Graphic design portfolio / Evan Schlomann

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[email protected]

http://evanschlomann.weebly.com/

2

No, no, I didn’t kill them- for the same

reason I don’t kill foreigners: where’s the

satisfaction if they scream in a language

you don’t understand? The stories are usually

much more banal. Like, for example, an Alpaca

I recently mounted. Standard s t u f f r e a l l y. I w

a s on

a h i ke i n t he Ande s m

oun t a i n s wi t h a l o c a l g u i de n am

ed

Ua tu w

hom I h ad h i r ed w

i t h my l a s t t h r ee do l l a r s . T

he

p r i c e s eemed r e a sonab l e and he , t h rough b roken Eng l i s h

and a s e r i e s o f h and gestures, said something about it

buying a year’s worth of medication for his 12 polio

stricken children or some such thing. I wasn’t really

paying attention. Anyway, as we crested a particularly

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MEN PAUSE

BY

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MEN PAUSE

BY

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2

VIEW (jesse james madre)

jesse

james

madre

If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed, shewould look like an ever stretching Christ on the cross. Arms reachingEast and West like she wants to bring both coasts together so the sun can never set. Or maybe so it can never rise? The moon-lightmarches across her cheeks like victorious soldiers surveying theirnew and beautiful conquest. Her mouth dark red in the soft light andhard shadows. Erratic breathing Makes the soldiers of light jump fromher skin, her back twitches and arches off the cross she has made for herself.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed, Iwould look like Joseph of Arimathea, kneeling, with my head around hernavel, replacing the Holy Grail for my lips to catch the hopes and dreams of my savior in my mouth. Everything about me, North to South on her. Mytongue keeps the sun at bay and my hands are just as warm and from upabove it looks like I’m a sorcerer,casting spells to heal every wound she’s ever had. I’m trying to taste the years we lost as she rips her arms from the cross and runs her bloody fingers through my hair,arching more as I pull her from her hips into my mouth.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed, Iwould look like a lion, climbing her body with my teeth and nails.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed,she would look like a lamb, all sacrificial in her wanting of mysedative teeth.I rise like the moon inside of her as she sets like the sun bouncingrhythmically on the waves of my horizon.If your point of view is from the ceiling, directly above the bed,we would look like giants of light for what we make is growing untilwe share our air with no one. Breathing out what the other breathed in. Growing. The room gets smaller as her nails dig deeper and my teeth taste longer. Her legs lassoed around me and seconds become stronger in their presence in the grand scheme of things. Of rising and setting. I can’t stop touching her. And with her mouth and legs around me I can not stop...If your point of view is my point of view you’ll see her eyes, brownand glowing. Her mouth open and taking in all the air in the room,house, world. If your point of view was mine you’d never want toleave. Constantly tracing her silhouette with my eyes as I do.

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2

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FIVE SOUTH STREET, WARWICK, NEW YORK 10990, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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CL

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by.daveMAYER

About 10 years ago I was falsely accused of having red hair. I couldn’t tell if this was a joke, as I had never been referred to as anything other than blonde for the previous 30 years. And then it happened again. I started to suspect a conspiracy was afoot, but then even trusted friends could be heard casually referring to my hair color as red- as though such an insult were no worse than describing the weather. As a maturing male, I was prepared for the eventual greying of the hair or even balding, but no one ever prepared me for gingering. As the months passed, my depression deepened- and that’s when things got even worse. I started getting accused of being Irish. How could someone say something so cruel hateful to a total stranger? I would quickly attempt to defend myself: “No, I’m not Irish- I’m German. And actually, red hair is a trait of…” and that’s all I’d ever get out before being cut off. This was vital information in my defense and my accusers had no interest in it! The same exchange happened numerous times over the next few years, always being cut short before I was able to school these ignorant fools. So I formulated a plan to nip this gross misidentification in the bud…

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VIEW

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KN

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Baby Angelby Michael Horgan

Slept out on the front porch againThe lawn chair left wrinkles in my headI'd rather be sprawled across your bedWhile you revive parts of me that are deadRemember a time before I could sniffAnother's kiss upon your lipYour mother never cared for you like I didBut even that won't save this sinking ship

I'm the casualty of your caressAnd you're a thief to steal my breathI've seen the light of God reflected in your breastBut now your father's got you on house arrestBecause he doesn't like the way that you dream of meWalking out on you on shuffled feetWhile the baby angel sings a song so sweetNothing that he fears will prove to be

You're gonna have to leave your friends and family behind for goodYou're gonna have to forget about everything you never thought you could

Because it's everyone else or meYou have to prove your loyaltyAnd that's the way it has to beBecause that's the way it has to beBecause it's everyone else or meYou have to prove your loyaltyAnd that's the way it has to beBecause that's the way it has to fucking be

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issue 1may.2013

1

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issue 1may.2013

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WHAT DO YOU SAY? I LET YOU HAVE IT YOUR WAY / BUT YOU STILL COMPLAIN / NOTHING IS EVER GOOD ENOUGH / BRING ME DOWN, MY EFFORTS NOT ENOUGH / I HATE YOUR GAMECOLLAPSING YOUR FUCKING MY HEAD UP AND DOWN I GO / WHEN YOU’RE HERE I’M IN HELL / NO COMMON GROUND / YOU’RE STUBBORN WITH SPITE / THAT WHEN THE WHEELS FALL OFFCOLLAPSING MY THICK SKIN WEARING THINCAN’T HIDE ANYMORE TIME TO GET REAL AND LET IT ALL OUT ON YOU NOWNO MORE MR. NICE GUY / I’VE WASTED MY TIME / TIRED OF BEING LET ON / JUST TAKE A HIKE

ANOTHER WEEKEND NIGHT / NOTHING TO DO / NO ONE TO CALL I HAVE NO FRIENDS SO I GO FOR A DRIVE SEARCHING FOR MORE / ANYTHING TO KEEP ME / FROM DRINKING ALONELOOKING FOR LOVE DEPRAVED NEW WORLD OR MAYBE A FIGHT CONSUME THE NUMB ANY KIND OF EXCITEMENT / TO COME MY WAY NOWEVERYWHERE I GO / I FEEL OUTTA PLACE NEVER MAKING EYE CONTACT / CAUSE I HAVE NOTHING TO SAYI COME TO A DOOR A WILD PARTY INSIDE EVERYONE’S NAKED I JUMP RIGHT IN NEW EXPERIENCE NEW IDEAS / I FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE HERELOOKING FOR LOVE DEPRAVED NEW WORLD OR MAYBE A FIGHT CONSUME THE NUMB ANY KIND OF EXCITEMENT / TO COME MY WAY NOWWANDERING HEAD DOWN / KICKING ROCKS / HATING FOR NO REASONCAUSE I AM ICE COLD I DON’T BELONG HERENEGATIVITY CLOUDS MY MIND / I’VE NEVER FELT SATISFIED DREAMS ONLY HAPPEN IN MOVIES

DONE WITH EVERYTHING & EVERYONE / OR AM I SICK OF ME? DIGGING INTO A LIFE OF BULLSHIT / CONTENT WITH HAVING NOTHINGTOO BUSY TO DREAM IT’S A WASTE OF TIME WHAT I SEEK / I CAN’T CONQUER / LEAVES ME WONDERING IS THERE ANYTHING TO ME AT ALL?I’VE BEEN GOOD TOO LONGFEELING EMPTY AND ALONE / EVERYONE ELSE SEEMS TO BE SKIPPING I’M KICKING DIRT AND HAVING BAD THOUGHTS / SINKING TO MY BREAKING POINTNO TURNING BACK HIT MY LAST NERVE JUST A MATTER OF WHEN AND WHERE TO TAKE OUT MY FRUSTRATIONS OUT UNLOAD ON YOU ALLI’VE BEEN GOOD TOO LONGMASTER OF DISASTER NOTHING LEFT INSIDE / MASTER OF DISASTER / NO ONE LEFT BEHIND

SIT RELAX HAVE ANOTHER DRINK EASE MY MIND OF A WASTED DAYFORGOT WHAT I SAID AND DIDN’T DO NUMB MY BRAIN / BE OBLIVIOUSTHE DAYS MOVE FASTER / AS MY DEPRESSION GROWS FEAR HAS A VICE AROUND MY HEADFRIDAY NIGHTS SPENT ALONE / COLLECTING THOUGHTS / I BREAKDOWNI’M TIRED OF FAILING MYSELF / SICK OF THINKING WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN

LOOK AT YOURSELF WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I DON’T KNOW / I’M JUST WANDERING / I SEE WHAT I WANT / DON’T KNOW HOW TO GET ITMY WHOLE LIFE / I’VE BEEN AFRAID / TO SPEAK MY MIND AND TAKE WHAT I WANT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT PEOPLE MAY SAY I KNOW MYSELF AM I FOR REAL?THAT’S WHY I AVOID A SOCIAL LIFE / I DON’T NEED ANYONE I KNOW I’LL DIE ALONE SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE I’M DEPRIVING MYSELF / BUT WHAT’S THE USE? AM I CAPABLE OF FEELING?LOSING TOUCH WITH ALL MY FRIENDS LOSING FOCUS ON MYSELF / WHEN CAN I FEEL AT EASE? IF I SEE THE ANSWERS TO ALL OF MY QUESTIONSWHY? DO I BURY MYSELF IN REGRET? NOTHING CAN CHANGE IF I DON’T MAKE THE FIRST STEP THIS TIME I WILL FEEL IN CONTROL / I’M IN CONTROL / NOTHING CAN STAND IN MY WAY

COLLAPSENAKED NATIVES POSTAL ZUUL

WORLD OF THE PSYCHIC

dose: 22

COLLAPSENAKED NATIVESPOSTALZUULWORLD OF THE PSYCHIC

KICKING ROCKS

KICKING ROCKS

ZEDDMORE:BILL / GUITAR VOCALSEVAN / BASS VOCALSKEVIN / DRUMSTONY / VOCALS

RECORDED JEFF RENDANO @BOOMSTICK RECORDINGS

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i l o v e y o u i l o v e y o u i t ’ s o v e r i t ’ s t r u e i t ’ s t r u e

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p a u l t h o rs t e n s o n da v e m a y e re v a n s c h lo m a n n j e ff p a g g i s ar a r u p a m ur a l i j e s se j a m e s m ad r e m i c h ae l h o r g a n

UVNK

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UVNK 3

THE ICED CREAMMICHAEL HORGAN

(UNTITLED)ANDY GLYNN

HERE I AM AGAINNICK HAINES

THREE HISTORICAL ANECDOTESTED HOUGHTALING

VOICEMELISSA TOTH

NOCTURNITY (PART 3 OF 4)JEFF PAGGI

SOMEDAYS IT FLOWS JESSE JAMES MADRE

TOO MUCH SARA RUPA MURALI

THE PARADE PAUL THORSTENSON

JANUARY 2014

ISSUE 3 VOL 1

DESIGN EVAN SCHLOMANN

IMAGES PAUL THORSTENSON

VOICEMELISSA TOTH

Searching for it…

Sifting through the sadness & sickness,

Cutting thru the self analyzing wickedness,

Cleaning out internal cravings & congestion,

Trying to better fulfill the answer to the question:

Where is it?

The core at the center,

The most important part,

Light at the heart of it.

Searching for it…

Always such an elusive companion,

the voice refuses to reveal at will-

Creeps in like a slow chill

at that moment when the words come correct-

smooth, deliberate, and articulate…

The voice spittin' choice rhythms

that get at the heart of it,

light at the heart of it.

Where is it?

Stop hiding behind excuses,

masking past abuses…

Combine with something new.

Bring it, voice.

On a dose of pure followed by:

inhale,

exhale,

sit back,

relax

and open to a new page

to wage war with words.

Let the voice be heard.

At ten, the mansions closed Ayla and I helped clean up for a few minutes, then ditched everyone to look at her Ionic Insiders sketches in the staff room. It was mostly the older kids and adults who cleaned up anyway, so I doubt that anyone missed us. I could barely even respond to how cool her sketches were.

“Awesome,” I said, flipping through the stack, “awesome.” The Plasma Protector looked exactly the way I saw him when I closed my eyes, and his sister, Aurora Sprite looked even better than I had imagined.

“Well don’t give me too much feedback all at once Jimmy,” said Ayla, but I could tell she knew these were good.

“Oh wait, I forgot!” I said as I reached to my bag for that Nocturnity book. “Feast your eyes on this baby.” I carefully pulled the book from my bag, and handed it to her like it was a bible.

“I’ve never heard of this one,” she said as she ran her hand over the cover. “Hm, Nocturnity... What is it, a guide to the world of some fantasy trilogy?” She opened the book up and starting looking at the pages.

“Well that’s just it, I can’t really tell what it is. My mom got it for me for my birthday. I’m not really sure why. She told me not to open it until after school. She was being weird.” Ayla sat there quiet for a moment, and wrinkled her nose.

“Your mom, being weird?” she poked her head up to say, “what else is new? Your mom would win a weird competition with Rod Serling.”

“Hah, hah Ay,” I said, but she had already buried her nose back in Nocturnity. One thing about Ayla is that when she is reading, you cannot distract her. Sometimes she makes really strange faces. Once I even saw her drool, although she denies that. I took another look at her sketches. She did this one of The Plasma Protector flying over a crowd of people, all looking up, astonished. The person in the middle of the crowd looked familiar, but…

“Woah!” we both said at the same time, looking up at each other.

“I saw this person today!” I said, pointing at the drawing of the older white-haired rocker-guy I had seen on Main Street today. It looked just like him, even down to the clothes.

“Jimbo, that’s nothing. Did you even look at these maps?” she said, poking the book with her finger. “Parts of this ‘Nocturnity’ or whatever it is look just like Fir Falls!”

“What do you mean looks like Fir Falls?” I said. She flipped a page, then flipped back a few, then one more.

“Look at this map, Jimmy,” she said, pointing to the

NOCTURNITY (PART 3 OF 4)J E F F PA G G I

page. “See this right here? Marked Allt na Ghuibhas? Look, that’s Fir Creek, see how it starts near the river, and then winds up into the village, across this street, which looks just like Main Street, and then up through this area, which looks like The Trails.” I was reluctant at first, but as I looked over the map while Ayla stared at me impatiently, I had to agree. This was a map of Fir Falls, only the name of the village written on the map was Guibhas.

“Goob-us?” said Ayla, as if she could hear me thinking.

“This is awesome, Ay!” I said, “somebody who lived here must have made this! That’s almost cooler than comic books.” Of course, Ayla was shaking her head.

“Hey you two,” said Kevin McNeil, who like I said is kind of the guy in charge at the Haunted Mansion. I think it’s probably like how movies have directors. Kevin is like that. Ayla and I hardly ever saw him at the rehearsals, and we never saw him around town the rest of the year, but he personally greeted everyone who came to the Mansion during the two weeks it ran. Ayla and I had started playing this game where we have to imagine what Kevin does the rest of the year, and then the other say, “No, he…” and imagine an even more fantastic and unbelievable life.

“Oh! Hi Kevin,” said Ayla, with a heightened tone of voice from usual. Ayla has a crush on every cool guy I know. Kevin was pretty handsome, even I knew that. He must have been in his thirties, had shoulder length, dirty blonde hair, blues eyes, and really thick five o’clock shadow. I was kind of jealous about that. I wanted a beard.

“Whatcha guys looking at?” he said, and walked over to the table.

“It’s this cool book my Mom got me for my birthday,” I said. “We don’t know anything about it, but we think it must have been made by somebody who was from around here.” I picked the book off the table and handed it to Kevin. He pushed his glasses (the guy even made glasses look cool) from the tip of his nose back up to his eyes, and looked at the cover.

“Hmm, what do we have here,” he said. “Nocturnity. Ah, yes.”

“You’ve read it before Kevin?” said Ayla.

“I’ve heard of it Ayla, never read it. This is the only copy that exists.”

“What is it?” we both said in unison. What can I say! We were geeks. Cool books. art, and music was all we really cared about.

“Let’s go and look at this in my office, and I’ll tell you,” said Kevin. We were so happy. Kevin’s office was

officially the coolest place I had ever seen. I had already

decided to have one just like it. All of the wall space in

the room—except the space with the two large windows

with stage-curtains for curtains, and an opening for the

door—was a bookshelf; books from the ceiling to the

floor, and not just any ordinary books, cool books about

different mythologies and folklore, with cool drawings,

yellowed pages, and leather binding. Also, something

about the position of the speakers for the CD player

(they were up high), and something about the shade of

light that emanated from the lampshade made the whole

place feel magical. “Time of the Season” by The Zombies

was playing when we got in the office. The Zombies are

actually pretty great for an older band. I was consistently

impressed with Kevin’s taste in music.

He carried the book over to his desk, and laid it flat.

Then he picked up the stereo’s remote control and

turned off the music. Motioning for us to come around

so we could see, he opened the cover of the book to the

very first page.

“What do you see guys?” he asked us. We peered to look.

It was an old page, more gold than yellow, with

embossed edges and a fancy calligraphic box in the

center. It was also blank. We looked at each other like, Is

this a trick question?

“Um, there’s nothing written on that page, Kevin,” said

Ayla. Kevin smiled, and opened the side drawer of his

desk. He pulled out what looked like a black light—he

always had strange horror movie or science fiction props

laying around—but a purposeful black light. Kind of

like something The Ghostbusters might use to check for

paranormal activity. That’s classic Kevin, I thought. This

should be good. I figured he had some awesome special

effect trick up his sleep.

Boy, was I in for a surprise.

He clapped twice to turn off his lights. (Yes. Kevin has

a clapper. I know, so cool.) With a flick of a switch, the

gadget began to emit a phosphorescent green light, and a

humming and whirling sound that was louder than you’d

expect from a glorified flashlight.

“Look again,” he said.

We stared at the page.

Nothing happened.

We kept staring.

“Oh, shoot,” said Kevin. “I forgot the music.” He got

up and walked toward the shelf that had his Victrola,

and his vinyl records. He held the green light up to

the shelf, and ran his index finger across the spines of

the records, from left to right, top to bottom. Just like

reading, I thought. He stopped on one in the middle

of the third shelf, slid it off, took it out of its sleeve,

and put it on. As he came back over, I saw the word

“Ilúvatar” written on the cover, like a band name, and

the words “Flame Imperishable” written under it, like

an album name. Well, if it was a band, it was certainly

no one that I’ve ever heard. It was all vocal, hundreds of

thousands of voices weaving the most delicate melodies

and thunderous harmonies. It came at you from all sides.

Ayla poked me in the ribs, and I realized that I had sat

down in Kevin’s chair without even thinking about it.

He was standing to the side of it, where I had been, with

a huge smile on his face.

“I had a very similar reaction the first time I heard this

music, James. It’s not a problem.” I rubbed my eyes,

shook my head, and stood up.

“What is it?” I asked, as Kevin sat back down.

“I guess you could say that it’s as close as well ever get to

being able to listen to the Big Bang,” he said. “But that’s

not important. Look at the page now.” We looked.

Across the top of the page, on top of the box, letters

began to appear, then words, then finally this:

SOMEDAYS IT FLOWSJ E S S E J A M E S M A D R E

Somedays it flows

Like water down a creek,

Pouring from me

Unstoppable

Ripples smoothed to mirrored glass

My thoughts reflected back

Cohesive

Clear

Then there’s days like today

Where the words come out like a public masturbator with no plan

For the climax

Words sprayed haphazardly

In globs

Uneven

Rorschach prints

Of what’s really going on

Running down the side of a strangers leg.

TOO MUCH S A R A R U PA M U R A L I

I am not trying to show you a metaphor for the way you relate to the characters who lived through Soviet times that you read about in the books you bought as a freshman in college with your parents money that their parents left to them when they died. It was necessary for them to pay for your college. As necessary as the list of books you needed, demanded to own by age twenty. The same age your parents met. The same age you attempted suicide but was unfulfilled by the reel of images that not so much flashed before your eyes but clumsily appeared, grainy and slow. These images were not good enough so the act became pointless. As pointless as the time you took up tennis to impress your father. It didn’t work. Which is weird because he is still the only person you know who watches tennis on tv. You imagine him trying to impress his father, trying to impress his father. You remember what you learned about nature verses nurture and immediately try to forget it. Like your father, like his father.

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Chapter I: A Finger’s Taste

Three children have made their home on the small

wooden deck of an abandoned house. Two of them doze

in the middle of the day while Wilmir, about ten years

old, surveys the woods of the surrounding area. He

spins around, binoculars in hand and eye socket, until

he spots a freshly prepared dish of iced cream directly

adjacent to him, across the deck.

“Is it…iced cream?” he questions.

The others wake up.

“What’s wrong?” asks his sister, Lucille, about eight

years old.

“Is it iced cream?” probes their six-year-old kid-brother

Timothy, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

“Don’t mimic, Timothy. Go back to sleep,” says Lucille

sternly.

“Sorry ma’am,” says Timothy.

Wilmir walks across the faces of the wooden planks

below him cautiously, as if suspecting a trap has been set

and could go off at any second, thus spoiling his desire

for iced cream. Before he can work his way across the

deck, Timothy loses his nerve.

“I would have some iced cream now!” he exclaims.

Wilmir responds by quickly belting him across the lip.

Timothy, in turn, hits the ground sobbing. He blubbers

gently; knowing to cry out loudly would serve him only

to earn more of Wilmir’s ire.

“You keep that up. You keep that up and I’ll wrap you

again,” warns Wilmir.

“Yes sir,” says Timothy, understanding.

Though all being siblings, Wilmir, on account of being

the oldest, has taken on a leadership role among the

group ever since their parents’ departure. It seems like

their parents have been gone forever. It seems like

forever since they started living on this deck, eating

berries and nuts and keeping watch for wolves.

Wilmir makes his way over to the iced cream.

“The iced cream’s flavor is vanilla,” he says, eyeballing it.

“Give us more details, Wil,” demands Lucille.

“Hush yourself…it is sprinkled with walnuts…and

almonds…and slathered with whipped cream! It is

drizzled with chocolate sauce!”

“Sir, I might rightly lose my mind!” tells Timothy.

THE ICED CREAMMICHAEL HORGAN

“It would serve you well to keep composure, Timothy.

But I must warn you both: to gaze upon this iced cream

is to gaze upon God. The way it melts. The way the

condensation endears me…this is God’s greatest work,”

explains Wilmir.

“How do you suppose we should handle the iced cream,

Wil?” asks Lucille.

Wilmir sits down Indian-style on the deck with his fist

to his chin. He knows all great thinkers and philosophers

think this way. He thinks for several moments before

devising a master plan for the iced cream.

“We might all have a finger’s taste of the iced cream, and

then we will come back to the issue tomorrow, as it is

getting to late and the wolf-watch must begin anew,” he

explains.

Everyone digs a finger into the iced cream, eating

whatever amount they are able to drag out. They all

revel in the amazing taste and texture, being that it is

remarkably smooth and creamy. Wilmir digs a second

finger in as a finder’s fee, and soon after, the wolf-watch

begins.

At all times, but especially come nightfall, wolf-watches

must be had. That is, one of the three children must be

completely aware of the looming threat of wolves in the

area. At this time, Wilmir piles leaves around the iced

cream, so to keep it from becoming a distraction.

“We’ll check the levels tomorrow. Lucille, you are the

wolf-watcher. Goodnight,” says Wilmir.

The children all take shifts on the wolf-watch, but

the shifts are disorganized and often longer than they

probably should be. Often the wolf-watcher will fall

asleep by the end of their shift. This especially occurs on

Timothy’s shifts.

The morning comes, and Wilmir finds a snoring Lucille,

curled up in a ball, when he awakes. He goes to examine

the status of the iced cream first thing, only to find a

pile of leaves.

“Wake up, knaves! The wolves have got the iced cream!”

THREE HISTORICAL ANECDOTESTED HOUGHTALING

The Romans besieged the Etruscan city of Veii during the last part of the fifth century B.C., and the compaign lasted perhaps a decade. Ironically, according to legend, the Etruscan’s superb engineering brought about Veii’s downfall. Roman soldiers penetrated one of the Etruscan’s drainage tunnels, which enabled them to pass beneath Veii’s citadel. Roman sappers then cut a shaft below the floor of the temple of June. Just as a priest was about to predict the outcome of the war by examining the entrails of a sacrificed animal, the Romans burst through the floor, seized the entrails, and claimed victory.

In 1986, the BBC attempted to create a modern, multi-million dollar project called the Domesday Book Project that attempted to perform a census of England at the time. Thousands of images, maps, videos and data-sets were compiled onto 12" laser disks that could only be deciphered by a special BBC microprocessor. 16 years later, an attempt was made to read the information on one of the few such computers still in existence. The attempt failed. The data was either, lost, damaged or unreadable by already obselete technology designed to decrypt the data.

In his first flight over the Atlantic in 1927, Charles Lindbergh describes a strange incident midway through the journey: “As I stare at the instruments for what seems like eternity, half sleeping and half waking, the fuselage behind me becomes crowded with ghostly creatures. They accompany me in the aircraft without affecting its weight and I am not surprised at their presence. Without turning my head I can see them as clearly as if they were right in front of me. These phantoms talk with human voices - friendly, misty shapes which vanish or appear at random and pass in and out through the walls of the fuselage as if no wall were there. Now a crowd of them has gathered behind me, now there are only a couple of them left.”

(UNTITLED)A N DY G LY N N

Some of us have tragedy encoded in our DNA,

genetically transmitted calamity,

tangled double helixes,

extra acidic polypeptide chains.

But biology us not destiny,

instead our bloodlines are just steeper slopes,

slightly sudden drops, roads with no shoulders,

and no breakdown lanes.

Veins are byways just the same.

We are the drivers, the walkers, the runners

and there is not one way

to reach a single place.

Maybe we were not suppose to make it,

skipped over by the natural selection

that would have rendered us meat

in any other time but today.

As it is, here we are.

HERE I AM AGAINN I C K H A I N E S

Here I am again

at the university,

desperately clamoring for art,

my boy gripping my shoulder

as I dash from the gallery to the library and back to the gallery,

splitting the dinner crowd strolling to the dining hall like a running back or

a rumor of break-up.

I stand before student art, an utterly

dumb witness, while my boy mouths out near-language, word-ness

sharply receding at the ends of syllables.

I don't know what this is all about,

this pre-syncope. A petty nostalgia,

or something more grounded, or simple growth. For I never heaved so

then, not with

a boy on my shoulder, he mouthing

an off-key yet distinctly minor tune

in the Quiet Reading Room.

Something irrecoverable,

And vast,

And happening now.

This parade is just for me.

Ticker tape and confetti f i l l the air and I breathe in the sweet carbon monoxide fumes of a city that loves me. Thousands of admirers l ine the sidewalks and one hundred man-sized sausage l inks disguised as policemen keep them all in check with threatening looks and cattle prods. I am perched on the top of the back seat of a vintage Cadil lac convertible and flanked on each side by two massive balloons created in my own image that float high above among the skyscrapers. Besides their sl ightly more muscular build and stronger chins, the resemblance between the balloons and myself is uncanny.

On a whim, I command the balloons to swoop down and attack the spectators by furrowing my brow and making menacing gestures. The inflatable giants reach down and randomly scoop up screaming victims and throw them towards the distant horizon as quickly as children in a snowball f ight. The cries of the hurled become faint with the Doppler Effect as their f lai l ing bodies hurtle away and eventually disappear into the far-off, impenetrable fog.

The screams of terror fi l l my ears and give me a splitting headache. I call off the attack with a wave of my hand and pop two aspirin tablets into

my mouth and chew them to a pasty bile. The two expressionless balloons freeze and float benignly back to their places in the firmament of the skyline. I notice a young boy holding a small version of a “me” balloon. I squinch up my face and the balloon pops. He begins to cry and I venomously stick out my whitened tongue at him.

There seems to be some kind of commotion up ahead. The convertible has stopped and I crane my neck to see what the hold-up is all about. About ten yards ahead, the barrier has broken down and my rabid fans are running towards me. I panic for a moment, wondering what they would do to me if given the chance. The police intercept

them and apply bug spray to the faces of the unruly invaders, melting the flesh and erasing their features. More police arrive and pull out cans of hairspray and aim them towards the mob. The sausage men ignite the mist with cigarette l ighters and succeed in dispersing the crowd with these makeshift f lamethrowers. The barrier is reset, the smoldering wounded are dragged away and the motorcade starts up again.

Despite the barbaric violence and inexorable cruelty that has been dealt them, the crowd couldn’t be more devoted to me. I give a half-hearted, patronizing wave and the l iving ghosts enthusiastically wave back from the crowd. I ponder my puzzling disdain for them and their fanatical worship of me as I approach the end of the parade.

I dismount from the convertible and run to a waiting helicopter. I 'm greeted by ambassadors from someone else's subconscious and nervously shake their warm, soft hands. A stranger emerges from the craft and he and I exchange stern, knowing glances. He hops into the back seat of the convertible and I board the helicopter with my staff

of advisers and yes-men. The blades abruptly begin to spin, decapitating two of the policemen, splattering mystery meat and sausage casings all over the faces of the surrounding crowd as they wave goodbye.

The events of the parade begin moving in reverse and the aircraft leaves the ground. I buckle my safety belt as the helicopter passes between the two gigantic balloons. The stranger's massive plastic face is the last thing I see before entering the clouds which continue to rain tickertape and confetti on the thousands of admirers gathered below. The parade is just for the stranger now. I am not me anymore and neither is he.

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The Power Kingdom and Glacial present:

7pm, Friday, July 26th @The Loft, 6 Crannell ST, Poughkeepsie, NY 12601$12 gets you into the show and a copy of the new LIVING LASER/GOD MODE split 7"!

LIVIN

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EAST B

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OPYLIVIN

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The Power Kingdom and Glacial present:

7pm, Friday, July 26th @The Loft, 6 Crannell ST, Poughkeepsie, NY 12601$12 gets you into the show and a copy of the new LIVING LASER/GOD MODE split 7"!

LIVIN

G LASER

EAST B

EAST

RECYCLE

D EARTH

GOD MODE

ENTR

OPYLIVIN

G LASER

EAST B

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S c h l o m a n n E v a n @ G m a i l . c o m

h t t p : / / e v a n s c h l o m a n n . w e e b l y . c o m /

Graphic design portfolio / Evan Schlomann

Documents

Transcript of Graphic design portfolio / Evan Schlomann