http://www.DVBBS.com
http://www.youtube.com/DVBBS
http://www.twitter.com/DVBBS
http://www.soundcloud.com/DVBBS

VID1/3

VID2/3

VID3/3

Jenna Maria Youn

http://www.myspace.com/nebulaemporium

http://soundcloud.com/nebulaemporium

Nebulaemporium

to be cont’d

she could tell by the way he walked barefoot that this was his life. the strategically placed needle by the singular book on his bookshelf. the paper thin walls and bulbless lamps. the brand new toothbrush with matching mirrors of silvered white. a knife, freshly sharpened, freshly cleaned.  she talked of her travels, the documented jetlag and casual, polite conversation with men who traveled with red striped ties and folding briefcases. the lace beneath her skirt that showed when her legs crossed. the thick darkness of her eyeliner, hiding her smiling eyes. she turns her head to the side and sees him clearly, the strap across his faded checkered shirt, and the crease in his cheek, the tumble of his distant voice. the ruffle of the engines and slow loosening of screws beneath her are now a world away, a city of building blocks and handwritten rules soaked in rain on her lap. shepasses through the gentlemen who shine shoes to pay for their daughters clothes. she watches as the second hand stretches past the six, to the nine, through the twelve. and back to one.

he used to sit down knees high with buckles, brown leather and grey short shorts on the nettled playground of concrete and tar and tiny little rocks.  Swarms of children, cops & robbers and transformers broken by bouncing basketballs and bloody knees of pirouetting ballerinas, tightropes of inverted benches and lineups along see-saws across the mersey shore. in a blink of an eye running into walls meant more than a trip to the hospital, more than stitches that would heal, more than scars for stories to tell. our hops turned to real scotch and rings of roses had people falling further from a new plague no one talks about. today we tie laces and stretch the muscles from our stiff upper lips  to our worn inner thighs and march on as if we were never children.

what do we give up for these four walls? straight up and down, grounded, sky high. larger than life, containing life. giving life. our final resting place. through every street we walk from the memories of home to the bright lights of downtown to the rural mills of farmed animals to men in suits taking elevators, there’s a top floor looking down and a window looking out. the next time i touch a wall i want to feel the earth lean against me as the sun scrapes around it’s jagged edges and the wind funnels through it’s hallways. i want to feel something.

you pack your own bags like they told you to. your toothbrush, a change of underwear and a string of numbers you need to call. you take one last look at yourself in the mirror before you leave. a deep breath. you straighten your collar and pull your shoulders back. raise your glasses up your nose. perhaps a glass of red to calm your nerves, and some chewing gum you’ll extinguish before they question you. did you pack your own bags. are you aware of the contents of this suitcase before you. do you know what you’re carrying across the border. at what point will you start telling the truth?

the truth is these are not your bags, they’re not your colour. you folded the clothes and picked the magazines for the ads before neatly tucking your passport in the corner side pocket, but you didn’t choose the contents. you were left these things to carry with you from border to border, taxi to airport, bedroom to hallway. you’re stuck with them until you get caught, and they’re stuck with you.

:: every cowboy needs a brothy soup, a sleepy day, and a dozen picture books for inspiration. he gallops and they follow, and while tipping his hat to the waitress who doesn’t care, it’s a mistake to think you know what he’s thinking. he sees things that others needn’t imagine, and like his distant uncle lucky luke, he’ll find a lady to walk his dog. but is that what he wants, or what he’s really searching for? ::

GQ cowboy :: starring Arthur Yeung

Arthur is a artist in many mediums. I met him while doing sound for his ‘suite suite chinatown’ project. He is actually a real cowboy, depending on how you define one. I have no idea what he’s searching for, but he’s certainly an interesting fella.

Arthur Leung::

http://hammerandpopsicle.wordpress.com/

http://www.myspace.com/fallinglinemusic

http://suitesuitechinatown.tumblr.com/

http://thelookingsea.wordpress.com/

“She reached for her lighter, neon pink, miniature, joined at the hip to her keys. They had grown to feel a part of her, traveling wherever she went, so she was rather alarmed when she couldn’t feel them in the usual hiding place, her left trouser pocket. Before attempting to search her bag, a young man appeared quite suddenly with his zippo lit, inches from her dangling cigarette. She looked down at the lighter presented before her, it was bulky, sweaty, smelly, and smeared with the darkness of laboured palms and tarnished chrome. His hands, on the contrary, were thin, svelte, well manicured, and had a surgeon-like aura to them that she approved of. The kind of hands that would be permitted to finger paint chinese characters on her back with fading water-colour, or to re-create shadow puppets of elegant, delicate creatures on her bedroom wall, a swan or a fawn. As she looked up to see who this hand belonged to, the flame rose to light her cigarette as she inhaled to the crisp sound of morning dew behind distant cars defrosting on driveways for winter drives. It was her first smoke of the day and it filled her brain with chiming colours of brownian motion and watered her eyes with a glacial freeze while the character before her smiled gently, nodded, and walked away. She watched him go, half expecting him to lean forward with a hunch and pull a hood over his head, but he walked straight and looked up to the sky, at rooftops, like only a tourist would, and showed no haste in attempting to arrive anywhere. In the daze of the moment she snapped her head forward to where he was standing and tried to picture his face again. Cars streamed past with aggression from insomnia of nights before and halted repeatedly, jarringly, at the crosswalk before her. Her vision blurred to pixels as the ice over her eyes melted to a grainy tear and the sound of the afternoon traffic poured in with the suffocating deluge of city waste. And soon they were gone, the clues that made up his visage, leaving her with only the feeling”.

starring::DeLore∆n Bl∆ck.

∆

[when you wake up you think of the bumps in the night and the demons who play with you while you sleep and make you wonder where you really are and where you were as you strap on your chains and scarlet letters for another day of longing and long lost memories when you remembered her face so clearly more than a picture or any reflection could show that you knew her better than you could ever know yourself and one day shes gone ripped apart from you when you thought no blade was sharp enough to severe your ties you once shared laughter and now youre left alone with nightmares of a meaningless future with an unavenged past to be witnessed by those who feel but cannot speak of the sadness hidden by fury rage addiction and violence that you carry with you forever emptied out a hollow soul you march on to forget the memory that you could never share with anyone who wasn't really there]

::end