for allowing the rotten seed to fester. The seed makes itself seem indomitable, incurable, and invincible to your efforts. When you try and reach for the roots burrowing into your troubled mind, the ones that also stab holes into your tear ducts and make you cry, to try and yank it out, it pulls back viciously. The hand that reaches for help, a human companion of affection or care or tender warmth amidst a frozen world, is smashed into the ground in frustration, for it simply cannot do so. The delusion, the disease of which we call loneliness, has attended to its own survival by perpetuating in the minds of its victims that it is them that are at fault, that it is them that are inadequate to be rid of loneliness. It deludes them to believe that they should fear to try, that they should fear people and fear rejection. It does this by encumbering their minds and their actions with the gnawing roots of insecurity. That is how it survives: it feeds off you, and it distorts your reality into the paranoia of unheard rumors, feigned smiles, and unsympathetic ears. Although, in reality, they are every bit as great as they wish they were.

It encourages the disease when others gave you a glimmer of some justice in your life, who feigned smiles or gave false testimony to some virtue you were deceived into believing existed. The cruel dishonesty pierces the heart more brutally than any blade, and when you call upon the gleam of light, you see it’s merely a light bulb with a switch, switching on and off at the whim of its own vanity. Their vanity, however, is but a constituent to the delusion, a tool, but it works so perfectly, because it is the carrier of this delusion that feels crushed.

This disease is not entirely their faults, the lonely. The reason is because they’ll try with all their might to fix it, to ease their loneliness and seek happiness. Yet, the best they can do is search for outreached hands or affection or care. If they are denied this, if they are left to their solitude forever and no one calls upon them for their company, they will wither into darkness. It is one thing to work for that affection, a grueling affair that usually leads to disappointment. It is painful. People take their company for granted; they treat people incorrectly, when those who don’t have anyone would do anything to be in someone’s company, to feel warmth. Listen with your hearts, for the masks of the lonely bear the same fakeness of those who are tended to, for they wish to be like them, and reach out. Sometimes it’ll make all the difference in someone’s life to shine some light in the darkness of someone’s loneliness. Let them realize that they are, in fact, quality people

Copyright 2014

The ‘Why’ of GPA: “The Prequel to the Manifesto”

In a distant past of three weeks ago, I was someone who wasn’t drawn to or even remotely interested in having any sort of web presence, particularly for the vast amount of written work I was composing. My reasons aren’t necessarily relevant, as it revolves around my disinterest in the predominant culture presented to be ‘social media & blogging’. There was something grating about the personas thrown about, a virtual cafeteria food fight of pettifoggery and one-sided dogmas. Yet, I had a journalism class this semester that wholly emphasized how tantamount web presence was becoming in our rapidly inter-connecting digital world. So I had to adapt, scrap my previous notions and swallow my pride ( a process of unhinging my jaw and inflating my esophagus whole for this beast wouldn’t down easily). I made a blog via Google to complete the assignment and because I hadn’t been doing the blog posts we were expected to do, I instead just posted my short stories. A lot of these were on Facebook, which is where I’d post them throughout high school, hoping my peers would read them and comment and provide me feedback.So, I just dumped maybe a dozen of them  onto this blog, this wretched ‘Kino-Gutai Bundle’ nonsense, and presented it to the class with the mask of ambition. I suggested that I wanted to use this format to further my writing, which wasn’t at all what I was considering. I wanted the assignment done.

I felt slightly embarrassed, though, looking at the skills and effort that went into all the other websites and then looking at mine in comparison, a drying worm to sharks. My writing, I thought, deserved better than the composite of Facebook and this wretched Kino-Gutai Bundle, for my writing was always something I cared deeply about, but never seemed to be competent enough to market properly. Nor was I willing to so easily abandon my principles to become a social media attention whore.  So I looked at my blog following the class and decided that it needed to be majorly revamped now that I finally had time to work on this, my film work and paper writing being complete. Yet, this isn’t a why. This is the meager how, that prelude which whispers on street corners with promises of fantastical trips to the vice of transcendence. This is a modest first step to an arrogance.

So, we’re here. At Gutai-Pravda Assembly. Why are we here, then? At first, yes! it was but a dumping ground for the work of myself and an old friend, Schackalackmann, and the more we poured ourselves into establishing routine, placing work for months in advance, I felt tenderness for this conscription of codes and datum. Truly, I think I poured myself into this as much as I did so as to overcome a tremendous depression and heartbreak I was recovering from. And, when things seem bleak for me socially, I try my hardest and most sincerest to displace my attention to work, like building something so loudly that the power tools overpower the whimpering inside me. It’s an act of sublimation, taking my passions to ignite flames to the decay of gnarling and constricting plants so that I may replant the garden I cultivate within me with something beautiful. But we didn’t have a mission. We were just working and throwing ideas around, the two of us, with him always reporting back to me that it was indeed my brainchild.

But, if it’s the product of my mind, why ought I ever constrain that engine of idea and emotion, and so, I realized, this blog should be as daring as I hope myself to be. I became ambitious with this, and I let the ambition wrap about me, blanketing the cold skin on me and bracing me against everything. It is so very empowering to be given this open pasture, this freedom. Also, if it’s the product of my mind, it should host its darkness.

And there we find what I want. I am not meaning to say I host harmful or deconstructive presences, as I seldom allow those within myself to begin with. I absolutely do not intend on this publication and collective to be a harbor for malevolent intention. Instead, I want it to be an agent of good. But, the darkness I speak of isn’t one of outright malice or ‘evil’, rather it speaks to anguish and pain and sufferings and disenfranchisement.

Writing, for me, was forever the podium of inarticulate coldness in my soul, made palpable in the power of language, and I cherished that power. It was also a stage for my imagination to tell stories that I could never hope to see in reality or the multiplex. It also grows arms and tendrils and caresses the wounds of others, the ability of someone who cares to write. I learned this and I wanted to pursue this collective stress ball.

Schackalackmann and I, we have a lot of ideas being thrown around. We are flirting with the minds of other creative types to perhaps join us on this adventure. We want to become something prominent and something large and something spectacular. But to what end? As I was reading advisory sites on building site traffic, I noticed a few of them discussing the mission statement of a blog, a ‘why’, and that we did’t have that. We were, firstly, a dumping ground of short stories and, secondly, a playground for our absurdist natures, which is all fair because absurdity is life-affirming. So, in the flux of getting our awareness and name through the door, I’ve taken it upon myself to establish a persona, a banner, for what Gutai-Pravda Assembly is and why it is, at least to my awareness now.

We want to be true to our name, which we’ll discuss surely, and by that I mean an “embodiment of truth”. But because that is the most obliviously abstract thing to claim, we’re very open to interpretations. I have my take and Schackalackmann has his, surely (or not…. which is fine.) I want this site to be an open haven to madness and creative ricochets and sadness and a place where the taboo of being oneself is cast away in a violent coup. To grow up under the scrutiny and persecution of stigmas shouldn’t break us. We are broken by these chains of words, how language binds us and how people hurt us. Yet, we should strive to use language to empower us and to love people. Not even language of word, but language of reality, of our reality and how we perceive it and how we interpret the beauty of our worlds, respectively. I want that, I want people to come alive, I want the sexual and intellectual energy of existence to shoot supernova from what we do.

Will we  succeed? I don’t know. I’ve never really known much. I’ve been forever playing it by the ear, I suppose, and really most of us kind of are in this unfamiliar era where our thoughts, like this nonsense blog post, can reach millions of consciousnesses in a matter of seconds. This is the bravest of new worlds and we are its conquistadors, so let’s embrace that unknown. I want, ultimately, a better attempt at understanding, for to understand fully is to fight every issue at the root of its existence. And to be understood. As do you. And you should.

I have a good feeling about this, so we’re gonna do our best to be entertaining, thought-provoking and brutally transparent with you, for we all deserve something like that.



A (Gutai) Musing

In response to our fearless leader Nik “Gaucho” Reda posting about Kino-eye and Kino-Pravda and Kino-Oki and everything else in terms of his Frisco film, I want to take a moment to address the readers myself.
I began writing short stories in August of this year and didn’t do anything with them. I sent them to Nik, who would tell me how much he enjoyed them, and that was the end of it. I kept them all, because who knew what would happen, and because they weren’t taking up all that much space. Lo and behold, the same friend who had been encouraging me to keep writing wanted me to post on his site as well. And so, I’ve been putting my stories here instead of in his inbox, and allowing all of you to read the questionable things I write, free of charge.
Now, Nik wrote about Kino-Pravda, so it’s time I write about Gutai.
Gutai is the Japanese art movement based around the idea that the process of creating art is more important than the finished product. In that way, I’ve been a Gutai writer my entire life: whenever I wrote a story, a joke, or anything, I always aimed to have fun doing it and to entertain myself, first and foremost. And in a way, I’m still doing that. I write what comes to me naturally, because for me, it’s no fun if I try to crank out a thousand words a day. It was fun to write stories about Waiting in space when I was waiting for a class to start, or to write about researchers in Antarctica when it was too cold outside for my tastes. Sometimes a single line of dialogue or a small happening would inspire an entire universe into creation, and I couldn’t avoid writing it down wherever I was and taking the idea as far as I could. As I’ve continued writing, I’ve started linking stories together and creating overarching narratives, and writing stories longer than I ever imagined I’d have the patience for. But it wasn’t really about the finished product. It was always about the process. The fun I had writing, and the joy I had in having a completed product I could call my own.
So please, subscribe to the blog, share it with your friends, and tell the world that we’re here. We’ve got a lot in store for you over the next few months, and we’re planning on adding more and more. Not just because we want to be prolific writers, filmmakers, speakers, or whatever else. But because we’re doing what we love to do, and what we have fun doing.
See you next Thursday.

A (Frisco) Film Log: Day 1-An Epilogue to Sentiments and Resentments

The concept behind this journal is to provide some sense of a daily writing exercise for myself and as well a production booklet (or pseudo-so) for this film. I do not imagine that anyone is necessarily excited for this film as of yet, or that is being made or that anyone is remotely aware of what Frisco is. That will all be made clear in the writing of this journal.

Day 1 of Principal Photography. I originally wanted to start shooting on Saturday, but because of the unavailability and the tear-jerking lack of foresight of every supermarket in my vicinity, I could not get the bargain deal for the cheaper version of the Go Pro camera. So Sunday I convinced myself to purchase the available, more expensive version (The GoPro 3 Plus Silver), but could not film STILL because of the lack of a microSD card. So Saturday and Sunday, two prime shooting days, had come and gone.

All the while, I was trying to figure out the vision of what I wanted this film to be. This film is hardwired into my feelings for my hometown and the resentment I’ve come to grow for it and the contention of what this place represents for me and how I’ve developed in opposition to it. That is not to say my entire evolution is a reaction to Frisco, but that the parts that are reactionary are indeed complicated. There’s no need to get into all of that now, but they are present and may be discussed. Do I take a very serious and unflinching look at what this place can do to people in a cinema verite style? Is this feasible? Do I make a film about its affects on me? Would that be watchable? Or do I continue this spirit that I developed late into my last semester where I created a film that was pure mockumentary absurdism and wholly an anti-film? Would the schtick still work?

These are questions that I’m still fumbling through. I want this to be good. I want it to act as some sort of armistice and consolidation and wake, all together, for me and my feelings entombed in this city and its people. People I’ve grown up with. I want this to be watchable, but simultaneously something that speaks. I feel I will find my answer as I become proactive in my activities and my conversations and my ennui fed decisions. The more I film, the more I’ll capture and the more I’ll realize through the Kino-eye of the GoPro. Dziga Vertov, a very influential soviet filmmaker, waxed philosophical about the capabilities of the cinematic eye, of the camera, and its ability to capture reality in a scope for more infinite than that of the human eye. We are taking butterfly nets to Truth, my associates and I. Filmmaking, to me, is an exploration of the soul as we see it manifest in the view screen, never quite knowing what we’ll happen upon and whether that thing is the reality that we seek or the one we suppress. You know, fiction or not, we see things that we normally would never notice, even if it’s just in the stories we tell, and we let it converse with us. I want that to happen here and it needs to happen for this to be a good film. I don’t want a commercial or critical film. I just want a good film and I need to become the camera to do that.

Today, first day of principal photography, I spent a good amount of time holding the camera in a god-awful worm’s eye view until I purchased a head strap. Glory be to this head strap. Once figuring out the mechanics, I took it to the local supermarket, Target where Brandon works, and I walked in, GoPro recklessly blaring on my head. Here’s a trick I did, though. I taped the entire outer case where the camera rests with black tape. I did this so no one could really know if I was filming or not. This helps me ease in and out of situations and cajoles those around me. So, I walked through Target, found Brandon, noticed I embarrassed him (I will be visiting him more now) and left by the employee lounge, to see if anyone would stop me. They didn’t. I went to another store to test this out again. Same conclusion. No one would really eject me from their store. This will be tested as I push my boundaries.

Then, I rode back home on my bike, taking the long way. Later on, I went to a Whataburger, a southern fast food chain, with GPA’s own Drew Schackmann, filming the conversation we had until the battery died.

Today was uneventful. Tomorrow I have a soccer game. I will try to film that. Tomorrow I have lunch with an old enemy and tormentor. That will be interesting. Tomorrow is promising. I will also place more effort into these entries as this one was just a spontaneous afterthought to the day.

Thank you for reading. We will keep you posted. Please follow for more updates on the film, our upcoming podcast, more short stories, and other media contents.