Canon Hub » From 120's Archives Hub / Cool War 2: Ruiz From Your Grave » Project Proposal 2012-120: "Art Is A Getaway Drug"
Groups of Interest » Are We Cool Yet? Hub » Project Proposal 2012-120: "Art Is A Getaway Drug"
-
Info
Project Proposal 2012-120: "Art Is A Getaway Drug"
Name: Phillip Willis
Title: Art Is A Getaway Drug
Material Requirements:
- A large, caged enclosure, reinforced with hardened aluminum or titanium (1 required)
- Adult female actress (characteristics are irrelevant)
- Concentrated amphetamine (40 mg required, already in my possession)
- Art utensils, including sketching pencils, canvases and acrylic paints (already in my possession)
- Class C Targeted Retrograde amnestics (15 mg needed, can be retrieved from any Foundation Site, preferably Site-120 due to its closeness)
- Wide-area Disruption Field Unit prototype 7 (currently under development in a remote facility owned by Anderson Robotics, must be capable of extending to 100 meters in radius)
- Pure cocaine (250 mg required, already in my possession)
- Paintbrush and a large container of fresh animal blood (1 for each, the animal used is irrelevant)
- Ordinary table (already in my possession)
- 9 mm handgun (1 required)
- Large dosage of phencyclidine (At least 20 mg required, already in my possession)
- Sharpened paint scraper (already in my possession)
Abstract: Art Is A Getaway Drug will be a one-hour-long performance executed within Esterberg's central Grand Market. Prior to starting, a wide-area disruption field unit will be planted within the central commons of the Market District, which will additionally act as the stage for this performance.
Upon completing the setup of the disruption field unit, I will begin inscribing the thaumaturgic rune Ras'ya Lur ("Attract") along the entirety of the stage using the aforementioned paintbrush and animal blood. I will obviously need ample time to complete the ritual's inscription. Once its initiated however, the audience will begin to congregate around the vicinity of the performance stage. The exact size of the audience is irrelevant so long as the crowd is overwhelmingly large.
Once the audience has been gathered, I will position the caged enclosure in the center of the stage and proceed to enter it. By this point, the effects of the rune will have already began to fade from the spectators, despite it intending to last the entirety of the performance. Some may even try to leave once they become aware of the situation. Their attempts will be, of course, futile, as the disruption field unit will have already entrapped the crowd, preventing them from leaving the stage.
The performance will begin upon the injection of the amnestics, amphetamine, and phencyclidine directly into my body. This will cue the actress to enter the stage and begin her reenactment of Andrea Willis. The combination of hallucinogenics such as phencyclidine and the amnestics — which primarily target the hippocampus and frontal lobe regions of the brain — will cause my perception of the actress to shift, making her appear more like Ms. Willis.
The actress will then introduce herself to me and the rest of the audience. She has been strictly instructed to continuously make physical contact with me as much as possible. While her touch may appear soft and innocent to the spectators around us, the added amphetamine will amply my senses to extreme levels. It should be noted that, regardless of any screams, the actress has been ordered to continue interacting with me whenever possible.
After several minutes of loving, intimate contact with myself, the actress will retrieve and place the provided table directly in front of my cage. As she finishes this task, she will then retrieve the pure cocaine alongside the handgun and display them on the table. After insufflating the provided substance, the actress will dramatically pause before firing the empty handgun directly into her head.
While the actress herself will not be harmed, the hallucinogenics will cause me to perceive her as having perished. It will be at this time when the second part of the performance begins.
The actress will return to the stage after hiding herself from my view, now dressing slightly more masculine. My perception by this point will have significantly altered, causing me to hallucinate the actress as Lloyd Willis. As she enters the stage, she will bring the canvas and provided art supplies to the table.
The actress will begin painting on the canvas. After she completes her painting, she will showcase it to the audience before turning to me. The painting itself will be a portrait of Ms. Andrea Willis, decorated with blood and traces of cocaine.
Upon showing me the portrait, the actress will retrieve the sharpened paint scrapper and use it to scratch across my throat. The cut itself will be faint, but due to the aforementioned amphetamine, it will be sufficient enough for me to believe that I am on the verge of death.
As she cuts my neck, the actress will smile before asking whether or not I enjoyed the portrait that she made depicting me, Philip Willis. She will ask me this question before leaving the stage.
The performance will conclude once my screams finally end.
Intent: I never told my younger brother Lloyd what happened. All he ever knew is that she just left us, for our own good. I don't think an eleven-year-old could take that in any other way than trauma. Even if what followed was trauma anyways.
"Don't worry, I'll be fine. It's just a getaway method." That's what Andrea Willis, my mother, told my fifteen-year-old self three seconds before she snorted 560 milligrams of cocaine in our dirty living room. The next morning, I would find her dead.
We lived on the streets — or if we were lucky, we would sleep in some factory ruins or whatever else this damned city could offer. With him being barely a child, I had to be the one that suddenly provided everything. I was the one that brought food, the one that helped us find shelter, and I was the one that protected us. I tried doing as much as I could with little Lloyd because above all, I had only one goal in mind — to never be like our mother.
Walking around the dirty streets of Częstochowa to find any money or food for us to live off of, I found one of the only entryways into Esterberg. Initially terrified by its weirdness, it wasn't moments later until I became one of the members of the local AWCY? collective, creating art like I always wanted. Me and my brother always had a thing for art, with our sensitivities and everything that went with them.
Before long, the only thing I could ever think of was art. Drawing and painting fueled my ego-ridden mind as I traveled everywhere across Esterberg. Whether it be to vandalize the city hall or to profit from robbing the nearby banks, I always tagged along whenever I could. As we continued onward, the only thing I could do with Lloyd was leave him behind. Even while he begged and prayed that I remained at his side — nothing would stop me from returning to the canvas. To the paint-ridden walls littered with runes, or to the performances so grandiose and epic that your heart might've stopped if you watched them for too long.
After months of spending my free time almost exclusively on this little goddamned art group, alone, I would come to realize one thing — that I had become exactly like my mother. Lost in whatever bullshit I thought was important.
I tried to get away from it, naturally, but I couldn't. No matter how much I tried, I always found myself back at the canvas, creating another thing that I thought was more important than my brother.
Many people say you can't lose yourself in art. Just as you can't lose yourself in doing anything else they think is normal. But these people don't understand what art truly is. They're ignorant to what we say because they want to be ignorant — and my trap will make sure they finally listen. Trapped inside with me, they will observe what art does to a person. How it's no better than the drugs my bastard mother stuffed herself with, and how she'd only tell us that it was nothing serious to worry about. That's what these people are — the same people that will look at a broken man trying to find fulfillment by any means and say "it's nothing serious to worry about." Maybe they just don't understand how it feels yet to be trapped.
But if I can't escape from the constant cycle or run away from this rotting hellhole we call home, then neither will they.
They will observe the fall of a man as his memories and traumas come to haunt him. These people just don't yet understand — they're merely sheep. Still trapped inside their little work schedules as they remain wholefully oblivious of everyone else around them. They will look as my mother shows me how I'm no better than her, and then upon my brother as I try to find a way to escape. They will gaze and marvel as I scream in pain. Through tears even, as this psychological agony fills the very being of my existence.
And they will look upon my face as these ghosts finally kill me. But, of course, it'll never work.
Because there's really no such thing as a getaway drug — not even in death.
.