Monday, March 25, 2013

" Humants " by Lyle Schultz

November 30, 2001

What to say that hasn't been already said before? ...

Perhaps Garzalmalgafer. I doubt that has ever been said before, then again maybe it has , maybe I already said it on a planet that is a few seconds faster than this one, or would it have to be slower? I am confused.

I spent some time today watching a moth caught in a spider web on a dirty grey carpeted step fight for its life. It really bothered me. I could hear its faint moth sounds. The powdery paper thin wings flapping in fear. I wanted to kill it. I don't think it could be saved at this point, and well who deserves to live more, the spider or the moth? Who am I to make such decisions. I'm just some broke creature. Perhaps this was a lesson. What was I supposed to learn. Would most people care about this? This is a province where its ok to speed up and drive over a crow, hell you would be questioned if you didn't. Things are meant to be killed that's why they are alive isn't it! Makes no sense. Each day I feel less connected. This sick web of greed and filth. I feel like apologizing to every insect I see, every animal. "Sorry, I'm really not one of these people, really." But I am, aren't I. I still am a humant. No matter how much I want to deny it. What sick purpose does it serve.

I remember finding a bowl of wet cat food in a garage as a kid. It was in the heat of summer. The bowl was tucked away in shadowy part of the garage. The air in the room was thick with gasoline and freshly cut lawn. Bending over to pick up the dish I was struck with horror. It was moving. The dish was crawling with hundreds of tiny white maggots. I was paralysed in fear. I could actually hear them. Is this possible? It sounded like screaming. Really loud screaming but turned down.

I am sitting at the table writing this in short hand. The same table the Siberian girl sat at and gave fellatio to my carrots. The empty beer bottles are sitting here. The green tops of a couple carrots are also sitting here. There is not a drop of beer left in those bottles. I'm surprised it didn't eat the carrot tops as well.

Things got a little weird I guess you could say. Memories flood into my brain when I touch the objects. "Vaints the tits!","Vaints the tits!"  I recall that. That was repeated a few times actually. "Vaints the vlagalishche!!!" I'm pretty sure I new what that meant in English. I don't know. Is this normal behaviour over there in Omsk. Is it common practice to show up at a strangers house, gorge on alcoholic fluids, give head to some vegetables, and drape oneself over a dirty porcelain bath tub, and drunkenly demand your body parts and orifices to be painted? God, I sure hope so.

All I could think of is her insane mother, smashing down my door, and chopping off my dink with a rusty butcher knife. A butcher knife she just finished cleaning mildew off of her bathroom tiled wall with.

This is ART. That was a gift from ART. The moth is ART. These are the best examples I can give as a look in to how I create ART. I don't. Its forced upon me. My job is to merely report.
We have many parts in our body that digest things. ART is no different, just gets stored in different compartments I guess.


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