Friday, March 26, 2010

Killing is an art.

Killing is an art.

“Killing is an art and I am a master.” The arrogant words spill off my tongue like tiny razor-sharp daggers. I give the body before me a quick once over while it lies against the nearest wall. Head to toe carnage before my eyes. “Wouldn’t you agree?” I inquire at the remaining audience of one lowly victim. My hand rests right below my chin and this view seems to be lacking ‘something’ that I can not put my finger on. Across from me the final victim waits completely horror stricken by the assessment. Head waves frantically in denial or possibly in shock at my inquisition. On his knees he sits, gagged, arms and legs bound shaking uncontrollably. Then again it’s no wonder. There’s enough bloodshed to… well to save a life. A small snicker clears my throat. Bright liquid life spilled across his pale skin, soaked into his once white shirt and pooled beneath his legs. The kill never seems to be fulfilling unless it’s a masterpiece. Tonight feels exceptional. I think I’ve reached a creative peak. I’m about to be immortalized. Walking towards the next piece I feel the need for creative pride. The image is already fixated into my brain. “You really should feel special. You’re about to become a part of history. Forget Dahmer with his child’s play. This is the Major League. And I’ve got something in mind just for you.” Carefully I walk back towards the previous victim, Bones, hairs, blood and flesh will play a pivotal role in this work. Contemplating my next move, I gather my supplies. All the while I wonder if this is how the Greats worked. Van Gogh, Bernini, Picasso, Mozart, Dali, Beethoven, Rodin… the Ripper? Did they use the humdrum of everyday life to bring depth to their art? Beauty born from the despair of the human condition. Relatable artwork questioning if others understand. Following my instincts instead of logic dictates that my creation is born out of free form rather than logical structure.

Gooseflesh climbs up my arms and chills slide down my spine as my hands work overtime. In progress slowly becomes completion. “Exciting! It’s almost there. In a few moments you will find a place in history.” My explanation to the cowering man covered in blood is of no relief. Tears are spread across his face as I approach with the piercing blade. “See the halo beneath the archway… come now you must spot it. Anyhow that place right there. That’s it.” Once this last piece is place the artistic ensemble will be complete. This is my ‘Last Supper’, my Requiem, my dead prostitutes in the streets. The critics will be wild with praise. Headlines will pay tribute to my masterpiece. News anchors will broadcast and rerun the footage over and over. Flashes of feet, arms, and faces will fill the magazines. Forensic criminologists will study the fine art of killing from my demonstrated example. Evidence gathered from the scene carries the mementos of artwork. Souvenirs of a killing. Every one wants something to remember it by. Pieces of flesh become keepsakes for the crime scene tourists. Gently I place the knife to his throat and prepare to dive in. “Are you ready for your place in history?”

Art becomes something else and something else becomes Art. Complicated but so very true. This one felt appropriate this evening. Spent the last couple hours alone and in bed with myself enjoying much needed relaxation. Not hiding. Not wearing a mask. Not in love with my problems. Staying open. Met some discouragement today. Heartache I wasn’t prepared for. Several submissions weren’t accepted. I didn’t think I was so attached to this investment. The design stuff… grain of sand compared to this. Rather than react with anger or destruction, I went into it. Feeling. Letting out all of it. Venting. Not beating myself up. I’m just being hard on myself. I want to be better at this. Everyone wants to excel. That’s why we set the bar for ourselves so high. It’s human to obsess on those things that we love so much. Why throw things like this out there? Why not? I don’t have the all answers. I want to see if other people can understand and relate to that. This only means I need to work harder. Anyhow getting ready to watch ‘The Abyss’ and I’m reminded… believe it or not, that there is a deep sea one. Enjoy. M.

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