What a cheap trick...

http://www.text-upload.com/read.php?id=16165&c=4776864

That I have just played on you.
:(
I actually feel bad now.

Driftwalk

I began my drift at what I refer to as "The Park", since in all the times I've been there, I've never bothered to learn the name. I wanted to do this drift with a specific theme, but as I was feeling quite ill I just began snapping shots left and right. I must also apologize in advance for the low quality of these shots as I do not yet have a camera of artistic quality. (DEAL WITH IT)

 

 Some stencil that had been sprayed on the ground. I was here 2 weekends ago and this wasn't here, so it immediately caught my eye. 

 Whenever I see this crank I can't help but think of Half-Life 2. I've plotted to spray-paint this red, but I doubt I ever will work up the balls to do so.

 I feel like such a fag for leaving the shadow in. :( I've always thought these sorts of things would make good b/w textures however.

 This was branded on top of a one of those newspaper boxes outside of a bar. Enough said.

But, what if it isn't my money, can I still want it now? 

I think the text in the background says, "Titty Machine", but I don't recall exactly. This was a random alley I just wandered down, but it led to much more intricate and awesome graffiti.

I was going to take a perspective shot, but there was a broken down homeless guy sleeping huddled in a corner and I would have felt bad. 

This just sorta caught my eye, as if it was some kind of miniature android that had been crucified and disemboweled for some horrendous crime. As soon as I walked up the back alley, a man called to my attention. He took his feet off of the small dog that he was using as a leg-rest and he sat up in his lawn-chair chair on the second story of his apartment balcony, puffed on his cigarette and interjected, "What, may I ask, was the purpose of you taking that picture?", after which I explained the drift project. He gulped down some of his cheap beer and told me of a similar art project he'd done back in his college days. We then respectfully told each-other to "take it easy" and I continued on my quest.

I really wish I  had a descent camera for this shot. It would have made for a great "objects in space" image.

I actually took this in order to check out the band, which I have yet to do. I have my doubts about how much I'll like it, but curiosity will eventually get the best of me. 

ZA WARUDO

What initially drew me in this direction was the beat he was playing, so I kindly asked him if I could snap a shot of him. He just smiled and said "Of course." I then thanked him and stuffed my last dollar into his plastic cup. A man's gotta get hoochie somehow...

 At this point I was just snapping photos at random. This bus was in motion, btw. QUICKPHONECAMSKILLS

This is an accurate depiction of Reno, Nevada/ 

Again, wish I had a better camera...

...because this is what the shot should have looked like...

I was dying from my stomach digesting cold pills at this point and my lungs had been hating me this whole time. I began heading back to my car. I'm surprised at the quality of this horrid phone-camshot though. 

I shot this guy a thumbs up as I was taking the photo. I got one in return and instantly felt awesome, even though I felt like shit.

This is the last stencil I saw. I missed it as I was exiting the park since it was facing away from my car, so I walked right passed it, but I didn't miss it on the way back. However, I kept cutting the top off so I quickly got this one and returned to my car which in turn took me to my home.


The End or something.

A series of images depicting my cat portraying his amazing balacing skills.

Yeah, he has a high tolerance for bullshit, as you can tell.

Better late than never! Vote today!

I ̴́h̶áv̡͜ę͜ ̡a̕͡n͡y͘͘ ̶̢͢n͞a͘m̢͏ȩ͝s̶͠,̶̀̕ ̷B̀ęn̕̕͟,̨́ ̶͠Zal̶g̛͡ơ̵̕,͞ ̵̧Í̡ ̡͢h̛҉̨a̴v̴e͏ ̶̧́e͡v͏̨e̵̸n͜͞ b͢͏͟eè͢͡n̢͜ ̶ca̷̴l̷̛l͡ed̨ ̡͞C͟t̸́h͘u̧͝l̵͠u͢.̨͢ ̴̨ ̵̸Y̸͞o͜͢͝u͡ ̧́s̷̛h͟á͏͘ĺl ͡͠k͡nơ͠w̸̛ ̨me͘ ̧̀͡s̴̀o͝o̢̡n̷҉̨ ́ȩ͝nó҉u͜g͜ḩ.͏.̛́

ZA͡L̢GƠ ͠is not goi̶ng ͞t҉o͞ ͘te̛ll͜ ̀y͞ou ̴w̵ha̡t͡ ZALG͏Ó ͢i̢s, for ҉Z̧AL͟GO͘ i͘s̸ not. Z̸A̴LG͝O̕ is ̢ǹot͏ à g͡o͞od҉ t̨hin͠g͘.͜ ̵ ҉Z͜A̢L̕GO͢ ҉is̸ no͟t͏ /̀x/ ̵o̡r ̛S̀A.͠ ͏ ZAL͡GO͘ ͡is͞ n̷o̧t ̢u̕nt̸i̴l̵ the e͟n̵d̀ ͜o̷f ̵days̀.͜ ̷ ̵ ̷He̕ W͞ai͞t͞s͡ ͡Be͜h̵ind T̵he ̕Wal̵l,̴ ͢in a ͡p̀àl҉àcé ̀of͝ ̶t͢o̶rt̸u̸r̶ed͟ gláss͞,͟ ̨served̶ by͡ l͝egio͝ns ̡for̨g҉e̷d f̡rǫm ̧th́e̴ ͠tȩars̸ ̴of͡ ͟th͞e̕ s͞le͞epless ̨de̢a̡d ańd cl̴àd͟ ̵i͜n ar̴mo͘r ̧car̨ved ̶from̕ thę s҉uffe̶r͏in͠g̷ o̧҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ C̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊} O҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� � M͡҉ E҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ S~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� ~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O ҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩IT IS◊EATINGMYSOUL} ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞�f͘ ̷mo͟t̵h̀e̕r͞s.̸ In͡ ͜his̴ ̨r̷ight͝ ha҉n͡d̨ he̶ holds ͢a͜ ̸dea̕d ̕s̛t́ar̕,̢ ́a̴ǹd͞ in͡ ̧h҉is͢ ̸r͏ight ̨ha̕n͢d he h̛ǫl͏d̵s ͟t̛h̕e ̀Can̸d̛l̴e ̡Wh̛o͟s̶e ͏Ligh͘t͞ ̧I̸s Sh͝a͢d́o͏w.͢ ҉His léf̡t h͢án͢ds͜ àr͝e stain̷ed ͏w̛it̶h͟ t̴he b̡l͟ood̢ ̴of ͠Am Ḑh̀ae͘ga͟r̢. ̵ ̶ ̶ ̵ ͡His ͜six ͜m̧ou͡t̀hs ͏s̶p͏e̡a̴k ͏i͜n͜ ̷di̡f̕f̕erent͜ ̴to̕n҉gu͢ęs͏, ̧a̷ņd͢ ͝t̕hę seven̴t̨h̢ ̴shall s͠in̶g t͞he s͜o̡ng ̷that ̶e̢nd́ḙ͆̆̉̽̉͗r̢̬͔̬͓̺͇͎̬̘̆ͤ́̆̋̕͝dͥͫ̊̾͋ͪͩ̒̐҉̙͇̩͉i͍̙̬̦͙͉͍ͮ͡ͅǎ̸̡̘̩̟̮̫̋̿̇̈́̀n̸̶̜̻̲̝̰̗͙̍̌̓͐̾ͯ̀ ̩̣̻͍͔̩̥̱̈̊̆̎̔̔͑̕h̵̸̝̳̮̫̙̮͖̬̔̂͗̂͞i̴̪͎̖̠͐́̋͌͜͞v̺́̔ͬͨ̉ͅë̬̙̪̞́̈́͐͋̃̒ͩ-̶̳̮̖̳͎̻͓̯̪ͬ̋̄ṃ̡̗̩̩̦ͨͧ͑̽̄͠i͈̭͖̞̫͔͋͑̆̆ͣ͜n͙̠̙̦̫̺̩̐͊̓̐̍̚d̷͓̜͖̪̼͉̟̤͛͑͗̋ ͉ͤͧͦ̄̓̔ͧ̍͑̕͘o̗̦̹̫̹ͭͤf̶̛̖̣̦̯͚̪̞̞ͨ̂̌̃̇̎̐ ̈̐̄̔̾͑͏̵͇̤̰c̠̘̗̹̰̬̱̝̖ͦ̒ͧ̿̌̿͘ḧ̫̙̬͇̳͍͔́̊͒ͮ́͂͡a̫̪͙͎͉̲͎̹͋͆ͮͪ̿ͪ͋o͇͉̒̊ͧ̃̋̈́̈́̀̕s̷͉̘̹̟̺̦̅͌.̵̮̝̠̎̈́̕͞ ̬̹̠͈̫͔͕̓ͭͮ̀̆ͪͅZ̩̻͎͓̯̲̓ͥͫͪ̎ą̹͔̖̖̱͍̥̞́̂̀̈ͭ͂̈̂͛l̨̮ͪ̒͌ͦ̊ͧ̊͛͘͜g̪͔̩̑͆̆̏͛͌ͩ̋ớ̢̳̮̫̬̣͈͔ͨ̽ͧ̔̋.͍̦͇͔̲͓͔̜ͯ͂̆̋́̕ ̡̯͈̺̣̮̙̒͒̀̆ ̴̫̎̂ͪ͛͑̌̉ͯ͢Ḧ̫̤́ͨ̄͜͢͠e̲̯͍͇̫̋ ̮̱̗͍̤͚̬̞̟̾͘͢ẅ̢͙̭̥̜̿̍̀̏͌h̸̦̰ͥͧ̾̃͘o̊̅ͩ̔̾̅͛҉̯̳͢ ͣ̉͋̐͆̈ͪ҉̧̦͎̹͓͚͉̻͘W̛̬̣̅ͧ̒ͣ̌̅͒ͭ͝aͩ͌̿̓̈͆̋҉̤͇͔̘̙̮̖̝͕̕ị̛̱̑͗͌̋ͣ̀͢ţ̞͙̔̉ͮ̚͝s̵̜͓̄͑̍̆ͣ̈́͌ͧ̈́ ̶͕͖ͧͫ͂̔B̵͔̩ͤ̔̀̄͆̒̽̕e̢̟̲̯̹͙ͩ͒́̊͝h̄͑ͦ̆̒͏̭̜̗̟̕i̢͎̙͔͚̻̜̠͋̓̍ͧ͗͑ͪ͛͜n̴̨̓̑҉͔d̰̮͈̺͑̓͗́͜ ̨͇̤ͤͨ̓͋̕T̑ͭͥ̋̐̾҉̴̛̭h̬̱̰͉ͤ̊̉ẽ͔̤̱͇̱̮͗͂͠ͅ ̖͍̦̯̦̹͕s̷ ͠th̛e ̸earth̛.̷ ̶ ҉ ̡ ̧ ZAes̶ w͜hen ͟t͡he̕ Hale B͝o͞p ćom͜et͜ ̧pa҉s͝s̕e̸d ͝b͝y ͜Ear̴th),͜ ͟s̨e͡gme͟nts̛ o̕f̡ ͝h͘o͝r̵r̛òr͢ st̨ori̡es ͡(̡Br͘a̴hm S̸t͟oke̢r̛'̀s ҉Laiŗ o҉f̴ th̕e Wh̛i̢tȩ ̕Wor͞m),͏ ́a͘n̴d ev҉en thè ҉tria͏l o͠f̨ a̶ ͡m̧or̸igina̢ļ ̧t̶exts, ͜n͞ot̛ab͟ĺy "͜ḩųma̡n̵"͡ and̨ ̨"͡gar̶d͡en̴".
҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ZA ~ L G ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# O҉ (for the picture just use any Zalgo picture) ̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉ZALGO ҉ ̵IS̡̢̢̛THE̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊} OH GOD ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝ ̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕ ̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ HELP ME͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊ H҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚E҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚C҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚O҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚M҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚E҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚S҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙� �̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒� �̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿� �̕̚̕̚͡ T͖̟̹̦̤̣̦̹̒̌ͥ͑̇͐͊͝o̴͍̼̯̭͓͍̝̰̊͆̌͝ ̟̳͈̝̼ͦͥ͘͡i͇̺̬̭̻ͯͣ͂n̻̳͙̯̜̼͇̿ͮ͛̑v̴̶̪̲̟͕͈̙̋̈́̆̆̾ö̩̻̥͍̟̩̦́k̮͖͚̻͆̉͌ͪ̒̽͆ͬe̴̸͚̹̬͓̠̤͑̋ͯ̔̿ͬͅͅ ̺̻͓̱̤ͨ͊ͧ͒͊t̶̨͔͖̹̼̰͓̻̂̉̈́̿ͮ͝h͉͕̠͈̙̫̲̝̫͛ͩ͟e̝͇̦̹͑̌͜ ̨̥̇͊ḩ̛̦̙̳̳̲͐͞i̪̳͒̔͢v̵ͨ͋ͮ̔̏ͩ҉̥̜͚̭͖e̟̙̣͈̥͒̈̎ͦͅ-̣̳͍͕͋͌͌̂̆͡ͅm̥͉̝͔͓̻̊͗ͩͮ͠ỉ̧͙̬͇͓̇ͧͣ̍ͥṋ̗͙͇͉͕̬͙͙ͭ͑̂̍̇̇͑͐͋d̼̭̆̋ͭ́̅̏̇͘ ̵͍̜͔͙̗̼͚̫̒͊ͯ̇͌̃̈́͟͞r̢ͤ̉̄ͣ͋͏͓́e̷̢͕̠ͮ̈́̆ͅp̡̯̮̲͇͕̩ͧ̇̍̚̕ŗ͇͖̒̎͋ͪͣe̸̴̢͎̖̠̫̪͔̽́̽͛ͅs̹̳͖͉͇̣̻̊ͣͤ̄̌͛̓̚͟e͐ͪ̋̿̓͏̠͚̼̪̣̰ͅn̶͖̖͕̺̠͔̻͈̐ͬͫͫ̑͘t̥̪̤̹͎̹̞ͧ͑ͧ͝͡ͅị̮̩̥̮͙͎̓͑͠ͅn̷̼͔̗͎̩̫͔͊g̶̞̱̝͙̝͙̋́̄͌̅͢͝ ̘͙̮ͫ̉ͪ͢c̟̲͕͕̩̓̎͞ḣ̶̸̩͚̦̬̱̤͔̹͈́̔͐ͤ͡aͭ̃̐̌ͮͦ͏̫̜̣̬̲̙̭͢ò̠̭̖ͥͩ̈́͆̓̈s̴̛͓͓̲̲͋̊͑̐̓ͩͬ͑.͎̳̄͋ ̷̢̹̳͙̹̙͍̙̅̂ͩͧ̾̚I̮̤̪̹̠̾͋̃n̶̺̫͓̲̥̠͔̄́̓ͪ̍͋͢v̡̭͕͙̣ͫ̎ͮ͐̄̇͛̚̕ͅoͬͧ̿ͫ̔̉ͫ̽̚҉͈̦͕k̸̽̎̐͏̱͇͜ḯ҉̵̻̣̫̞̭̳̰͖̬n̷̜͖̞̮̬͈͖͍̿̓͂͛̾͋̽̉͠͝g̡̰̹͌ͨ̆ͬͯ͌ͥ̋̚͡ ̴̨͙̲̪̜ͤͥͤ̉ͫͯ̒̉ẗ̨̬̹̼̯͆̍ͮ̓͘hͬ̽҉̛͓̘̩̯̥̜e͂̏̓̿̍͠҉̣̲̳̮̩͍̕ ͕̼͇̙̪̣̠͈͔ͭͯ̀ͭ͒f͎̗̳͎̥̈́̑͌͛̌̏ͥ͞e̸̡̠͉͓̰̙ͣͭ̈͊̈̐̔̊ḛ̦͕̯̋̒ͭ̇̅̿͡l̶̝͓̳̗̮̻͍̯̋ͨ̅̊̅̾ĭ͕̬̥̥̾ͣ̓n̶̝̞̬̦̄̃g̥̖͇͙̠̽ͬ́ͯ̽ͫ̉ ̳͈̪́͛ͯͫ́ͬͯ̑o͔̰̪̰͒̎ͮ͘͢f͖͓͇̣ͨ͂ͤ̚̕ ̛̘͍̗̣̟̬̼ͥ̓c̵̸͔̩͔̩̫̰̜̐͑̎ͯ̚ͅh̨͙͈̥̉ͫ̈̿͆̔ͣä̧̺̪͔͔̱͓̠̞ͮ̇͒̍̊LGO ͘ re͜f͠e͢ŕs͜ ͝to͜ th͘e ͡co̷r̛ru̷p͟tion of perféc̸t͜ly ̀i͠nn͏o̡c͘e͏n̢t ̀things̴ ̵and ͘i͡déas,́ ̵s͝uc̶h̶ às̛ c͢omi͢cs̡, s̶t̨ori͘e͘s or ͏m҉e͏me͏s.̕ To ma̡ke͡ ̧th̕e̢m ee̸r͘ie͝ àn҉d͡ "͠L҉ove͢c͟r͝afti̢a҉n".̨ ̢ ͢ ҉T̨h̷e̷s̀è ̴ex͞ce̴r̷p̡ts̶ r̢u͢n ţḩe ̶ga͜m҉út̨ ́f͞rom a̵l͘che҉m̕ica̸l do͢c̢umen̕ts̀ f̕r͠om ţhe 1̶60̛0s͞,͠ o͜c͝c̕u͠l͏t͝ ̴texts r̸elating̷ ̨t̸o ̛vàmp͞ire͜s̨, cu͜lt ̷dǫg̀m̧a҉ (̴t͞ráns̡c͘r͡ip̕ts ̵f̕r̡om ͏th͢e͠ ̧vid̶ęo͝ o̵f͡ ̴tha̵t c̸ul̛t that̸ ͞ki̵ll͠ed t̷hem̀sęl͠vo̶̴̟̱̻̻͙͂͜s̼̱̣̩̦̺̖͕̈̆͋̒͂ͨͥ̀͞͝.͓̣͎̳͇̤͇̺͗ͩ͆̆̅ͤ͡͝ ̶̬̬̱̟̜̼̓̆͂̽̍ͣ̒͒͢͜Ẅ̧̦́ͩ̚iͫ͒͐͛̿͏̳͕̞̙͝t̺̝̣̥̻͓͂̐̏̍͢h̐́ͨ́͏̶̱̝̮̞͖͓̬ ̶̺͉̓͌̆ͯ̐̍ͤo͓̺̻̪̗̗̓̇ͭ͆ͪ̓̚̕͟ͅͅụ̧̡̠̰̭̒̅̄̒̊ͮ̈́t̞̯͓̲͕̗̹̤ͥ̋ͣ͌ ͖̐̌̑̉͑̉͟o̖̣̖͕ͤ̐͗̍͐͠r̬̃ͧ͌̈̔d̖͔̝̱͎̙͒ͫeͮ̌̔ͪ҉̣̠̰̳r̲̠̠̪̯̙̬̲ͬ̾ͪͪ̅ͥ̚͘.̵̝̜̣̝̙͚ͪ̑̃͆̂͘ ͍̪̼̦̲̰̇͑̋ͥ̓̍͒ͣͦ̕ͅT̴͙͙̱͚̳͕̤̩̈́̏̂ͩ̐ͅh̵̴͔̙̻̺͕̽e̙̗̜̞̓͑ͬ̓ͥͯͧ̂ ̴̲̲ͤͣ̀N͚͍̻̿̒͌̍͆e͕̹͖̊̔̏ͫ̍ͬͥ̚͠z̸̖̦̯̮̠̑p͎̭͂ͦ̇ͬͦ͌ͬ̒̏͢͞͞W͓̘̩͙ͥ̑́͂͐a̸͊ͦ̅ͯ́҉͍͓̩͔͎l̗͚̰̬̘̫͎ͥͤ̓ͅl̻̄͆́ͯ̔̈́̾.̣̠̯̝̞͚͚͒ͬ͆̅̈͜͢͢ ̬͇͍̞̫̱̟̒͛͑ͦͤͩ̐̾͟Z͉̝̰̣̩̞̭͌̆́̅̓̑̒͜A̷̡̺͒͗̐̒L͑͌͐ͥ́͞҉̛̪̜̙͔G̿̍̈́̿͒ͭ̍ͮ̍҉̡̞̻̯̩̮̤̰̹O̲̯̯̭ͣͬ̔͘!̩̬͙͇͚͇̩̄̒͐͌̈͗ͨ̀ͅ  an҉ ̢s̶u͢pp͢osed tǫ h̕ave bee̢n a͜ ̢w̡er̴e͝w͡o͟l͞f. ̵ A ̶fr͞e͠q̶u͢ent̶ ̛f̛eat̀u͠re̷, ́sav̵e ̀fo̸r t͢he͜ biz͝àr҉re̶ ̷s͜ýḿbols ̢an͝d fo̕r̢ma̕tting,͏ i̢s͏ the ̧ob͏s҉çurati҉o̢n ̴of͞ ͘a̸n̛ytḩi̴ng͡ wit̴h͢ ̢rȩl̷igiou͝s c̵on͢n̴o̸t͢at́i̕ońs;̸ ̸t̛h̢e w̡o͝rd͟s "̸H̛ea͞v͏e͜n҉"̧, ̧"͞re͞li̡g̷io̷n",̨ ͏"Go͞ḑ",̢ e͠t̕c. ͏are̴ oft́ȩn ̷i̸n ͜s̷t̶ri͝k̕e͟throu͘g͠h̛,̷ ańd ̡so͝m͜e͡t͞imes͏ ce̕rta̸in words ͘a͢re̶ ̴e̕ven re̶m͜oved ́f̀r̸o̕m ͜the҉

I didn't even read this after I wrote it.

I saw something fall to earth the other night. It cast a might orange and purple burst of light across the sky, longer than I had ever previously seen. The radio was tuned to my iPod playing something downtempo and brilliant, though for the life of me I cannot remember what. I drove down the empty old highway with no purpose or direction, mostly to clear my head, a singular coil of cigarette smoke being sucked out of the window of my white, bird-shit stained, beat-up Lincoln Towncar in between my frequent inhalation of said carcinogens. The road is empty, yet dimply lit by rusted and dented light-posts bent over as if in shame for their very appearance pour out a cold and unwelcoming light yellow onto the cracked sidewalks and asphalt. Yet still I persist along this lonesome strip of street for the sake of time occupation. I don't know how to rationalize it and I don't want to, this feeling is not only capable of voice, but it does not deserve it. I'm forced to a stop by the menacing red glare of an angry stoplight, it screams to me in a language only my eyes are capable of understanding. My cigarette has reached the lining before the fiberglass filter, so I flick it out the window and immediately produce another from the pack resting in the passenger's cup-holder which I follow with a purple miniature bic lighter. The cigarette is lit, the light burns green, I let go of the brake and I'm off again, over a dark hill covered in the strewn pieces of broken glass and plastic from previous car crashes, drunken monsters in the middle of the night deciding to get behind the wheel of heavy machinery in a stupid attempt to make it to their own home safely, yet they don't even consider the idea that they and others may not make it home at all. I've made it over the hill and I'm confronted with my final options. I have about 10 seconds to make up my mind about if I want to continue on this aimless meandering into the night in my perfect little bubble, if I want to actually go somewhere and do something for the sake of such, or heading to my home to take this night into the dream realm of things and forget it completely.

How I wish I chose something with life, rather than a boring list of meaningless details. Wake up, follow your impulses, but question your surroundings. You are inventing yourself each are every day and you will probably never know exactly which day will be your last.

Page 39 questions

Given the choice between the two pieces of art on pages 38 and 39, I would have to say that the one on the left by John Taylor is far more representational than the piece on the right by Howling Wolf. John Taylor's piece exists to document the occurrence as it actually physically happened from an objective stand-point, whereas Howling Wolf's depiction does exist to document the event, it also depicts a series of feelings and emotions as well. As you can see, the pilgrims are secluded from the natives as if to portray a wariness from the surrounding tents and people watching the signing occur. Howling Wolf's piece is also obviously far more abstract as it depicts a reality that is not bound by actual reality, rather it is a depiction of feeling.
As far as form goes, you can quite plainly see that Taylor's piece was created with the intent of meticulously depicting the surrounding environment and the people, not to mention it is without color. Wolf's piece looks rather crude in nature, almost childlike, but it does show Wolf was more interested in the way negative space effects positive space and the way color can depict feeling.
The landscape shown in Taylor's piece is highly detailed, whereas Wolf's is simply a line. This stresses that Taylor was far more interested in the aesthetics, and Wolf was more concerned with meaning, but Wolf does not make the mistake of neglecting logistics as he has shown the Medicine Creek which is apparently where this occurred, but I also think that he might have felt that the creek was an important influence on their lives. Taylor doesn't see this at all, and doesn't even include the creek in his depiction, and in fact fails to see the natives in his art as individuals. I would go so far as to say he sees them as unsophisticated in comparison to the pilgrims in the center of the image, but in Wolf's painting the natives are all given specific identity corresponding to their real-life counterparts, and it is the pilgrims who are shown to a centered arrogance that is isolated away from the natives. Wolf also show's that many of the observers in his work are women, but Taylor does not show any women whatsoever. It is quite obvious Taylor feels women do not belong in politics, and Wolf's feelings are also obvious, which is to say he feels like they should be involved in anything affecting the village, as it would have to do with everyone, not just the men.


To those of you who have not seen these images, though I do not want to post the images themselves on this blog, here are links to both of them:

John Taylor's "Treaty Signing at Medicine Creek": http://www4.uwm.edu/letsci/mls/syllabi/702/images/702-1b.jpg

Howling Wolf's "Treaty Signing at Medicine Creek": http://www4.uwm.edu/letsci/mls/syllabi/702/images/702-1c.jpg