Art Fictions /Truthful Lies

觀察者藝文田野檔案庫ART LAB實驗

LEWIS GESNER: Truthful Lies

文 | LEWIS GESNER美國多媒材實驗藝術家,近四十年聚焦在聲響發展的可能性,作品常以行為藝術、音樂/樂音與寫作呈現,擁有視覺藝術與英國文學碩士文憑。多元經驗與高度實驗性作品經常走在藝術的前端。現居高雄。 Lewis Gesner is an artist, writer and performer who uses a variety of mediums in his work, in keeping with his philosophy. He is from America but now lives in Taiwan with his wife and children. He has exhibited broadly, including venues in Taiwan.

Language: English中文

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There is an idea often attributed to Picasso, that art is a lie that allows you to see a truth. As a departure point, I propose to write a series of false documents or fictions relating to nonexistent art pieces. These will consist of mock reviews, quoted from imaginary art magazines, articles that outline imaginary artists’ histories, and personal experience in which I visit works of art or encounter them in the world, during travels that never took place, to locations which do not exist. In short, these will be “art lies” that cover a wide range of what I imagine would be the art, music, and other creations of unreal societies, which the readers will be left to imagine themselves, based on these written artifacts.

Underlying this project are a few other streams that will be influential to it. There is a variety of fiction often referred to as “meta-fiction”, which offers depiction of academic or creative worlds created by reclusive, unknown, or mysterious writers. The reader must imagine the person who could have conceived of such work, or try to determine which parts are from real life, and which are fabrications. Secondly, the premise of writing about imaginary art allows me to personally create without making the work I describe; there is no struggle with materials or concern with spaces or venues. These two aspects work together to propose a small body of work that is as many of us see art works; by description only, or document, through media, and not in person. While there seems to be a small kernel of real, physical art work in the world, how much of it do any of us ever really see, relying instead on writers’ descriptions, biases and honesty?

I propose to write seven installments for the website, each quoting from different sources which do not exist, or detail personal experiences and encounters with artwork, or researches into the lives of imaginary artists, offering a backdrop of a utopian world where things are not as we know them. This “meta” form then becomes my art work, abstract, free to move in any direction, and as fleeting as thought. 

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觀察者藝文田野檔案庫LEWIS GESNER 文章列表美國多媒材實驗藝術家,近四十年聚焦在聲響發展的可能性,作品常以行為藝術、音樂/樂音與寫作呈現,擁有視覺藝術與英國文學碩士文憑。多元經驗與高度實驗性作品經常走在藝術的前端。現居高雄。 Lewis Gesner is an artist, writer and performer who uses a variety of mediums in his work, in keeping with his philosophy. He is from America but now lives in Taiwan with his wife and children. He has exhibited broadly, including venues in Taiwan.

素材及物質

by LEWIS GESNER
自從脫離教會和貴族的資助後,西方藝術一直在空虛中掙扎。這種掙扎已傳播至全球且持續存在。為了將藝術救回生存軌道上,有一項簡單的補救措施,即我們應該思考用「物質」(matter)及其同義詞取代「素材」(material)作為所有藝術語言的詞彙及原則。Matter 涵括所有 substances 以及所有具物理性質及量體的事物,且 matter 亦有題目或問題之意,在藝術脈絡中它代表 substance 及其運用是一種不可分割的整體。它將消滅轉譯(rendering),把轉譯留給教會和貴族的聖像畫和肖像畫;它代表了你可以藉由允許它們採取的形式,去探索你的 substances。它將解放 matter、藝術以及藝術家。

Material and Matter

by Lewis Gesner

Everyone in or around the art field uses the term “art materials” or its equivalent in any language. It means the supplies for making art that you can expect to find in any art store, and you can expect art works to be composed of.

拒絕與擁抱

By Lewis Gesner
忘記。忘記。忘記。然後前進,不要改進。當一個藝術的救星。

Rejection and Embrace

By Lewis Gesner

Avoid anything that satisfies you to do in making art. Forget. Forget. Forget. Go on. Don’t improve.

低等意識

文|Lewis Gesner
我常常問自己,藝術是什麼、藝術可以是什麼、藝術應該是什麼。身為一個藝術家,「是」、「可以是」、「應該是」隨時準備好把我推向作品創作。這些提問跟人生其他範疇的提問沒什麼不同,諸如道德、經濟、使用及消費。這些範疇為何不再提起這些問題?難道它們與運行和時間的關係不再重要,回答「什麼是⋯」、「可以是什麼」、「應該是什麼」不再重要了嗎?

Lower Consciousness

by LEWIS GESNER
I am always asking myself questions about what art is, what it can be, and what it should be. As an artist, “is”, “can”, and “should”, are then poised to push me into creating artwork.

LEWIS GESNER: Truthful Lies

Language: English; 中文 There is an idea often attributed Read More

Truthful Lies 謊言豆沙包的真實

Language: English; 中文 畢卡索有個經典的說法:「藝術是個謊言,但卻是個說真話的謊言」。依著 Read More

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Material and Matter (Mandarin)

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觀察者藝文田野檔案庫ART LAB實驗

素材及物質

文 | LEWIS GESNER美國多媒材實驗藝術家,近四十年聚焦在聲響發展的可能性,作品常以行為藝術、音樂/樂音與寫作呈現,擁有視覺藝術與英國文學碩士文憑。多元經驗與高度實驗性作品經常走在藝術的前端。現居高雄。 Lewis Gesner is an artist, writer and performer who uses a variety of mediums in his work, in keeping with his philosophy. He is from America but now lives in Taiwan with his wife and children. He has exhibited broadly, including venues in Taiwan.

Read in English

「素材(material)」這詞在藝術領域中大量被採用,除了表述媒介[1] 的範疇之外,也簡單描述構成一品項的物理物質。識別某物是由什麼做成的,應屬一項單純工作,但我們老是描述一種類似關係、暗示性的可能性。

「展現」(manifest),即事物如何被製成、存於世以及它採用的形式,意味一種形式與組成物質不可分割的關聯。在這個情況下,我們的世界成為一種媒介,且我們的向度隨之而生。「展現」也可以只有「出現」的意思,但素材暗示了「構成」或化學成分。這裡頭也有一種複雜性,即實際上每個字面或實際意義中,都含有一種隱喻。我們透過意義、藉由比較程度相似的事物,發展出自己的理解。

例如「愛是一朵玫瑰」——玫瑰是物件,愛不是,但它們共享了一些易碎和美的想像性本質,甚至是延伸自個人經驗的其他特性。所以這種非具體的含義,並非一定準確可靠。若我們定義一件藝術品的素材或媒材是「木材」,是否我們就能想像從這件作品中找到、評議「木材」這種物質的所有特性呢?當然不是。選用木材可能沒什麼其他原因,只是因為藝術家習慣使用。對我來說這是一種重大崩毀,牴觸了藝術應有能力主張的整體性。基本上這是一項起因的結果,不受墮落的第三方——藝術家影響。就某種意義來說,藝術家應是創作本身附身的媒介。對藝術品構成素材(物質)的選擇,有可能成為對藝術品的某種污染。

在藝術及相關領域中,每個人都用「藝術媒材」這個詞彙或其他語言的相似詞彙。它代表你可以預期從隨便一家藝術商店中找到製造藝術的貨品,意味著你可以預期一件藝術品的組成。以前就有企圖處理這類預期侷限的藝術運動,例如 1970 年代義大利的「貧窮藝術(Arte Povera)」,藝術家用簡陋或類建材的貨品做藝術。但這些所有作為,仍只是強調貨品的侷限及非關係性。從這個角度來看,這場藝術運動其實不怎麼基進,它只是擴展藝術能接受的貨品範疇,然而形式與物質的斷裂問題仍在。

自從脫離教會和貴族的資助後,西方藝術一直在空虛中掙扎。這種掙扎已傳播至全球且持續存在。為了將藝術救回生存軌道上,有一項簡單的補救措施,即我們應該思考用「物質」(matter)及其同義詞取代「素材」(material)作為所有藝術語言的詞彙及原則。Matter 涵括所有 substances 以及所有具物理性質及量體的事物,且 matter 亦有題目或問題之意,在藝術脈絡中它代表 substance 及其運用是一種不可分割的整體。它將消滅轉譯(rendering),把轉譯留給教會和貴族的聖像畫和肖像畫;它代表了你可以藉由允許它們採取的形式,去探索你的 substances。它將解放 matter、藝術以及藝術家。再加上「低等意識(無計畫、忘卻所學、無技能)」的配套方案,直接處理最浩瀚範圍的 substance,而不去在你的概念中強加一條應導引至未來藝術的路。


[1] 媒介(medium)這個字也意味著某事物的「穿透」,例如通靈人或薩滿召來的靈魂。

(fiona cheng 譯)

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Material and Matter Lewis Gesner

Material and Matter

文 | LEWIS GESNER美國多媒材實驗藝術家,近四十年聚焦在聲響發展的可能性,作品常以行為藝術、音樂/樂音與寫作呈現,擁有視覺藝術與英國文學碩士文憑。多元經驗與高度實驗性作品經常走在藝術的前端。現居高雄。 Lewis Gesner is an artist, writer and performer who uses a variety of mediums in his work, in keeping with his philosophy. He is from America but now lives in Taiwan with his wife and children. He has exhibited broadly, including venues in Taiwan.

閱讀中文版


The word “material” is used a lot in the field of art, both to narrow down the description of the medium (which is itself used to mean something passed through, like a spirit brought by a channeler or shaman), and more simply, the physical substance an item is made from. Trying to identify what something is made from should be a simple task truly, but we are also always describing a kind of relationship, and suggested potentials. “Manifest”, how something is made to appear in the world and the form it takes suggests an inseparable connection between the form and the substance that composes. And in that case, our world becomes the medium by which it appears, our dimension.  To manifest can also mean to merely appear. But material suggests “make-up,” or chemical composition. There is a complication here also. That is the fact that for every literal or actual (concrete) meaning, there is a figurative one, the meaning by which we further our understanding by comparing one thing to another which is similar in some way.  “Love is a rose” comes to mind. A rose is an object, love is not. But they share some imagined nature of delicacy and beauty, and perhaps other qualities we can infer from our individual experiences. So, this non-concrete meaning isn’t even necessarily precise or reliable. If we define the material or medium of an art object as wood, are we to imagine all of the qualities of the substance “wood” is being explored and commented on in the artwork? Of course not. The choice of wood may have been for no other reason than that it was what the artist was used to using. For me, this is a crucial breakdown that interferes with the integrity that art should be able to claim; basically, that it is the result of a cause, uninterrupted by a corrupting third party, the artist. In a sense, the artist should be the medium by which creation passes. A choice of materials (substance) to use for an artwork’s  composition risks being a kind of contamination of the art object. 

Everyone in or around the art field uses the term “art materials” or its equivalent in any language. It means the supplies for making art that you can expect to find in any art store, and you can expect art works to be composed of. There have been art movements in the past that tried to address the limiting aspect of this expectation. The Italian “Arte Povera” movement of the 1970s comes to mind, in which artists used rough or construction-like supplies for art. Yet, all this did was address the limited range of supplies, and not relationships. In that, it was not really radical. It just broadened the range of supplies that were acceptable to use in art. The problem of a disconnection between form and substance remains. Western art has been struggling in a void ever since it detached itself from the patronage of church and nobility. The struggle has spread and remains globally. There would be a simple remedy to putting art on a survival track. Instead of “material” as a word and principle, we should think “matter”, and its equivalents in all art languages. Matter encompasses all substances, and anything with a physical aspect and mass. But it also means the subject or issue. In the art context, it would mean that substance and its use would be an inseparable entity. It would eliminate rendering and leave it behind with the church and the nobility, with their icons and portraits. It would mean you explore your substances by allowing them the forms they want to take. It would free matter, art, and artist. Coupled with a Lower Consciousness (unplanned, unlearned, unskilled) approach, the direct address of substance of the widest range without the intention of forcing into your conception of it should lead the way to future art. (published in Art Observer Field)

Transubstantiation, Myth and Practice – Lewis Gesner

The Name Game

    Traditions of names and naming is common through the range of human rearing abroad and broadly. Celestial bodies, ancestors, and the spirit world can all take part in the selection. While it might be tempting to name a child to forecast their success in life or their beauty, some cultures assess the risk of this practice as it makes them valuable for kidnap, or to be shuttled early into death by desirous spirits, local gods, and demons that would have the attractive child for themselves. For instance, grandfather’s name means dirty rag.  So it is a practical and reasonable matter to give a child an unattractive name, in attempts to stem their early departure or capture from this realm. As you may find many self-proclaimed experts who can choose your child’s name by the horoscope or from list of historic names, one might establish themselves as the purveyor of greatly undesirable names (or brands). It could after all be the key to long life on earth! Here are some samples of my wares. 

      Calcified Soft Tissues, Constipated then Loose Entrails, Parasite Filled Offal, Incessant Chatterer, Gagging Gurgle, Convulsive Dripper, Concentrated Stench, Squeezed Ejaculate, Rotting Straw, Disemboweled Excessively Lubricating Fornicator, Bodily Waste Smear, Anemic Pooler, Fecal Pocket, Fermented Nose Run, Pin Worm Tape Worm Ring Worm Platter, Perpetual Nausea and Vomit, Grated Elder’s Flesh For Pancake, Emergent Coils From Cyst Pits, Evacuating Sores, Leper Sandwich Meat, Infection Fume Censer, Cancerous Depletions, Stump Tarred Burning Hair, Finger Snipper, Genital Liquid Nitrogen Dip, Entire Human Species Puke Register and Unabridged Sampler, Pustules and Oozing Stitch Holes, Bile Squirts, Exsanguinating Torso, Sewage Porridge, Spontaneous Dismemberer,  Organ Puncture, Gland Secrete and Industrial Vacuum Suckage, Jaundiced Reproductive Tissue Bath, Head Compacter, Exploding Eye in a Glass Container, Lactating Corpse, Septic Guts, Cesspool Dry Heave,  and Jimmy. 

    One might also provide unattractive business names, to assure similarly that the company is not cursed in the spirit world by its desirability. Here are some examples.

    The Smashed Testicles Group, Putrid Milk and Co., Asthma Phlegm and Associates, Moldy Butter and Unwashed Asses Ltd., Stool Eaters and Dirty Mouth Rings Syndicated, PASTE Inc. ( Puss, Ascaris  Stain, and Tetanus Engorged), Fish Filled Dumpster Hot Summer Bros., Invasive Probing Orifice Blockage Release Incorp., and Jimmy and Sons.  

    Otis of Otis Pond

    Days in fields are long when they span wide and take time to cross. Out near Otis Pond, mostly lengths are long. You can skirt for a bit across some solid flat ground with high grass, but expect to get bogged down in the wet sods, and avoiding water snakes, and after you’ve navigated the wide flats, enter into wooded and be-shrubbed terrain as nearing creeks and steep banked shoulders, and suddenly emerging caves from stone, and sink holes, sun bleached rustic foot bridges, distractions, like remains of native made clam mounds, and the glint of, tools and hunting implements fashioned from flint, or even semiprecious gems. In the small acreage, you may find yourself exhausted from the hike, or even lost in the endless challenge. As this is so, most think it likely or true that there is an Otis Pond  hermit, and that it is likely Otis Pond is named after him, and not the opposite. You could evade discovery, and indeed, rescue were you out here with enough sense, or not enough, as the case may be. Some think it was a boy name Guptill who have been so given up on he had given up on too, and found his way while wandering out to starve, and didn’t die, but grew like the moss and lichen on the rocks without change. Elders recalled how they would see Guptill, when they and Guptill were both children, hanging from the back of his father’s carriage desperately waving and screaming “Hi” when he would see another child, so needy was he to be seen and recognized. Yet this boy’s father kept him to the yard and farm without affection or contact of his fellow humans, like a beast of burden.  This boy had even been taken from school to work, when reaching legal age to so remove. Escaping seemed reasoned, even suicide, and rather than to seek him out, everyone assumed him dead in the wilderness and let it seem the case. Or it might have been Timmy Height, whose ugly appearance made him shunned, who yet was thought a deep genius who scratched numbers and symbols on fences rocks and stone along the riverbanks until some day when he had disappeared and thought to have drown. This case too, some child had been thought to have found a semblance of a home or tranquility in a torturous existence. Some think it might be Butch, the town strongman who famously took a chainsaw and cut down the biggest tree at one end of a field. It was rumored to be a massive beehive inside. When Butch had circled the tree with the chainsaw, it had fallen over abruptly, and was clearly seen to be hollow, and packed with massive slabs of honeycomb. The citizens of the town cheered from a distance. But the celebration was short lived. A black cloud emerged from the hollow and covered Butch, who appeared as a growing black ball. There must have been millions of angry bees that covered him, and yet he didn’t fall on the spot, but rather lurched and ran, this growing mass, emitting a cacophonous buzz that exceeded his chainsaw’s sounding by many time, and indeed, nearby, the spectators to this horror had to cover their ears. Butch ran out of the field through the tree-line and into the untamed reaches beyond the town, and was never seen again, or, was he Otis, whose pain remained, whose form was so twisted and reshapen by the incident that it had made him mad, who lived there still? 

    What evidence or harm if so, does an Otis Pond hermit represent? Some hikers first reported seeing an abundance of frogs in the area that were missing their hind legs. This begs the question, who has gone frogging there so regularly to make this noticeable impact in the population of frogs, and, who could account for the cruelty, of leaving the frogs without their legs, the way the fin of a shark is harvested, and the shark is released to suffer as it may? Perhaps, another sufferer who cares not for inflicting pain. Some years passing, it was noticed that the situation remained, but, with a difference. A specimen of the two legged frog was caught, and because of its strangeness, was sent to the university in the closest city. It was discovered that this specimen had never had hind legs. It was a mutated frog. Had they been hunted so long and so well that the frog born without legs had a reproductive and survival advantage? Think of the new strain of elephant born without tusk, and how that previous advantage now represented a liability at the hand of poachers. Another sign of a mysterious presence was the rigging of dangers along the paths and ruins of the past habitations. Along the footpaths appear some sharpened sticks that one might step on. Sun bleached wooden bridges, built ages ago and falling down by natural course, seem provoked to fall in places, seeming wood supports where passing over flowing water have been freshly broke and carefully pushed together again to hide the recent break. If walking over, one were not taking care, and the hidden break letting go under an average person’s weight, it would send them down into rock strewn streams and rivers to their injuries or deaths. And it seems like thistles and briers are in over abundance, thorns seemingly cultivated to discourage perceived trespass. How, and why? A mystery. I’ve pondered before, if every place and every moment of our time might have a haunting. I think it better however not to know. 

The Hobo Mutant

Raymond sat in a corner of the restaurant, slowly eating a Reuben sandwich and watching others. He was king of voyeurism. He sweated out the conversations, had his villains and heroes. Raymond thought about his childhood train transformer. It had a sixty watt output. Put that on the end of a spoon. An electric meal! Raymond went to light a cigarette but could find no matches. This seemed to always happen. Nothing was ever in synchronization. Raymond swings open hand at a fly circling his plate. The fly escapes. It’s a bloater, a fat mother ready to let go. She buzzes into a fan above the grill in the kitchen, fan blade whacks her foolish, her blobs of eggs are grated through the screen and some land on a customer’s omelette below. Raymond flinches, yards away. He squirms a bit, then settles to eat the last bite of his sandwich. He drinks down a pitcher of iced coffee. He thinks about his recent experiences, his meeting in Wyoming with a man who had seen the most vile of legends face to face. As the story goes, as told to Raymond by a grainy truck driver, there was once a hobo who was so adept at hopping freights that he traveled with his young son, grabbing onto train cars with one hand and holding his boy against his body with the other. Sad but true, that one night, Hobo Joe, as he was called, became blind drunk on some bad liquor, and still dragging his five year old son with one hand, bravely tried to tackle a high speeding train. Hobo Joe was cut clean in half. Little son falls by the rails and reaches for Dad. Train wheels— right over little arms, just above the wrists. The boy crawled away, just barely alive— but still alive. He stumbled into a crevice between two rocks, surrounded by a thicket of bushes, and like an animal, he licked his wounds. His hands, miraculously, were still attached to his arms. Attached now not by bone, but tendons, a few surviving veins, and thin strands of muscle tissue. The little boy was strong. He ate foliage around his little hole in the ground. He had a deep understanding of what had happened to him, and was determined to make his mutilation work for him. For hours on end he practiced trying to move his little fingers. Soon he was able to hold objects. In not much longer time, he could throw. But a strange adaptation was taking place. The strands that connected his hands to his arms were constantly becoming longer, stretching out, and as he redeveloped his coordination and muscles, they became thicker and rugged as steelcables. Flexible, threaded— a new kind of man he was becoming! He developed his skills and control in isolation. He stayed on this stretch of deserted railroad track, sleeping in the thickets by day and working his body by night. By the time he was thirteen years ofage he was able to coil the strands of tissue like a length of rope, his hands dangling from the ends. He fixed these lassos on his sides, on the leather belt he had salvaged from his father’s body. He could throw his hands a good thirty feet distance on the ends of these cables and grasp objects with hydraulic strength. Itwas at this point that he began to crave meat, and found he could quite easily capture small animals, thinking the were safe at such distances. He would rope his victim, throwing his hands out, wrapping them around the animal like octopus tendrils and reeling them in with spastic jerking motions of his arms and contractions of his cable extensions. One year in Wyoming, there was a horrible drought. Most of the small animals died and our Hobo Mutant was a hungry twenty-five years old. His fuel intake was decreasing drastically as time passed, and he felt the pangs of starvation coming on. Hobo Mutant woke dizzily one day, hearing the sounds of human voices in the distance. Crawling from his thicket cave, he observed two ‘bos, sitting on a rock next to the railroad tracks, passing a bottle of clear fluid between them. Mutant’s throat was parched raw like sandpaper. But he waited still, like the sly predator he had become. In not too long, one ‘bo dropped on his back in the dirt. The other leaned over him, his head turning in slow circles. Hobo Mutant acted. His hands flew high and accurate, wrapping firm about the seated ‘bo’s throat. The bottle flew in the air as the ‘bo went to the ground. The bottle smashed on a rock. Hobo Mutant squeezed tight and felt something snap beneath his hands. The ‘bo went limp. Hobo Mutant rushed to the scene and devoured the dead ‘bo like a hungryanimal. When there was nothing left, he wiped his chin. The other ‘bo groaned, laying in the dirt. Mutant dragged the remains of his lunch into the bushes and covered it with shrubs. He lay on his belly out of sight and watched the other ‘bo come to. The ‘bo got up on his knees, put one hand to his head and sighed loud. Seeing the splotch of blood in the dirt, he scuttled to his feet and staggered screaming along the tracks, out of sight, his holler like a train whistle fading into distance and heat waves. Hobo Mutant scuffed away the bloodstain on the dirt and pulled the dead ‘bo’s remains into his hidden dwelling. Then he slept until dark. Mutant woke to the sound of voices. This time, there were more than two. Hobo Mutant crawled up to a viewpoint and observed.

“So you said it was here, huh?”

“Yeah, it was right here, see, here’s the rock.”

“There’s a rock like this every twenty feet.”

“But I know it was here. And the blood was right there, a big patch of it.”

“Well, I don’t see nothin’.”

“I tell ya, someone killed Jesse and left a big patch of blood, right here.”

“Well, there’s nothin’ here now.”

“It was here. Something happened.”

One man stood, nodding his head as one pleaded, occasionally saying, “Yup, yup.”

A man in uniform continued. “I think you was just drunk. I think your buddy wandered off. Or caught a freight while you was passed out. Nothing happened here. Now why don’t you just go back to your friends in the jungle and tell your story to them. I ain’t got the time.” He stormed off along the tracks, the others following him. “Yup… yup… yup….” train whistle, gone again. Mutant waited until they were out of sight and pursued them. As he neared the hobo jungle, he began to recognize the landscape— an oil drum, rusted out and abandoned over there, just as it had been twenty years earlier. A railroad switch, an unusual rock formation, and the voices of people, many people. Off of the tracks, over in a gully between two sloping hills, he could see the light of a fire rising up and giving off an orange glow. Mutant got close enough to watch the ‘bos eating and laughing, seated around the fire, some drinking, some sleeping, huddled together like a pack of wolves. Mutant went back to his lair and gnawed on bones. Then he slept. The following night was the stuff that folklore is made of. Hobo Mutant was hungry again. He ground his front teeth to a fine viperous point on a rusty section of track. There was a full moon this night, it hung low over the hills and dirt like a giant porthole into another world. Hobo Mutant headed out toward the jungle, drooling lasciviously. He waited on the hillside, overlooking the gathering of ‘bos. One of them would be his meal. Blood pumped hard in his veins. Capillaries burst in his eyes. ‘Bos toasted eggs and strips of smelly meat over the fire. There was no talking this night. The ‘bos were grave and afraid. Hobo sense told them that this was not a good night. One ‘bo nodded, swaying back and forth sitting cross-legged, moving to a silent rhythm as if listening to a railroad song in his head. He stood, hobbled over a hill and began to relieve himself. He was alone, on the other side, out of sight of the others. Hobo Mutant scurried around the periphery of the camp to the other side and snuck behind the pissing ‘bo. His Mutant arms lashed out from twenty feet. A finger went through the thorax, but still it screamed. The throat, out in seconds, but not before the camp heard that last painful sound. Mutant pulled the corpse toward him and devoured. A voice rose from the camp.

“Who’s there?”

Hobo Mutant dragged the body to the top of the hill and pushed it over the edge towards them. Silhouetted against the moon, he howled with the voice of a man cut in half— his father’s legacy. He raised his stubs to the sky and swung his attached hands in circles whose ropes cut the moon at every angle. He howled once more and ran for his cave, miles away. 

Raymond shivered thinking about the story. He ordered another sandwich and swatted at a fly. https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10227427725622767&id=1351285956