Wednesday, November 19, 2008

The Price I Pay


Ferguson - The Price I Pay - Directed By Andrew Quinn from Andrew Quinn on Vimeo.

The Music Video for Ferguson's The Price I Pay from there 2008 release A House Divided.

myspace.com/therealferguson

Directed By Me, Andrew Quinn

Mary's Hands

It was 1971 and the first thing she noticed about him was his hand. Her mother always told her that you could tell everything you needed to know about a person by looking at their hands. It was only until she realized that she wasn’t really in love to determine that her mother’s words were true.

Her mother and father met in a much simpler time. Divorce wasn’t a possibility then. Her mother placed each and every hand under scrutiny. Her mother knew just by his hands that he was the best possible candidate for a husband and eventually his hands would care for their children.

“Why hadn’t I had this realization earlier?”, Mary asked herself as she stared at his fingers from across the factory. He was doing something so simple yet she knew that there was complexity to be found in this simple action. By this time around she was much more experienced and had perfectly determined what she needed and yearned for. The odd thing, about this time, was that they were the same thing. True love. Mary needed and wanted true love. She had found it in a man tying his sneakers. Mary knew at this moment that he was the person she was designed for. Arthur’s hands were strong, gentle, and modest. She new his hands represented everything she needed. She was so certain that they were meant for one another that she just stood back and let things runs their course.

Although Arthur’s hands were several years older than Mary’s they were evenly experienced. These two people had led very similar lives. They were so similar in fact, that their paths had overlapped and in only a few weeks they would no longer run parallel but together. It was March and by summer they would be married. Things would be perfect for the two. People on the outside would look on with envy questioning God, “How can these people be so happy together while I can’t even find someone to open a door for me?” God’s reply, if ever heard, was simple, “Your time will come, just as theirs has”.

Life was fantastic for Art and Mary. They raised a boy and a girl together. They traveled the world together. They spend every day for the next 37 years in each other’s company, never once doubting that what they shared was real love. Every time Art laid his right hand upon Mary’s left, she looked down to admire how correct her mother was. The thing that Mary neglected to do was examine her own hands.

They resembled a rake. Five thin sticks bound together by a palm. At first glance one might consider Mary’s hands as frail. The scar on her left index finger, calluses, stretched skin, and bulging knuckles totally contradicted the misplaced adjective, frail.

At the age of 91 Art was still strong, gentle, and modest. Alzheimer’s had begun to take toll on Art’s memory. Names of grandchildren, driving directions, and dates were starting to blur. It did not, however, cause Author to forget about his feelings for Mary. He still loved her as much, if not more, than the first time he told her so.

The December following Author’s 97th birthday the ground was cold. The black hood of the hearse became freckled with flakes of snow. Dozens of people in dark clothing surrounded Author’s final resting place to remember a beautiful life. Mary stood quietly with her back towards the crowd. Her small left hand rest upon the oak casket that smelled exactly like the furniture he had made for her. As the pastor spoke softly Mary couldn’t help but tune out the eulogy. She only read the words engraved on the marble tombstone. “Author Neely 1917-2014, Strong. Gentle. Modest.” As the casket lowered into the grave Mary’s left hand slowly clenched into a soft fist. Her hand reiterated what her mother once said. Mary had to be strong, stronger even than the man she loved. One tear slowly streamed down her cheek as she mouthed three small words, “Farwell my love.”

Speak Now, or

As I entered the room each and every retina tightly focused on my face. Strangely the room was divided in a manner similar to that of a wedding ceremony. I have given up on wondering what was in store for me. I knew what was going to happen. The cloaked man spoke softly. Each word was enunciated with perfect diction. Desperately trying to keep rhythm with his voice the pitter pat of keystrokes echoed his every word. I wondered what was happening in the world outside of this room. Everyone in attendance waited eagerly while the world outside of this 50 by 100 foot room did not pause even for a nanosecond. What was of utmost importance to the people watching had no meaning what so ever to those continuing their daily activities.  Some where in the world a child’s life was all but destroyed while they painfully watched the chemically inflated balloon drift upwards. It would become divided more and more until the child could no longer distinguish between the latex and the sky that devoured it.

 

We all stood up as instructed not only by the man in the front of the room but also by our culture. It was what our predecessors had done so we dare not challenge tradition. A gasp rang out instantly after the man in the cheep suit spoke in a jargon unfamiliar to most. Although the audience was united in their intake of air, half of them did it for a reason opposite to the others.

 

I don’t regret taking her life that night. I only wish I could have told her I loved her first.  

July 20th 1969

Ever since I can remember I have wanted to go to the moon. My fascination with its wonder and beauty begin as a child. I would stand outside staring into the night sky until I could stand no longer. Then I would lie down in the grass and continue to gaze. The soft glow illuminated the face slightly as a shadow formed on the earth below. I had no concern for the dew that was darkening the tiny families of thread that made up my worn out Captain Kangaroo tee shirt.

 

Looking at the moon made a strange feeling come across my entire body. I felt anxious as if I were contemplating the biggest movement of my entire life. An almost indescribable feeling shared only by pilots the moment before they leap from an aircraft as it speeds toward the ground. Kinetic energy built in my body, as I lay motionless on the cold soil. I became desensitized to the faint prick into my back made by the recently cutgrass. The sight before me muted the symphony orchestrated by a hum of various nocturnal creatures. I no longer recognized the warm summer breeze licking against my face as if it has something very important to tell me.

 

The only thoughts occupying my mind involved the moon’s splendor. If something seen from 250,000 miles away could be so beautiful one could not even begin to comprehend its magnificence up close. I wanted to see for myself if it contradicted the ball of cheese image depicted by the illustrators of kindergarten literature. Looking at a vision of the moon rendered by bent glass and plastic cylinders could not provide me with the fulfillment I yearned for. The feeling of a kiss.  The taste of a ripened fruit. These things cannot be synthetically generated or explained in a book. They have to be experienced. I knew I would have to visit the moon to in order to fully understand why it is so beautiful.

 

Some nights I continued to stare onward with diligence, like a wife watching her husband enter an air terminal knowing this was the image she would have to recall upon as she awaited his return. Every morning the moon’s light would disappear over the horizon. Gone from my and everyone else’s view until dusk. Unlike everyone else I was unable to dismiss the moon from my thoughts. She was never absent from my mind. The bags under my eyes were evidence of my fascination.

 

I would recall the night prior several times during the day. I knew that it was impossible for someone to go to the moon. It was so far away. There was nothing I could do. This unobtainable attribute only made the moon more intriguing. There was complexity to be found in the moon’s simplicity. Her mysterious and exotic behaviors made her more mesmerizing. I was only permitted to see half of the moon for half of the day but I was enthralled. Yet I knew in the back of my mind that I was unable to go to the moon. I did everything in my power to elude the truth but it still managed to torture me.

 

On July 20, 1969, three days after my ninth birthday I sat in my smoke filled living room. I demonstrated to my little brother and cousins how my new hot wheels cars could whoosh down the track clamped to a kitchen chair. Our stomachs were full with meatloaf and potatoes. The television lit the room. Just as every Sunday evening prior my aunt and uncle would join with my parents to drink cognac and smoke cigarettes while they watched Dean Martin. Compound words like “Real-estate” and “Interest Rate” escaped their mouths between puffs of smoke. Their voices blended together with the crackling sound from television’s speaker to form a language I could not speak. Always present the smoke was just as part of home as the brown, yellow, and orange stain covered shag carpet who’s long fibers got tangled in the wheels of my 1:64 scale Mustang. Suddenly a silence filled the room. Dean Martin was no longer on the other side of the grey slightly curved glass. Never taking his eyes off the screen my father snuffed out the last glowing embers of his Marlboro. The stubby wrinkled cigarette butt lay lifeless in the ugly brown ceramic ashtray. My uncle’s raspy voice broke the silence. He instructed us turn our attention to the screen.

 

A lightly colored figure emerged from the various shades of grey on the monitor. The man dressed in something that appeared to right out of The Twilight Zone stiffly climbed down a tangled mess of wire. A gargled voice rang out from the single RCA speaker. Every few moments a piercing beep was audible. I then realized what was happening. My stomach sank. Everything in the room faded to black. No more smoke. No more Uncle Mike. No more Mom and Dad. Just that twelve-inch screen and myself. A second man emerged as the flickering television set buzzed. These two men knew what no other person in history does. They know how the moon smells. They have stood on a place 250,000 miles away. A Wapakoneta, Ohio man had achieved my dream. I was once again standing in front of the recently flung open door of a B-52. The thoughts in my head did not involve the parachute on my back. I knew that one-day, I would go to the moon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew Quinn 2008.

 

Chester's Last Day

The only difference between him and I was the shotgun he was holding. Seeing how no one in the room knew he even existed until a few moments prior when he broke through the door it became apparent to me that he was only taking this action because he had to. If I had endured the same life as he I would probably be the one with the twelve gage Winchester in my hand. The blood from the middle aged “hero” was starting to seep through my pressed Dockers. I thought of ways to knock the gun from his hand. I wanted to pull of that ridiculous cliché ski mask and reveal his identity. I wanted people to read my name in the papers the next morning. “Local man, Michel Felix, takes down gunman in donut shop.” I knew that if I tried a stunt like that I would end up just like the recently deceased man awkwardly lying adjacent to the broken coffee pot.

I wondered if the dead man was going to be late for work now that he was unable to drive himself there. Shaking to the point she could not do the job he instructed her to do, the teenaged soon to be mother let out a rhythmic gasp. She seemed to be choking on the air that surrounded her as her acrylic covered fingernails reflected the neon sign dangling in the window. Up until this point it had been swaying back and forth after being upset by the desperate attacker. His voice led me to think that he was about twenty years old. His often use of the word, “Fuck” led me to believe he was uneducated.

His constant uses of the world made it lose its meaning. He instructed me to, “Get on the fucking ground!” He told the employee of the store to, “Put the fucking money in the fucking bag!” Every few seconds he would spread the blinds with his thumb and index finger and just say, “Fuck!” By this point the other three customers were huddled like school children under their desks after the treat of a nuclear blast. Only I stared onward. I began to wonder who prepared all of the donuts. Where was he, I only use the word “he” because it seems like a job for a man. The hunger in my stomach was staring to overcome me. It had been several hours since my last meal and the smell of tiger tails and bear claws was starting to make its way through my nostrils. The chime of a rusty bell above the entrance rang out.

The last time it had done so a man with a gun came through the door. Before the gunman could bark a command the potential Jimmy’s Donut Shack patron, she quickly exited the store. The blood on my leg was beginning to get cold. As quick as he came the man left the store, but not before uttering one last phrase containing that now meaningless four-letter word. After a brief silence the loony toons theme startled us all. It continued to mock the situation that had just occurred. I then noticed a small square of light glowing through the dead man’s blood soaked pocket. He wore the same pants as I and, thanks to the pool of blood; they were now a darker shade of brown then the day he purchased them.

I reached into his pocket. The caller ID only displayed a random combination of numbers. I cleared my mucus filled throat and greeted the caller. A stern voice shook the tiny speaker forcing me to pull the receiver away from my ear. The person on the other end did not repeat the salutation or even offer the common verbal fore play found in most normal phone calls. With a single breath he exclaimed 15 words, “Chester this is the third time you have been late this month! You are fired!” The call was disconnected on the other side.

This dead man was now unemployed like 117,790 other Minnesota residents. I wondered if his life insurance was now void. Just then the donut cook exited the small unisex bathroom at the back of the restaurant. He had a very puzzled look on his face. I closed Chester’s cell phone, placed it on his chest, stood up, and exited the store. I knew this was the beginning of a terrible week.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

A Bite of the UK



BiteUK - 37 BiteUK - 43 BiteUK - 70 BiteUK - 72 BiteUK - 73 BiteUK - 22

This is a link to a slide show of some pictures I took while I was in England and Scotland. More should be up soon.