digital drawing
Monday, November 20, 2006
Boomtown
Salad girl blows bubbles into the air and waits to see what happens next. Two streets away a great deal is happening RIGHT NOW. A runaway sombrero truck narrowly misses a petrol pump before it mounts a kerb which is just high enough to bring it to a halt whilst small enough to not cause any damage to the said vehicle. Smooth like slipping cheddar back into its plastic vac pack. Two streets away from this in the opposite direction a small balding man is attempting to shake hands with strangers; he smiles and is mindful to keep both palms open and face up. Its June I think but this is based mainly on the clothing and sunlight so could be wrong. The bubbles cast beautiful fluid shadows that ooze along all surfaces they encounter: the pavement, over an apple core, waste bins, shoes and dogs. But no matter how far the shadows crawl their other halves get further and further away. The small man could use a sombrero right now, his bald pate is sweaty and red, even more unlikely to endear him to strangers. He speaks slightly.
Salad girl blows bubbles into the air to replace the ones she blew earlier. Two streets away a boy-man in ill fitting clothes is worried what the owner of the sombrero shop will say and whether he should just disappear, he’d only worked there two days and it was only a temporary thing anyway to earn money for a bass guitar, but he thinks better of this quickly. No goddamnit I’m almost 19 years old, time to face up to my responsibilities. Sombrero Mash up (avoided) is an underground hit a year later, the singer passionately idolised by a small group of ultra hip fashionistas, one of which happens to have a bald father who likes to spread happiness whether people ask for it or not. The time must be near noon as the shadows are short and seem to have leaked from everyones feet unnoticed.
Salad girl wonders whether her home made bubble mixture will outlast the manufactured one, they appear to be fairly equal so far, neither produce obviously superior looking or longer lasting bubbles. The last sale on the petrol pump avoided was 19.86, boy-man notes this with interest, the year of his birth. It’s hard to say whether the familiarity of the numbers drew his eyes or not. He is very relieved to see the van isn’t damaged, I know I said truck earlier but on reflection van seems more appropriate. The small man is clutching the hand of a young woman. She is laughing and he is chatting away, stepping back now and again to give a bit of soft shoe shuffle. Oh she thinks he’s cute. His head looks less red now. A bubble floats between the two of them and he gets on his knees and blows it up towards her.
One bottle is almost empty now, without thinking salad girl shakes the other at her ear like a maraca, in theory to see how much is left but for that purpose a fairly useless approach and realising this and looking inside the plastic tube she can see her mistake. If you’ve ever seen the Blob with Steve McQueen and can remember the scene where the unfortunate first victim who got the blob on his hand was taken somewhere and put under sheet or something; if you can remember that and can also remember the sight of the blob oozing up his arm, sucking, hugging, devouring that’s how the bubbles shadows move.
Diego Cortez dances in front of the mirror, the shop is closed, the sign says siesta 12 – 2 and although this is Nottingham England, a locked door is still a locked door. He shuffles his feet back and forth, arms cutting the air into abstract angular shapes, cheeses as never seen before. The door opens easily enough and boy-man sits in begins to give the cabin the once over. The outside appears ok, how lucky was that? In the wing mirror he sees a small man dancing with a taller girl. She holds her hand to her head now and again and looks downwards in faux embarrassment, her tight black dress swirls around her feet as they look quite a team. Did I say two streets away? Well maybe they I was mistaken (likely) or they danced there (looking increasingly plausible).
Salad girl watches the last of her bubbles rise into the air, their shadow halves lifespan out of their own hands, at the whim of their reckless flying brothers and sisters. The test has been inconclusive although she has enough information to support her own personal theory. In another part of the city boy-man turns the key and gingerly backs the van back onto the road. Everything seems sweet, he is indeed blessed. As he drives past the pump it looks more like 1988. The bald man lets go of the girls hand finally but slips something into it as he does so, she looks down at the something, smiles and leaves. The shadows of the last bubbles dapple her exit.
Diego turns the sign round and sits and waits to see what happens next.
Salad girl blows bubbles into the air to replace the ones she blew earlier. Two streets away a boy-man in ill fitting clothes is worried what the owner of the sombrero shop will say and whether he should just disappear, he’d only worked there two days and it was only a temporary thing anyway to earn money for a bass guitar, but he thinks better of this quickly. No goddamnit I’m almost 19 years old, time to face up to my responsibilities. Sombrero Mash up (avoided) is an underground hit a year later, the singer passionately idolised by a small group of ultra hip fashionistas, one of which happens to have a bald father who likes to spread happiness whether people ask for it or not. The time must be near noon as the shadows are short and seem to have leaked from everyones feet unnoticed.
Salad girl wonders whether her home made bubble mixture will outlast the manufactured one, they appear to be fairly equal so far, neither produce obviously superior looking or longer lasting bubbles. The last sale on the petrol pump avoided was 19.86, boy-man notes this with interest, the year of his birth. It’s hard to say whether the familiarity of the numbers drew his eyes or not. He is very relieved to see the van isn’t damaged, I know I said truck earlier but on reflection van seems more appropriate. The small man is clutching the hand of a young woman. She is laughing and he is chatting away, stepping back now and again to give a bit of soft shoe shuffle. Oh she thinks he’s cute. His head looks less red now. A bubble floats between the two of them and he gets on his knees and blows it up towards her.
One bottle is almost empty now, without thinking salad girl shakes the other at her ear like a maraca, in theory to see how much is left but for that purpose a fairly useless approach and realising this and looking inside the plastic tube she can see her mistake. If you’ve ever seen the Blob with Steve McQueen and can remember the scene where the unfortunate first victim who got the blob on his hand was taken somewhere and put under sheet or something; if you can remember that and can also remember the sight of the blob oozing up his arm, sucking, hugging, devouring that’s how the bubbles shadows move.
Diego Cortez dances in front of the mirror, the shop is closed, the sign says siesta 12 – 2 and although this is Nottingham England, a locked door is still a locked door. He shuffles his feet back and forth, arms cutting the air into abstract angular shapes, cheeses as never seen before. The door opens easily enough and boy-man sits in begins to give the cabin the once over. The outside appears ok, how lucky was that? In the wing mirror he sees a small man dancing with a taller girl. She holds her hand to her head now and again and looks downwards in faux embarrassment, her tight black dress swirls around her feet as they look quite a team. Did I say two streets away? Well maybe they I was mistaken (likely) or they danced there (looking increasingly plausible).
Salad girl watches the last of her bubbles rise into the air, their shadow halves lifespan out of their own hands, at the whim of their reckless flying brothers and sisters. The test has been inconclusive although she has enough information to support her own personal theory. In another part of the city boy-man turns the key and gingerly backs the van back onto the road. Everything seems sweet, he is indeed blessed. As he drives past the pump it looks more like 1988. The bald man lets go of the girls hand finally but slips something into it as he does so, she looks down at the something, smiles and leaves. The shadows of the last bubbles dapple her exit.
Diego turns the sign round and sits and waits to see what happens next.
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