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<blockquote data-quote="Macbeth" data-source="post: 1624132" data-attributes="member: 11259"><p><em><span style="font-size: 9px">Round 1, Match 2, Macbeth vs. Morpheus</span></em></p><p><span style="font-size: 18px"><strong>Art Memoir</strong></span></p><p><em>by Sage “Macbeth” LaTorra</em></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I'm sorry. If your reading this, stop. It isn't worth your time. These are my confessions. These are my wrong doings. This is why, in about 15 minutes, there's going to be a police standoff outside of my house. And more then likely, I'll get shot. It's what I deserve.</p><p></p><p></p><p>I'm not crazy. Not most of the time. I think. </p><p></p><p>They say that if you're sane enough to wonder if you're insane, you're not insane. Sometimes I wonder about that. Seems that I might be wondering if I'm insane just to cover up my insanity. To convince myself that I'm alright. But I'm not. The circular logic of sanity.</p><p></p><p>Crazy people are always charismatic in some odd, fascinating way. I'm crazy. I'm charismatic. There's always somebody looking for an original idea, and who has more original ideas than an insane artist? So there's always somebody to follow an insane artist, somewhere.</p><p></p><p>Yes, I'm an artist. Some would say that's my problem, some would say that's why I'm insane. I think that's why I'm sane. If I didn't let the insanity dribble out into my art I would be even crazier. Of course I lived in San Francisco. Where else could I get away with living like this?</p><p></p><p>Sanity goes with insanity. Insanity goes with art. Art goes with religion. And so I'm religious. Not in any specific Pope-Dalai-Lama-Anton-Levay way, just generally religious. And that was the start of it all.</p><p></p><p>Art attracts followers. Followers spark art. My art attracts followers, and my followers spark my sin. </p><p></p><p>Maybe it was the type of art I created. My first work was meant to inflame. I didn't really care what it meant, I just wanted to see the right wing reaction when I made art out of a dead human body or two. And just because I didn't care what it meant, it meant too much. </p><p>I robbed graves. I had to have my materials. I had to have two hands. They couldn't be fake hands, then nobody would care. <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14747" target="_blank">So I had my real hands, and I set them in a jar, touching, like the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, with some water for effect</a>(1). It was my connection to god, or something. It was also a set of human body parts. Every critic saw some larger statement in it, some symbolism, some meaning. Everybody thought I saw god's touch pulling us out of the water, or the creation of man, or the destruction of religion. I actually saw a pair of human hands I dug out of cheap, shallow graves. I reveled in the uproar when it went on display.</p><p></p><p>Instantly I had a following. People recognized me in the streets, spit on me or smiled at me, despised or delighted. Everybody knew me, arts students flocked to offer to help me. And so I had a following.</p><p></p><p>It was more then just a following, it was a lifestyle. We had a deserted house to live in. It belonged to one of the nameless artists who started worshiping me, and we all lived there. We were communists, but not in the Lenin-Stalin-Marx way, we just didn't have property. And so we created art, trying to be insulting. We broke more laws then I had thought possible. We consumed more drugs then I had thought possible. Our kitchen looked like the trunk of that car in that movie, or like the car in that movie times ten. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That's it.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Everybody found us objectionable. The free speech people were even starting to turn on us. We were becoming more and more sane as the art poured out, and we started to realize our mistake. We had lost our edge. We weren't novel anymore, we weren't the best new thing. But that was going to change.</p><p></p><p>I addressed my army of artists, my vanguard of violence, from the stairs in our deserted house. Even with us in it, it was still deserted. It was time for me to give us a new direction.</p><p></p><p>“Shut up.” The room became still. They knew this was big. “America loves the next big thing. It's never what is now, it's what is next. And, folks, we're no longer next. We're now, and now is gone. Dismembered hands, feces, vomit, perversions, intestines, bodies, torture, this is no longer art. That was today's art. Tomorrow's art has to be bigger. We made a stir with what we did before, now we make a difference. We're going to remake the world in our image.” And it was good.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Like I said, I'm religious. I'm sane enough to worry that I'm insane. But our art was god-given. And we were going to do more this time. This time we had god on our side.</p><p>I started carrying around a Bible at all times. Then I started carrying a Quran also. And a Book of Common Prayer, and on and on. Soon I was carrying a backpack full of books, but always with a Bible in my hand. I started going out more, always with my books, and I promoted our art. I hinted at what we were doing. But nobody caught on. Ignorance and Bliss in Las Vegas.</p><p></p><p>I started giving orders, in a general way, not Patton-Hitler-Moses commands, but more suggestions. And, being that I was the now anti-Christ of art, my helpers did what I asked. We started the greatest art project in the world. </p><p></p><p>Art always had the potential to change the world, but we were going to take that potential and use it.</p><p></p><p></p><p>The first step was the boat. It had to be big. It had to be bigger. It had to be the kind of boat only a mountain could support. So we set about attaching every half worm-eaten board we could together, around the hull of an old house boat. All told it ended up being 450 feet long, 75 feet wide and 45 feet high. A ship of epic proportions. Biblical proportions. </p><p></p><p>We didn't know how to make a ship. It was just a collection of wood, coated inside and out with pitch, barely water tight, with an old houseboat lost somewhere in it's bowels. But we thought it would float. It might have been the drugs, but we thought it would float. Hope and Drugs in Las Vegas.</p><p></p><p>We were alone for blocks. Our deserted house was part of a deserted neighborhood, and even with us there, it was still deserted. Nobody noticed a huge ship behind an old, pseudo-Victorian imitation mansion. It was going to be art. I was going to be an artist.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Art has always been associated with god. A god. Or two. But always with the divine. God created the Earth, and man, and water, and animals, and (in a move so politically incorrect I have to admire it) last of all, women, from man. And so we create. We were created, so we create. This may be why so many people don't like evolution: if we weren't created, why do we create? “We evolved, so we evolve” just isn't the same. </p><p></p><p>And so I decided, if I was to be the artist of tomorrow, I would imitate god. A god. Maybe two gods. Cleanliness is next to godliness, but creativity is godliness.</p><p></p><p></p><p>The hardest part was the animals. Usually, I don't work with live animals. I do still life, and a living animal is not still. A dead animal, however, is. All of my art so far had involved dead animals. Especially a rather unusual ape that I like to use in art called Homo Sapien. Man the Wise. Know thyself.</p><p></p><p>But any animal becomes easy to deal with when you pump it full of enough drugs, and drugs were one thing we had plenty of. Sanity was what we were short on. Dopamine and Dope in Las Vegas.</p><p></p><p>So we did what we could on the animal front. Over a year of animal based art had given us some experience in getting animals. From zoos. From pet shops. From backyards. From life.</p><p></p><p>One of my followers had been a vet before I seduced him through art. He drugged every animal we brought in. I personally watched him work. I had to see how it happened. It was art. Little pins, dipped in an appropriate mix of drugs, and stuck in the right spot, and a vivid, life-filled beast became a sack of flesh, barely moving.</p><p></p><p><a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14746" target="_blank">The lizard always stuck with me. Most of the animals struggled, fought, resisted. The lizard just settled down and waited. The look in his eyes, the resignation that he couldn't win.</a> I wondered if the lizard had stopped wondering if he was crazy. I think I had. I think I may have been like the lizard. I knew what was coming, so I didn't fight it. </p><p></p><p></p><p>We had the boat (if you could call it that), we had the animals (though a couple died, we had only 13 left), it was time. Let there be art. And there was. And it was good.</p><p></p><p>Floods are universal. Almost every culture has a myth of a great flood, usually a flood to cleanse the world of evil. This is what triggered my art. In Egypt only a few shepherds escaped the flood. In Greece Deucalion built an ark. The Hindu Manu built an ark. Fa-He, the founder of Chinese civilization, escaped a flood. Druids held that a great patriarch built a strong ship and escaped the flood. The Polynesians had a better survival rate, eight escaped. Mexico had a man and his family escape the flood. A Peruvian man and women floated the flood out in a box. Native Americans had one, three, maybe even eight survive. Greenland explained the flood as the world tilting over, after which the one man and one women that survived repopulated the earth. With all these people floating around, you'd think they'd have run into each other sometime.</p><p></p><p>The implications are staggering. Either there really was a flood, with a boat surviving, or the myth started in some shared culture, or the flood is so inculcated into the human psyche that every culture created their own myth. Whatever the reason, it was a truly universal experience. And that made it mine. The only art I could be sure would reach everybody.</p><p></p><p>I would imitate God. A god. Maybe two gods. I would make the artistic statement to be remembered, one that was already remembered. Sin and Flood in Las Vegas.</p><p></p><p></p><p>We rigged bombs on the water mains. We loaded animals into the boat, which, amazingly, held together as all 13 animals got in. Now it was time.</p><p></p><p>The flood was to cleanse the world of wickedness, and the most of wicked of all were my followers. And I couldn't really bring all of them along, after all, this was supposed to be an exclusive voyage.</p><p></p><p>So I took them into the bake yard and gave them all Cyanide laced wine. The Last Supper of the Damned. Wine and Bread in Las Vegas.</p><p></p><p>But I couldn't let they're sacrifice be in vain. So they're art now. Before they died I had them each carve a mask of themselves. A self portrait of how the thought they looked. And now they look like it. <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14745" target="_blank">One last piece of art before the big one, each mask stuck on the outside of the ship, with its maker's head stuck inside. The faces of God.</a></p><p></p><p>And just to be fair, I made a mask for the animals that died, both of them. They had died for our art, now they are art.</p><p></p><p>And my ship was ready to sail. The doors were shut, and the water mains burst, and it rained. The rain was what was unusual. This wasn't the time of year for rain, but it poured, pounded, and flooded. I don't know why it rained. Maybe a god was on my side after all. The waters increased.</p><p></p><p>I was standing on the deck, watching my art, when I noticed a wayward follower. One of my flock had not taken his wine. <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14744" target="_blank">He was standing next to a pay phone, shoulders deep in water, making a call. I'll always remember the look on his face. The look on the lizard's face. The question of sanity. He was calling the cops.</a></p><p></p><p></p><p>And now they're on they're way. They'll be here soon. They'll find me. Maybe I'll be dead. I don't want to confront them. But it's over now, I can see the rainbow, the promise. They'll find our art, the masks, the heads, the holy books with each page with a square cut into the middle, to create an empty, concealed space, where I could keep my drugs. Each holy book concealing a stash. My Bible is not filled with stories of the patriarchs, of Jesus and the disciples, it is a repository of weed, speed, and dope. Dopamine and Dismay in Las Vegas.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Picture Usage:</p><p>(1) <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14747" target="_blank">The narrator's first art, a pair of severed human hands in a glass.</a></p><p>(2) <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14746" target="_blank">The druged lizard with his resigned gaze.</a></p><p>(3) <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14745" target="_blank">Masks of the narrator's followers on the side of the ark, with their heads behind.</a></p><p>(4) <a href="http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14744" target="_blank">One of the followers calling the police, looking at the narrator with the same gaze as the lizard.</a></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Macbeth, post: 1624132, member: 11259"] [i][size=1]Round 1, Match 2, Macbeth vs. Morpheus[/size][/i] [size=5][b]Art Memoir[/b][/size] [i]by Sage “Macbeth” LaTorra[/i] I'm sorry. If your reading this, stop. It isn't worth your time. These are my confessions. These are my wrong doings. This is why, in about 15 minutes, there's going to be a police standoff outside of my house. And more then likely, I'll get shot. It's what I deserve. I'm not crazy. Not most of the time. I think. They say that if you're sane enough to wonder if you're insane, you're not insane. Sometimes I wonder about that. Seems that I might be wondering if I'm insane just to cover up my insanity. To convince myself that I'm alright. But I'm not. The circular logic of sanity. Crazy people are always charismatic in some odd, fascinating way. I'm crazy. I'm charismatic. There's always somebody looking for an original idea, and who has more original ideas than an insane artist? So there's always somebody to follow an insane artist, somewhere. Yes, I'm an artist. Some would say that's my problem, some would say that's why I'm insane. I think that's why I'm sane. If I didn't let the insanity dribble out into my art I would be even crazier. Of course I lived in San Francisco. Where else could I get away with living like this? Sanity goes with insanity. Insanity goes with art. Art goes with religion. And so I'm religious. Not in any specific Pope-Dalai-Lama-Anton-Levay way, just generally religious. And that was the start of it all. Art attracts followers. Followers spark art. My art attracts followers, and my followers spark my sin. Maybe it was the type of art I created. My first work was meant to inflame. I didn't really care what it meant, I just wanted to see the right wing reaction when I made art out of a dead human body or two. And just because I didn't care what it meant, it meant too much. I robbed graves. I had to have my materials. I had to have two hands. They couldn't be fake hands, then nobody would care. [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14747]So I had my real hands, and I set them in a jar, touching, like the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, with some water for effect[/url](1). It was my connection to god, or something. It was also a set of human body parts. Every critic saw some larger statement in it, some symbolism, some meaning. Everybody thought I saw god's touch pulling us out of the water, or the creation of man, or the destruction of religion. I actually saw a pair of human hands I dug out of cheap, shallow graves. I reveled in the uproar when it went on display. Instantly I had a following. People recognized me in the streets, spit on me or smiled at me, despised or delighted. Everybody knew me, arts students flocked to offer to help me. And so I had a following. It was more then just a following, it was a lifestyle. We had a deserted house to live in. It belonged to one of the nameless artists who started worshiping me, and we all lived there. We were communists, but not in the Lenin-Stalin-Marx way, we just didn't have property. And so we created art, trying to be insulting. We broke more laws then I had thought possible. We consumed more drugs then I had thought possible. Our kitchen looked like the trunk of that car in that movie, or like the car in that movie times ten. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That's it. Everybody found us objectionable. The free speech people were even starting to turn on us. We were becoming more and more sane as the art poured out, and we started to realize our mistake. We had lost our edge. We weren't novel anymore, we weren't the best new thing. But that was going to change. I addressed my army of artists, my vanguard of violence, from the stairs in our deserted house. Even with us in it, it was still deserted. It was time for me to give us a new direction. “Shut up.” The room became still. They knew this was big. “America loves the next big thing. It's never what is now, it's what is next. And, folks, we're no longer next. We're now, and now is gone. Dismembered hands, feces, vomit, perversions, intestines, bodies, torture, this is no longer art. That was today's art. Tomorrow's art has to be bigger. We made a stir with what we did before, now we make a difference. We're going to remake the world in our image.” And it was good. Like I said, I'm religious. I'm sane enough to worry that I'm insane. But our art was god-given. And we were going to do more this time. This time we had god on our side. I started carrying around a Bible at all times. Then I started carrying a Quran also. And a Book of Common Prayer, and on and on. Soon I was carrying a backpack full of books, but always with a Bible in my hand. I started going out more, always with my books, and I promoted our art. I hinted at what we were doing. But nobody caught on. Ignorance and Bliss in Las Vegas. I started giving orders, in a general way, not Patton-Hitler-Moses commands, but more suggestions. And, being that I was the now anti-Christ of art, my helpers did what I asked. We started the greatest art project in the world. Art always had the potential to change the world, but we were going to take that potential and use it. The first step was the boat. It had to be big. It had to be bigger. It had to be the kind of boat only a mountain could support. So we set about attaching every half worm-eaten board we could together, around the hull of an old house boat. All told it ended up being 450 feet long, 75 feet wide and 45 feet high. A ship of epic proportions. Biblical proportions. We didn't know how to make a ship. It was just a collection of wood, coated inside and out with pitch, barely water tight, with an old houseboat lost somewhere in it's bowels. But we thought it would float. It might have been the drugs, but we thought it would float. Hope and Drugs in Las Vegas. We were alone for blocks. Our deserted house was part of a deserted neighborhood, and even with us there, it was still deserted. Nobody noticed a huge ship behind an old, pseudo-Victorian imitation mansion. It was going to be art. I was going to be an artist. Art has always been associated with god. A god. Or two. But always with the divine. God created the Earth, and man, and water, and animals, and (in a move so politically incorrect I have to admire it) last of all, women, from man. And so we create. We were created, so we create. This may be why so many people don't like evolution: if we weren't created, why do we create? “We evolved, so we evolve” just isn't the same. And so I decided, if I was to be the artist of tomorrow, I would imitate god. A god. Maybe two gods. Cleanliness is next to godliness, but creativity is godliness. The hardest part was the animals. Usually, I don't work with live animals. I do still life, and a living animal is not still. A dead animal, however, is. All of my art so far had involved dead animals. Especially a rather unusual ape that I like to use in art called Homo Sapien. Man the Wise. Know thyself. But any animal becomes easy to deal with when you pump it full of enough drugs, and drugs were one thing we had plenty of. Sanity was what we were short on. Dopamine and Dope in Las Vegas. So we did what we could on the animal front. Over a year of animal based art had given us some experience in getting animals. From zoos. From pet shops. From backyards. From life. One of my followers had been a vet before I seduced him through art. He drugged every animal we brought in. I personally watched him work. I had to see how it happened. It was art. Little pins, dipped in an appropriate mix of drugs, and stuck in the right spot, and a vivid, life-filled beast became a sack of flesh, barely moving. [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14746]The lizard always stuck with me. Most of the animals struggled, fought, resisted. The lizard just settled down and waited. The look in his eyes, the resignation that he couldn't win.[/url] I wondered if the lizard had stopped wondering if he was crazy. I think I had. I think I may have been like the lizard. I knew what was coming, so I didn't fight it. We had the boat (if you could call it that), we had the animals (though a couple died, we had only 13 left), it was time. Let there be art. And there was. And it was good. Floods are universal. Almost every culture has a myth of a great flood, usually a flood to cleanse the world of evil. This is what triggered my art. In Egypt only a few shepherds escaped the flood. In Greece Deucalion built an ark. The Hindu Manu built an ark. Fa-He, the founder of Chinese civilization, escaped a flood. Druids held that a great patriarch built a strong ship and escaped the flood. The Polynesians had a better survival rate, eight escaped. Mexico had a man and his family escape the flood. A Peruvian man and women floated the flood out in a box. Native Americans had one, three, maybe even eight survive. Greenland explained the flood as the world tilting over, after which the one man and one women that survived repopulated the earth. With all these people floating around, you'd think they'd have run into each other sometime. The implications are staggering. Either there really was a flood, with a boat surviving, or the myth started in some shared culture, or the flood is so inculcated into the human psyche that every culture created their own myth. Whatever the reason, it was a truly universal experience. And that made it mine. The only art I could be sure would reach everybody. I would imitate God. A god. Maybe two gods. I would make the artistic statement to be remembered, one that was already remembered. Sin and Flood in Las Vegas. We rigged bombs on the water mains. We loaded animals into the boat, which, amazingly, held together as all 13 animals got in. Now it was time. The flood was to cleanse the world of wickedness, and the most of wicked of all were my followers. And I couldn't really bring all of them along, after all, this was supposed to be an exclusive voyage. So I took them into the bake yard and gave them all Cyanide laced wine. The Last Supper of the Damned. Wine and Bread in Las Vegas. But I couldn't let they're sacrifice be in vain. So they're art now. Before they died I had them each carve a mask of themselves. A self portrait of how the thought they looked. And now they look like it. [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14745]One last piece of art before the big one, each mask stuck on the outside of the ship, with its maker's head stuck inside. The faces of God.[/url] And just to be fair, I made a mask for the animals that died, both of them. They had died for our art, now they are art. And my ship was ready to sail. The doors were shut, and the water mains burst, and it rained. The rain was what was unusual. This wasn't the time of year for rain, but it poured, pounded, and flooded. I don't know why it rained. Maybe a god was on my side after all. The waters increased. I was standing on the deck, watching my art, when I noticed a wayward follower. One of my flock had not taken his wine. [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14744]He was standing next to a pay phone, shoulders deep in water, making a call. I'll always remember the look on his face. The look on the lizard's face. The question of sanity. He was calling the cops.[/url] And now they're on they're way. They'll be here soon. They'll find me. Maybe I'll be dead. I don't want to confront them. But it's over now, I can see the rainbow, the promise. They'll find our art, the masks, the heads, the holy books with each page with a square cut into the middle, to create an empty, concealed space, where I could keep my drugs. Each holy book concealing a stash. My Bible is not filled with stories of the patriarchs, of Jesus and the disciples, it is a repository of weed, speed, and dope. Dopamine and Dismay in Las Vegas. Picture Usage: (1) [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14747]The narrator's first art, a pair of severed human hands in a glass.[/url] (2) [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14746]The druged lizard with his resigned gaze.[/url] (3) [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14745]Masks of the narrator's followers on the side of the ark, with their heads behind.[/url] (4) [url=http://www.enworld.org/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=14744]One of the followers calling the police, looking at the narrator with the same gaze as the lizard.[/url] [/QUOTE]
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