On Testudines

Tinkling rivulets of light rolled off the solid carapace. Grandpa Mac looked through his round glasses- two wrinkled old raisins, the sugar crusting at their edges, looking out from behind perfect polished glass plates rimmed in a delicate gold.
My Grandpa Mac is a turtle and I feed him red bell peppers that my mother chops up for me. He is a box turtle.
He is a beautiful little pebble among a sea of rocks. Rocks waiting to slide over each other and crush him, his stony shell suddenly a brittle robin's egg.
Oh jesus, what if he was crushed;

On Moonlight

Solid, quivering chunks of light broke up the pitch between the pines, the snow a spectral white sheet giving way to even a fleet fox's step. Trevor hums, "aleftarightaleftaright…” cutting the crisp brittle linen to ribbons, crossing over from pitch to silver shafts of moonlight without losing momentum.

Heaving up rough-hewn chunks of snow, a soundless snowmobile tramps through the fragile medium. Saturated in a heavy dripping blue, a bare figure goads its mute steed on; catching up, and unburdening Trevor of his head.

LOP!

Clean off (his head), Trevor's body continues to glide, leaving a neat trail downhill.

On Animal Bondage

Solid, dual hued exterior, warm, dark, cushioned interior; the perfect prison.

Some muffled yelling and the bars give way to blinding cold light and a crisp breeze; "PIKACHU I CHOOSE YOU!"

"You fucking cocksucker, not this again," is what Pikachu would have said, but, as always, it came out "Pika-pika-PIKACHU!"

On Contacting Beings of Dark Power

The floor was a writhing carpet of mice, bulging and throbbing to some lunatic beat. Watching the mad mouse orgy, Jud wiped the last flecks of vomit from his finely combed beard, simultaneously feeling his neatly waxed mustache for stray traces.

Reflecting, he decided that attempting to ring up an elder god of the abyss with the assistance of his twelve year old cousin and a flimsy twice-read novel had been a poor idea.

How the fuck could he explain why Jimmy now hung wetly limp, still dripping gore (probably) with his spine unnaturally coiled around a sign reading "I-36W".

An Angry Mail to NWA

You canceled my direct flight for "technical problems". Why would you do this. It's not forecasted to be snowing Sunday morning, or even Saturday night. You tried to send me to Newark, why would you do that? If it's snowing here, in Boston, then Newark will be bogged down as well.
Oh, that's right. Because you had to do maintenance on a plane at 6:00am. That's swell that you're keeping your fleet in tip to shape to get your customers where they need to be on time.

But wait, that's not all! You didn't even bother to email or call me to let me know that my plane wasn't taking off. That's pretty friendly of you guys.
I actually had to call your customer service line and talk to an agent, who was awfully cranky and unhelpful even if I was a bit on edge myself. I don't blame her.

Thanks for your excellent customer service, I appreciate the warmth, kindness and attention that keeps me coming back to NWA.

Until next time,
Andrei Anghelescu

On Creativity

I have been feeling a bit drained lately. Not so much tired or beat down (though a bit under the weather), I just have this fear brooding in the back of my skull that I have lost some if not all of my creativity on the way to where I am now. I don't know if it's because of where I am or because I just neglected it, but I have been finding it frustratingly hard to conjure up anything novel and exciting.

It's not just drawing or painting, it feels like somehow everything: my writing, my conversations, my passion for music… it just feels like it's blunted, become bland, masked and inaccessible.

I don't know how concerned to be; on one hand, it's frightening. But I think it's the same sort of fear you have for the dark when you are young, it's unknown, lurking, monstrous, but in the end it's the same as it always was. In another sense, it's paralyzingly sinister, but I think recognizing this is reason to cheer up. Even if I am getting rusty, I can work at it. I am not quite convinced I was ever that fantastic an artist, writer or person.

To be quite honest, I think introspection of this sort is helpful. I am only putting time into this now so that I can write, not so that I can share.

In a different vein, this morning I have managed to:

• Drop a sculpture in progress.
• Take out the garbage (it needed taking)
• Not take out the recycling (it needed taking even more)
• Buy groceries and practice Spanish at the same time
• Write something for the first time in too long

Cheers,

Andrei

Oh-fuck.

So I fucked up the wordpress blog I was hosting on my own webspace.