I badly want to go. As if it's as easy as not giving a fuck.
(c) Kenneth Cappello
Showing posts with label alison mosshart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alison mosshart. Show all posts
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
The Black Marks - Alison Mosshart
Hunter was 7 when he began to notice the first of the black oily marks scrawled on his bedroom wall next to the doorframe. They were straight horizontal lines about 6 inches long. Hunter noticed the marks first, when his father james scolded him for doing it. “Hunter, you do not draw on the walls of this house. That’s terrible behavior! You must never do this again,” he yelled. And Hunter cried.
James tried desperately to remove the marks from his son’s wall. The more he scrubbed, the darker they appeared. James tried to paint over them first with white, but they showed through. Next he tried orange. And then he tried blue. Finally he painted his son’s room red, and by then, gave up; the marks remained.
The first mark was about two and a half feet from the floor. The second was nearly three. The third mark however, was the most interesting mark. It was perfectly the height of Hunter.
Months passed and Hunter and James forgot about the marks. They grew used to them. Hunter had promised never again to write on the walls. But Hunter made this promise only to make his father happy. He knew he had not made them, and every morning when he woke up, Hunter looked at the marks curiously. He would crawl out of bed and run his hand along them on his way to the kitchen before school.
On the morning of his 8th birthday he woke up excited. James had promised Hunter a new bicycle for his birthday and Hunter woke up early hoping it would be waiting for him downstairs. Hunter seached the house tirelessly, the garage, the back yard, but stopped when he heard his father screaming for him. The sound of his fathers voice alarmed him. James was angry. Hunter walked to the base of the stairs with a confused and worried look on his face
James tried desperately to remove the marks from his son’s wall. The more he scrubbed, the darker they appeared. James tried to paint over them first with white, but they showed through. Next he tried orange. And then he tried blue. Finally he painted his son’s room red, and by then, gave up; the marks remained.
The first mark was about two and a half feet from the floor. The second was nearly three. The third mark however, was the most interesting mark. It was perfectly the height of Hunter.
Months passed and Hunter and James forgot about the marks. They grew used to them. Hunter had promised never again to write on the walls. But Hunter made this promise only to make his father happy. He knew he had not made them, and every morning when he woke up, Hunter looked at the marks curiously. He would crawl out of bed and run his hand along them on his way to the kitchen before school.
On the morning of his 8th birthday he woke up excited. James had promised Hunter a new bicycle for his birthday and Hunter woke up early hoping it would be waiting for him downstairs. Hunter seached the house tirelessly, the garage, the back yard, but stopped when he heard his father screaming for him. The sound of his fathers voice alarmed him. James was angry. Hunter walked to the base of the stairs with a confused and worried look on his face
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Make your blood hum.
I want a relationship like theirs - just two very close friends - that exceeds even that of lovers.