Home  •  About  •  Contact  •  Twitter  •  Google+  •  Facebook  •  Tumblr  •  Youtube  •  RSS Feed

Jesse’s Lost Journal — by Mark Patton

Entry 53, 1985

I was so sleepy but the image in the painting intrigued me, was it my projection? Instead of sleeping I decided to sit surrounded by the paintings… this really was the last time I would be alone with them… perhaps the paintings are trying to speak to me, just like the Mark Rothko Painting at the Met.

I am beyond feeling odd about the spiritual aspect of art and I have much evidence that there is more to the world than meets the eye. So I sat in a lotus position closed my eyes and waited. You will not be amazed that Fred began to whisper in my ear and heat up my body, he was bucking and wanted to be free. I understand Fred better than anyone in the world at this point (I think I have a clearer picture of him than Nancy but I am not sure, as I have never met her). So I relaxed, ignored him and his now profanity laced poetry… he is obsessed with my sexual activity and reduces every move to it most pornographic. I am a guy, so I get it, I am Fred’s porn… I am his sex doll… this makes me laugh and it adds another layer to a totally bizarre life.

Relax, breathe………..I begin with painting number 1, the color is very cool, fresh, a certain green that is lovely but as you contemplate it, the color become ill… the matt glaze dulls your view, it is unclear what you are seeing… this was me before Elm Street. I had no point of view, I was a child, unclear.

It is true that the painting moves but very slowly. I see my father there and Fred… they are really the same image, that is strange. My father’s prison is clearly defined, it is off his own making… I see the way in and my spirit enters the painting. I am there.

This must be what it feels like in the dream world. I know what I am doing is dangerous but here I am. My father’s mind is cloudy but I can tell he believes he should be here, the killing started with him. I do not want to look at this, it is making me very nervous but I stay. He is thinking about the place he buried the first one… when he was a boy, a little dog… neck broken.

There is more, this is how Fred found us and brought us to the house on Elm Street… my father’s sins, his crimes made him open to Fred… Fred wants to punish him though me… why… why?

I cannot take the heat, I am an oven and I need to rest… I need to look into all the paintings but my energy is depleted. Will other people be able to see into these paintings? Only those who are open… will Fred move through them… I have to know but I have to sleep… so I wrap myself in the blanket that Colin gave me and am instantly at peace. I walk to the bed and sleep… all the ugliness gone. Just me in a very happy place.

Jesse’s Lost Journals

~ Preface ~

Jesse's Lost Journals
© by Mark Patton. All Rights Reserved.

© 2017 STATIC MASS EMPORIUM . All Rights Reserved. Powered by METATEMPUS | creative.timeless.personal.   |   DISCLAIMER, TERMS & CONDITIONS

HOME | ABOUT | CONTACT | TWITTER | GOOGLE+ | FACEBOOK | TUMBLR | YOUTUBE | RSS FEED

CINEMA REVIEWS | BLU-RAY & DVD | THE EMPORIUM | DOCUMENTARIES | WORLD CINEMA | CULT MOVIES | INDIAN CINEMA | EARLY CINEMA

MOVIE CLASSICS | DECONSTRUCTING CINEMA | SOUNDTRACKS | INTERVIEWS | THE DIRECTOR’S CHAIR | JAPANESE CINEMA