Trace William Cowen.

November232009

A Conversation with Everyone

Everyone: So, how have you been? What are you doing now?
Me: Yeah, so I'm 22. That finally hit me the other day. In the mall, of all places. It hit me and I realized...I realized I was surrounded by children. That, there, in that moment - in that mall - in that emptiness, that same emptiness...right there I'm older. I couldn't tell if it was for the moment, or if that was just the beginning of how I would feel for the rest of my life. Or maybe, hopefully, it's something you only feel once. If you act on it. Maybe it's a warning sign. A little taste of what it could, what it will be like if you keep ignoring the signs. But what are the signs? That's hypothetical. I know what the signs are. And I have ignored them for...for a while.
It's...I...I just get so concerned with making sure I'm alive that I forget to actually live. I remember, too often even, that I die. I die. I cease. I'm still getting my head around it. It feels so close now. Even though, really, I'm as close or as far away as ever; I'm as close or as far away as I was back then, at six years old with the comic books...because, I...I don't know when. I don't know when. I could. I could take the ending into my own hands. Director's cut. But I think there's something visceral, something beautiful about letting it play out. Like a six or seven minute song, where it all sort of caves in on itself near the end. The last twenty or thirty seconds are just vast echoes, no actual words or chords even. Just loosely connected melodies. The memory of harmony. But, fuck it, if those notes from the first part of the song don't ring out. Softer and softer until the end, but just as beautiful. You don't forget them.
And just as I do not forget those who have come and gone, I know there's a few people, at least, who wouldn't forget me either. Move on? Sure. We have to. We must. Living really revolves around how we behave upon the death of others. Or at least we would like to think this. I'm small in this world. On this planet. I'm trivial in this universe. This beautiful creation. This devastating mess. But I'm me. And when I'm gone, whenever that is, that'll be the last of anyone or anything like me. I'm the only one. I'm the only one.
Fuck...that feels pretty alright. That feels pretty...alright to me. I'm 22 going on immortal. We'll leave it at that.
Everyone: Oh. Right! I'm getting married soon. Just bought a new truck.

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /words /writing /art /conversations /exist /existentialism and popcorn /existentialism and popcorn

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November222009

text

an excerpt from "Chicken Man"

“You think time exists. It’s tangible, you say. But travel through this…tangible entity, is impossible?”

Jennie rolls her eyes once more.
“Yes.”

Greg laughs, elbowing Chicken Man. Inviting him into the giggles. Chicken Man smiles but doesn’t actually laugh.

“What do you think, Chicken? Does that make a whole lot of sense?”

Chicken Man looks at Jennie. She looks at him.
“No. No, it doesn’t.”

Jennie shakes her head. She pulls Reeder from the window, pointing a slender finger toward the booth.
“Sit.”
Reeder starts to pout, crossing his arms.
“But I don’t wa - “
“Sit. And be quiet.”
She looks at Reeder and his crossed arms. His contagious pout.

“Time travel IS possible, honey. Space. Space travel. As long as you can avoid the Grandfather paradox - “
“Parallel universes.”
“Right. Parallel…it’s possible. We haven’t mastered it. But it’s there. It’s possible. It waits on us.”

“You know…” Jennie prys Reeder from the window once more, his saliva smeared against the glass. She wads a napkin and cleans the window, tossing the napkin to the floor.
“But, Momma, you told me not to - ”
Catching herself, she leans under the table and picks up the discarded napkin. She places it on the table.

“Only men would think time travel was even fucking possible. Only men. You’re stuck in the fucking 11th grade, Greg. And you’re 42. 42! Your son is starting 1st grade soon and all you can muster up to say to him or me or Chicken here is ‘I used to play tuba once’…”

“Again with the tuba…I just…”

“Yes. Again with the tuba. And, I mean…tuba? Fucking TUBA, Greg? No one gives or ever gave or ever will give a fucking shit about your goddamn tuba, alright? Okay? It’s a fart with a mouthpiece.”

Chicken man stares into Jennie’s eyes. Those lovely little oceans. He wants to swim in them. He wants to drown.

“Well,” he seems nervous now. His knees start to wiggle and shake. He begins a nervous, twitching vibration throughout his body. Subtle, but the ice in his glass starts to softly clink. “I happen to like his tuba stories. I find them…inspirational.”

Jennie nods, looking back at him. Those lovely mountain eyes. She wants to climb them. She wants to jump from his peak.

“You would. You fucking would. You’re both interested in all this shit because the only thing that really interests you anymore is anything that’s already happened. Because everything ahead of us…everything ahead of YOU is set. It’s all in place. There are no further options. But your past? You can fuck around with that a bit. You can move around little days and splices to fit your mood. You’re remembering the tuba so fondly, but don’t forget the fact that you don’t play it anymore. And there’s a reason for that too. We look back because it’s the only thing we know how to do anymore. All these years, all this adulthood behind us and I still don’t know how to look at myself in the mirror. I still don’t know how to look ahead without being completely scared. Not to death. Not OF death. But…of life. I’m scared of life.”

The waiter approaches the table, carrying steaming chicken and cold salads. He hesitates near the table, not wanting to interrupt, though simultaneously irritated wit this scolding, heavy tray of food. Jennie doesn’t notice him. Greg points, but she doesn’t see. Chicken Man tips a nod in his general direction, but she doesn’t see this either. Reeder is back against the window. He is licking the glass in great, fell swoops.

“So, yeah. Actually, yeah. Time travel sounds pretty fucking brilliant to me too. I’m sorry. I’ll admit it. Fucking brilliant!”

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /writing /words /art /Chicken Man /an excerpt

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text

little in this world

there is little in this world
worth a fight
or a mention

yet we go on
go on
living

there is little in this world
worth more
than expression

yet we hold tongues
keep on
singing

there is little in this world
worth dreams
or believing

yet we have words
only
sleeping

there is little in this world
a big empty
place

yet they say
and say again
our Love will have to wait

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /art /words /writing

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November212009

video

Stereo Then Video (feat. Kirkland Underwater)- “Blues Man”

a short film

written, directed, animated, and edited by
Trace William Cowen

folie à plusieurs - the shared madness of many

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /film /art /Stereo Then Video /Kirkland Underwater

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November192009

text

Wonderboom

Swing from a tree
come down to me
I know it’s wild up there
the ground is boring
but I only want to talk
don’t you ever want to talk?
I only want it
Talk Talk

I’m sure you’d have
so much to say
There is plenty to do
but even more to say

But one day
some day
soon?
I hope you will tell me

Yes

one day
some day
soon!
There will be no more trees.

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /art /words

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November172009

text

to Robbie and his planet:

Been a long time since I
last saw
Robbie
Lived in that house with the
pale blue
Awning
Right now I would guess he’s
asleep or
Yawning

Hey Robbie
the Earth is blue
on paper maps and atlases
and spinning globes too

Hey Robbie
look what I drew
it’s a picture of the Earth
and it’s crushing you

Why do you wear it as a
back
pack
?

Don’t you know you’re meant
to burst and spring
to roam on it
?

this Earth will curve your spine
if you’d only give it time

yes this Earth will break your back
you’re not alone in that

Robbie you’re not alone

We share these broken bones.

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /Trace-William-Cowen /tracewilliamcowen /art /artist-Trace-William-Cowen /Robbie

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November162009

text

jaw

Doing so well I can hardly
breathe
The truth is a lie I chose to
believe
We all share a mouth we are separate
teeth
We all share the pain of each little
cavity

When it’s all too real
When it’s all too much
We’ll remove them ourselves
with a surgical touch

And replace them
with hippopotamus
tusks

Ivory

Tags: /Trace William Cowen /Trace-William-Cowen /tracewilliamcowen /words /writing /art /artist-Trace-William-Cowen /Jaw /hippopotamus

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November152009

text