I had acted out my own death on at least 100 different occasions by the time that I hit seventeen.
There were boxes upon boxes of 8mm film rotting away in the damp attic as proof. Silent movies that Nils and I had shot with our late grandfather's Brownie Turret camera.
I was chased by Nils in a bed sheet acting as a ghost or cornered by him as he wore a black circle skirt tied around his neck like a cape with baby powder caked upon his face his blond hair slicked back with Vaseline and wax fangs in place-- he was a vampire set to drain me-- succeeding in the task only to be destroyed by the beam of a flashlight being held off camera-- pretending itself to be a ray of morning sun. The scene crudely cut to nothing but the circle skirt haphazardly thrown to the ground near a pile of ash dug out from the fireplace--the vampire's remains.
I was stalked by a rigid walking Nils wearing a black turtleneck and rubber Frankenstein mask or stabbed by him while he was disguised in a fake moustache and a long ominous looking scar drawn upon his cheek.
Nils wore our grandmother's khaki trenchcoat as a labcoat as he performed experimental surgery on me-- replacing my brain with that of an evil dictator and transplanting my heart with one from a mass murderer. I had a blood transfusion from a swamp creature (a discarded one-armed mannequin with bits of dead leaves and houseplant glued to it).
Then there were the suicides-- how many times had I committed celluloid suicide?
Running through a graveyard being chased by a zombie-- taking a shot at him only to find that you can't kill the undead and, when cornered, turning the gun on myself.
My silhouette against a white wall to look as thought I were hanging from a noose.
I had pantomimed slitting every major artery in my body with various sharp objects... a box cutter, butcher knife, switchblade, broken glass... the faux wounds oozing pints of Caro dark corn syrup.
Laying in the cool wet grass with an empty bottle painted to read 'POISON'.
Nan didn't concern herself with the subject matter but prided herself in our hard work, creativity and laughter.
Nils and I had a routine that was constantly and consistently blurring the lines between ordinary life and art.
There were boxes upon boxes of 8mm film rotting away in the damp attic as proof. Silent movies that Nils and I had shot with our late grandfather's Brownie Turret camera.
I was chased by Nils in a bed sheet acting as a ghost or cornered by him as he wore a black circle skirt tied around his neck like a cape with baby powder caked upon his face his blond hair slicked back with Vaseline and wax fangs in place-- he was a vampire set to drain me-- succeeding in the task only to be destroyed by the beam of a flashlight being held off camera-- pretending itself to be a ray of morning sun. The scene crudely cut to nothing but the circle skirt haphazardly thrown to the ground near a pile of ash dug out from the fireplace--the vampire's remains.
I was stalked by a rigid walking Nils wearing a black turtleneck and rubber Frankenstein mask or stabbed by him while he was disguised in a fake moustache and a long ominous looking scar drawn upon his cheek.
Nils wore our grandmother's khaki trenchcoat as a labcoat as he performed experimental surgery on me-- replacing my brain with that of an evil dictator and transplanting my heart with one from a mass murderer. I had a blood transfusion from a swamp creature (a discarded one-armed mannequin with bits of dead leaves and houseplant glued to it).
Then there were the suicides-- how many times had I committed celluloid suicide?
Running through a graveyard being chased by a zombie-- taking a shot at him only to find that you can't kill the undead and, when cornered, turning the gun on myself.
My silhouette against a white wall to look as thought I were hanging from a noose.
I had pantomimed slitting every major artery in my body with various sharp objects... a box cutter, butcher knife, switchblade, broken glass... the faux wounds oozing pints of Caro dark corn syrup.
Laying in the cool wet grass with an empty bottle painted to read 'POISON'.
Nan didn't concern herself with the subject matter but prided herself in our hard work, creativity and laughter.
Nils and I had a routine that was constantly and consistently blurring the lines between ordinary life and art.
