Chalk. This time without fuckers who hose your shit down. God damn automatic sprinkers.

They are out to get me.



Anyways.

Hmm.

Shit, go right.

Hup.

Graflgarh.

Hup, right again.

FUCK!

Graflgadah!

Fucking walls augh.

Guh, dark.

Fffff- rightrightright.

Hmmm.

That's...

Bright. Really bright.

Hmm.

------------------------
To really get a picture of the narrative (haw haw puns, okay yeah that was terrible. I apologize) you have to go along the piece.

And by go along, I mean run along.


Pretty quickly.


But I will save you the breath.

Mostly out of magnanimity (read: It's probably already been washed off, again, and as such it is impossible to run it at this time) and a desire to let you know what is going on with a bunch of pictures of chalk foot/hand prints.

A point in time ago, I had an experience that involved police officers.

I hadn't done anything wrong, but a series of... circumstances regulated my position to... well I had my hair down, a sword out, and was practicing at night, in the middle of a street.

I can see how this would look bad.


I probably should have considered this at the time, but it's too late for regrets now.

The most memorable thing about the altercation, to me, would be the headlights.

Of the squad cars.



It was... unearthly bright.
I remember the entire event very clearly, but those lights.

I'm also pissed that the backup officer was bending my training sword.

But he didn't know any better, and I wasn't stupid enough to say anything.

The same way I wasn't stupid enough to run.

But that narrative did exist in my head.

I just hope it doesn't seem like a meaningless journey in photograph format.
So go to the real thing if you can, in the UCSB art building.


And that's it.

A deed is done.

Well, it is.

I feel sick tonight.

Bluh bluh. Huge bitch.


Draw.


Wally.


Thing. I think.


Right that should do it then.


Pictures to follow.

-------------------------------

Any now for the freeform thingy.

I'm going to talk about steal this book.

Which is a book.

By Abbie Hoffman.

I love this book, but am kind of pissed that a great deal of the information in it is no longer up to date.

The tricks for cheating vending machines don't work anymore. And most of the addresses for certain... things are no longer up to date.

I am, however, very pleased that the recipe for a smoke bomb still works.

Not that I have ever used one.

But I enjoy the chemistry.


I mean it is fascinating you can make a flame-less smoker with only sugar and salt-peter. And a pound can fill a city block.

That's a lotta smoke.


Hehehehehehe.

I don't like the actual violent other things the book details the production of.

But I can appreciate the science.

I like knowing the chemical composition and work of the stuff. I guess that is why I have such a fascination with glazes and ceramics.


And that's it.

Stories.

I think I know what I want to talk about.

I HASS... the STOREE.....

But in order to make it a project I need to find a good way to tell it.

I am not sure how to do this.

Let's come up with some pedantic bullshit.

1. Broken bisqueware tower/pyramid. It was a bad idea, and so is this. Almost got into really deep shit. Maybe dropped? I like this one the most, as the material is very dear to me. Few other things are as deeply related to me as that. But I didn't know about it at the time. Hmmm.

2. Chalk drawing with a dystopian ending. Since I don't really want to get shot, I could draw out what could have happened if I had acted stupidly. This is also kinda good, but I need to get myself some chalk. Hmmm.

3.

And that's it.