As promised, the Kreation Korner is proud to present the first of many new entries kreated during and inspired by our sacred sojourn into the wild. But first, a cursory warning: the discoveries we have made will undoubtedly be disturbing to some. Others may not even see the kreations plainly presented in front of them because those very kreations are entirely contradictory to their own safe, stale viewpoints. But for those who can appreciate our revelations, bask in the glory of their inexorable truth. The first entry comes from Percy Stankowski, whose usual dedication to the moving image was shaken through the course of our quest. During his personal turmoil, he decided to use the written word, simple but powerful, to express himself.
Yeah. Give me something to drink.
I had been stuck in this goddamn desert for forty days. Or forty years. It's hard to tell time once the radiation's turned your brain to low-fat cherry Jell-O.
Give me something to drink.
I repeated myself to the grotesque baby-man standing in front of me. His skin reminded me of tapioca pudding. I hate tapioca.
I'm thirsty, give me a fucking drink.
I was getting impatient. Delirium had set in and I was thirsty enough to drink my own piss. Don't think I hadn't tried.
Pepsi OK?
The tapioca man held up a cardboard cup named Pepsi. It said so on the cup.
I want Coke. Fuck off.
The tapioca baby-man died of lupus and I continued on, in search of more lies.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Triumphant Return...
After nearly a month, we--the Kreation Korner Team--have returned from our vision quest in the uncharted mountains of northern Kansas. For those of you lay and otherwise uninformed readers, a vision quest is a painstaking process of delving deep into one's consciousness to discover untold dimensions of kreative inspiration. Our goal was simple: discover in ourselves the ability to kreate what has never been kreated before. Naturally, we embraced the harsh demands of the vision quest without hesitation. During the quest, we lived a minimal existence with only limited access to such modern conveniences as Big League Chew and oversized novelty Frisbees. Guiding us in our quest were wise (almost to a fault, to be quite frank) shamans-in-training from a nearby alternative arts college. Our days were tumultuous: meditation, sweat-lodge sessions, name games, and yogurt socials (which are like ice cream socials but with half the calories). The sundry hallucinations we encountered were awesome, terrifying, sentimental, and often dull. Yet they succeeded in bestowing true kreative potential on all the kontributors you have come to know and love: Chris Peebles, Charlie Weigman, Hattie Weyland, Marilyn, Davin Krengal, Jawn Steighmeaus, Percy Stankowski, and all the rest. For the next month or so, the Korner will be characterized by an unprecedented explosion of fiercely passionate, devastatingly original kreations from all your favorites. Now that TKK headquarters are back in operation, failing to deliver this material would be a betrayal of our obligations as kreationists. So, with further ado being unnecessary and thusly forgone, sit back and prepare to have every preconceived notion you have ever had about life, living, and existence annihilated by The Kreation Korner.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Fiction Korner
Esteemed fiction writer Jawn Steighmeaus returns this week with a chilling, metaphor-soaked account of the harsh realities of post-modern life. As the reader, you might be taken aback by some of the crude-seeming language Jawn employs. But are his words really what is crude or is it in fact you who is indeed crude? At The Kreation Korner, we believe the latter. Imbibe:
That was the day. The day my balls dropped. My soccer ball and football both. Dropped right into a deep, dark pit they did. My puck fell in too, but it's not a ball so much.
"What about the games, Charlie? The games?" Heathcliff asked, tears welling in his fluorescent space-orb eyes.
"There won't be no more games, old friend," I responded, holding back some optical moisture myself. "The days of hockey and champagne are over."
Life on the farm was never the same after that. Heathcliff got a job as a successful butler, and I got back my old position at the sweater plant. Everyday I trudge through the cable knit jungle knowing those balls are still out there festering under Father Time's gnarled thumb only to be discovered someday by an unsuspecting archeologist or possibly an oil prospector.
That was the day. The day my balls dropped. My soccer ball and football both. Dropped right into a deep, dark pit they did. My puck fell in too, but it's not a ball so much.
"What about the games, Charlie? The games?" Heathcliff asked, tears welling in his fluorescent space-orb eyes.
"There won't be no more games, old friend," I responded, holding back some optical moisture myself. "The days of hockey and champagne are over."
Life on the farm was never the same after that. Heathcliff got a job as a successful butler, and I got back my old position at the sweater plant. Everyday I trudge through the cable knit jungle knowing those balls are still out there festering under Father Time's gnarled thumb only to be discovered someday by an unsuspecting archeologist or possibly an oil prospector.
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