And more picture writings...

hieroglyphs

More picture writings...

A Series of Picture Writings

...or pictographs, or asemic writing, or pictograms, or petroglyphs or hieroglyphs....

The Builder

The Builder

Tim Inrim was convinced humankind was well on its way to self-termination and was responding as any might in his situation — by living on credit. If he needed something he bought it regardless of his financial situation because franky his situation was so dire it was laughable. Banks kept sending him new credit card offers which he gratefully received. They didn’t seem too concerned and they, well they were the experts. His credit was good. He always paid the minimum on time. He had built for himself a wondrous temple to debt. He considered himself an architect of the Virtual. In the surfaces and walls of his being were reflected his responsible handling of materials. He liked the cracked and pitted nature of his brickwork and would lovingly carress the twilight mood of his own irresponsibility. The thing was he was a saint of sorts. He deeply pittied those of his friends whose credit was poor and made up for it by inviting them in to his carefully maintained home, a home entirely built of plastic and feeding them until their stomachs were full.

untitled

Albion's Rug

Albion Rug’s solution to his hair problem was quite unique. The hair wasn’t coming back anymore. He’d resigned himself to the fact. But he refused to go the polishing route. One day seeding his garden he was struck by inspiration. Surely the soil of the scalp was as rich in nutrients as any. He could grow plain old grass or perhaps even flowers. He’d add miracle grow if necessary—why not? It couldn’t, after all, be any worse than some of the products he’d already tried. And so he proceeded to grow a garden on his head. These days a certain peace has descended on Albion. He exudes that quietude that comes to those with happy green fingers and some of his old bald friends have begun to tentatively knock on his door as they seek his sage advice.

Charcoal

Content

Blindfold

Ed

The Happy Kidnapper

On the stadium lawn beside the big tip tree (it is near an infamous toxic dump), looking from the reporters’ box, you can see a shoe lying on the grass beside those fresh white stripes. It has been a week and the owner, whom I know, refuses to return for it. “A gift” he said when interviewed from a secret location. He is such a fraud. “Leave it there. Better even bury it—make the soil strong.” The minister for the transition has separated himself from the events of the past week with a lie. To be fair he was probably just embarrassed. The game had not gone his way. When the hummers drove onto the track beeping their horns and the ball men started waving their flags things had begun to disintegrate. Parcelby had handed the minister a package of papers to sign just as number 8 kicked the signpost with a left hook leaving the opposing team all agape and the minister, having missed whatever it was that caused the crowd to cheer, threw the stack of documents in his underling’s face and stalked off to the bathroom. Nothing else was going to happen for a while. Play wouldn’t resume until number 8 gave the thumbs up and he was notorious for milking his little moments in the sunshine until the heat had all gone and a chill was in the air. So anyway it was doubtful he’d miss anything. The minister, who does have a name, Nigel, didn’t even think to beckon to his security he was so irritated and stalked off leaving his bodyguard at their cards. Minding a low level minister was tedious and sure they got paid but not enough to not relax once in a while. In the bathroom one of the drivers was waiting. He was a big man and had been quite prepared to take on an army but as it happened didn’t have to even raise his voice. Taking the minister’s arm he lead him out to one of the hummers and gently but firmly pushed him in. They’d do one more circuit and then be on their way. The brazenness of the whole thing—but then that was what they were famous for. Once they’d kidnapped a famous singer naked. The three of them had been naked and the singer had laughed and so had been taken off his guard. They always got in the papers and on this day they’d tossed one shoe into the middle of the playing area, released a plume of confetti and then had exited, their boom box expelling the sounds of Pavarotti at a volume even the frenzied crowd could not drown out. I saw it all but found it hard to fully digest at the time. The big screen even showed a close up of the minister’s sad little face as he peered out of the window a gag in his mouth and a tear on his cheek—a tear for everyone to see—an enormous ten-inch tear. His kidnapper smiled and waved at the cameras. Dressed in a fine pin stripe he was the essence of dignity and hard to dislike and his demands were undeniably reasonable. Even stadium security was disinclined to stop the hummer as it slowly drove out. The guard at the main gate even waved cheerily. The evening news put the item at the latter end of its programming.
“Peter Morgan has done it again!” the news announcer began. Smilingly he went on to describe the famous kidnapper’s latest antics. “Demanding a modest million he has declared this day to be a new national holiday and tells people to look out for a big fat check in the mail very soon! In further news an escaped hamster was deemed responsible for the five-car pile up on Chipham High this morning. The young owner ran out into the heavy morning traffic waving his blankie just as an ambulance was speeding through lights to get to another accident scene. Both owner and hamster were said to be thriving.”