I was a cactus living in a desert at the time. It was a dry, dramatic, tumultuous landscape, drought for over twenty or thirty years or so, I reckon. I had got used to it, though, comfortable in that barren environment. I hadn’t so much as seen a cloud since I was just a kid cactus. When I was a kid cactus, those many years ago, there was a tremendous thunderstorm over our desert land, and many of my dear friends nearly died. My best friend, Cactim, died that day. Drowned. I think him about him to this day.

So, you can imagine my slight apprehension when that day, as I was looking up at the sky, admiring the sun, I made out a slight wisp of cotton over the horizon, faintly outlining the curvature of the earth. At first, I didn’t think much of it. I had seen faint cotton wisps of water convection frequently from time to time. In the past twenty aught years by then I had seen maybe five or six wisps, and they didn’t much scare me. Anything larger than a wisp, though, and I tended to get a bit nervous. As that day went on and on, this wisp got larger and larger.

Sure enough, the slight wisp of cotton on the horizon grew and grew and became an enormous cloud, a downright potential thunderstorm, looming right over me. I shuddered a bit in anticipation. I still shudder to this day just thinking about it. I couldn’t bear to think about what it might want or do to me. I cowered, lifting my abbreviated arms over my crown, my spikes the only layering to cover me from the inevitable downpour. My green skin shaking at the thought of a wet raindrop.

Instead of killing me, the rain cloud said “Hello.” I lowered my arms and said “Howdy. What is the weather like up there?” and she said “It’s a bit breezy, but otherwise okay,” and I said “Where you off to?” and she said “Just passing by, on my way to here and there, and yourself?” and I said “Nothing doing, just moseying along down here. Where’d’ya say you were off to?” and she said, “This place called Vegas, Las Vegas. You heard of it?” and I said “Oh, yeah, sure, I reckon I heard about of it. D’ya need the comp’ny?” and she said, “Sure thing stranger, if you don’t mind the ride.”

It seemed like a perfect fit for the two of us, Vegas, there in the desert, a climate that I am settled in, and she would feel right at home among the fountains, spitting their streams into the sky, and all the lights, lights, lights. So we piled into a jalopy and took it on down the interstate, down 1-15, racing to sin. Not much to say about the drive, just the landscape same as I’m used to: red rock canyons, desert flatlands, and dust dust dust. We made a bit of small talk, asked each other our favorite color and what not, made nervous jokes and titters, getting to know each other and all, knowing that when we got into the city, everything would be a bit more at ease.

When we rolled into town, though, we got nothing but cold shoulders. Everybody looked suspiciously up at her, and they kept a safe distance from me. The town was just downright unfriendly, cold despite the warm glow of the neon lights and the music of the slot machines. We didn’t need much attention, though, or too much company of others. We strolled down the strip, more and more comfortable with each other. By the time we reached Rome and France we were talking up a storm, if you’d be so kind as to pardon the pun.

As we strolled around, we picked up something to whet the whistle. We took sips while we walked about, me considerably more than her. At about the fourth or fifth swig, as the first began to kick in, I felt my confidence strengthen and my inhibitions loosen. I edged closer and closer to her until our shoulders were near touching. When we were close enough to know that there was no more space to go before contact, I put my prickly arm around her. She didn’t mind the spikes much. Being a cloud and all, she was rightly unaffected by my prickiness.

We moved along and along and along. We left France and swung by New York, then off to Egypt, having a good old time. Eventually, though, it began to grow late, and I began to know the consequences of underestimating the efficiency of the number 151 on a small brown bottle. We decided to catch a bus back to our place, a ramshackle hotel at the other end of the strip. When the bus pulled up, though, the driver wouldn’t let me on. First, he said, because I was too drunk, and second, he said, because I was a cactus, and they don’t give too much mind to cacti on a bus, especially those reeking of booze. So, I pulled myself away, a hissing and a cussing, but mostly stumbling as my legs began to go numb and unresponsive. I didn’t know how we were going to get back as I was beginning to lurch inevitably into unconsciousness.

That’s when she began to blow. She began to huff and puff and wind and wind wind, and all sorts of fussing. The wind she was huffing and puffing hoisted me up into her puffy appendages. With her wispy limbs wrapped firmly around my limp body, she began to carry me down the strip, back to the hotel. With her wind came some lightning, and with her lightning came some thunder, and with her thunder came some rain, and everyone in her way began to scatter in a frenzy, frantically searching for cover from her storming. She didn’t tire and moved quickly, and soon enough we were back in our run-down old room.

Something happened to my inebriated body, wrapped in her water-molecule arms. I am not sure to this day, since I passed out halfway back to the hotel. All I remember is that I woke lying next to her in the hotel bed, and something was different. Something about my skin. It didn’t hit me at first, but after a moment of contemplation and real deep thinking, I realized that I was naked. I had taken off all of my spikes before I got into bed the night before, and my skin was damp from her skin, her dense condensation. At first I had panicked, remembering what had happened to my good friend, those many years ago. I shouted and hollered and fussed and she woke up, calmly and calmed me down with “Shh, shh, you’re okay, there is nothing to worry about,” but I kept right on panicking.

She told me that while she carried me home, her water-molecule arms began to transform me bit by bit as she walked block by block. The molecules began to permeate my skin, and slowly they began to transform me. By the time we reached the room, my body was completely different, and it was quite possible that I was no longer a cactus, and that I might never be a cactus again.

I felt fine, physically, and could cope with the idea of being forever without those pricks and spikes. Perhaps now people wouldn’t shirk so much away from me when I got near them, I thought. We held each other for some time, and made love, and lightning struck, a pathetic fallacy of sorts, I realize, but this is no matter. When you make love to a cloud, you have to allow these things to happen. We spent most of the day in this manner, and, later, looked around the town, a bit more sober this time.

When the time came when it was time to go we packed up our things and piled again into the jalopy. We drove back, down the opposite way of I-15, back towards the desert of my home, back to the ocean of hers. She dropped me off with a wink and a smile, and I waved as she sped away, over the curvature of the earth in direction she came, disappearing over the horizon. I admit, I am a tough guy, and hadn’t shed a tear for nothing, not even for Cactim when he died, but that day we parted I felt a bit lonsome and had to choke back a couple drops of something from my eyes. I wandered around feeling as though I didn’t belong among the red sand, the dry air, or anywhere thereabouts. So I kept on wandering, and wandering. I wandered into the mountains, and into the towns, in and over and through the valleys, and all around and around. I reckon I was looking for somewhere I could settle in and be comfortable and feel as though I belonged. I wandered and wandered until finally I made it to the ocean, and remembered she was from thereabouts. I looked all about for her, my beautiful rain cloud, but could not find her. I decided to stay put right there until I saw her.

In the meantime, I got used to the new climate. The people were much friendlier than before and I made friends quick. They were eager to approach me, although some a bit curious and dubious. Before long, I decided to get a place of my own, and I found one, right there on the shore. It was bit small and a bit cramped, but with plenty of windows to look out of to watch for her, and cozy otherwise. I have been here ever since, on a constant attentive lookout for her distinct raindrops.

Maybe, I reckon, I’ll never know what has happened to her, somewhere out there in the horizon. I might never really know what had happened to me that day, in Vegas, when she carried me back to the hotel. I reckon I will never fully understand all the voodoo and science and specifics of it all. All I know is that I was different from that day on. And one day, not too long ago, I confirmed this suspicion. It was shortly after a brief rain, and I ran outside, but it wasn’t my baby. I found myself standing in a puddle when a small dog ran up, yipping and nipping at my legs. I assumed it wanted me to throw a stick to fetch, so I began to look around for one. I found a whole bunch of sticks in the very puddle I was in, and reached down to pick one up. When I did so, all I got was a bunch of ripples. That’s when I realized that the bunch of sticks I was looking at was nothing but my own reflection. Right there, in the puddle I stared, and what stared back was a cranberry bush.

Rain Collage

Here are the images for the rain collage. It is laid out atop a map of Portland. The photos are cut from a book about Washington, which is not where Portland is located, but Sara, the raincloud of the story, is from Washington, so I feel as though I can get away with it. The raindrops are cut from some scientific books about clouds, mostly diagrams and lists and such highlighted blue, after I found out that you can't see white against a white background.
Again, I can add to it at will. I have some photos of Sara, and I could certainly take my own photos of clouds and rain and incorporate them if it wasn't too much. Let me know.
-Gray

Belated

A sincere apology to my workshopping group. This is way late, I apologize. Various mishaps prevented me from posting at an appropriate manner. Here goes.
I finished the desert collage, the above images are the finished product. I can still add on to it.

Next is the rain collage that will go on the top portion of the umbrella. I have yet to make it, but I have a pretty good idea of what I am going to do. Instead of flowing towards the center, the images on the rain collage will be flowing outward. The background will be some maps that I have, one of Portland, one a tourist map of Oregon, and a geographical map, although I might change one of the maps to an American map or something. I have checked out several books containing cloud images. I am going to cut these copied images into raindrops, and take pictures of Portland when I go up there next, and cut these pictures into cloud shapes.

Let me know what you think.

I really appreciate the suggestions for the story and will use them.

The Cactus and the Cloud REVISED

I was a cactus living in a desert at the time. It was a dry, dramatic, tumultuous landscape, drought for over twenty or thirty ought years or so, I reckon. I had got used to it, though, comfortable in that barren environment. I hadn’t seen a cloud since I was just a kid cactus. When I was a kid cactus, no reckoning how many years ago, there was a tremendous thunderstorm over our desert land, and many of my dear friends nearly died. My best friend, Cactim, died that day. Drowned. I think him about him to this day.
So, you can reckon my apprehension that day when, as I was looking up at the sky, admiring the sun, I saw a faint wisp of cotton over the horizon, faintly outlining the curve of the earth. At first, I didn’t think much of it. I would see wisps all the time, I suppose, and none of them had really scurred me. In the past twenty ought years or so by then I had seen at least five wisps, and they didn’t much scare me. Anything larger than a wisp, though, and I would get a bit nervous, and as the day went along, this wisp got larger and larger.
Soon, the wisp was a cloud, and it was looming right over me. I shuttered a bit, still shutter to this day just thinking about it. I couldn’t bear to think about what it might want or do to me. I cowered, my spikes trying to cover me from the inevitable downpour. My green skin shaking at the thought of a wet raindrop.
Instead, the rain cloud said “Hello.” I lowered my arms and said “Howdy. What’s up? What is the weather like up there?” and she said “I’m just passing by, on my way to whereabouts and whatnot, and what about you?” and I said “Nothing, just moseying along down here. Where’d’ya say you was you off to?” and she said, “I going down to this place, Vegas. Reckon you heard of it?” and I said “Oh, yeah, sure, I reckon I heard about of it. D’ya need the comp’ny?” and she said, “Sure thing stranger, if you don’t mind the ride.”
So we took it down the interstate, racing to sin. It seemed like a perfect fit for the two of us. Vegas, there in the desert, a climate that I am settled in, and she would feel right at home among the fountains, spitting their streams into the sky, and all the lights, lights, lights.
When we rolled into town, though, we got nothing but cold shoulders. Everybody looked suspiciously up at her, and they kept a safe distance from me. The town just wasn’t too friendly, despite the warm glow of the neon lights and the ring of the slot machines. We didn’t need much attention, though, or too much company of others. We strolled down the strip, talking up a storm, if you don’t mind the pun, taking notes of the sidewalks and the streets and the different colored buildings and the billboards, like something we’ve never seen before. We got to know each other, and began to feel more comfortable around each other. My shyness about her began to ease off, and slowly I began to reckon that she wasn’t intending to kill me no more.
As we strolled around, I picked up some hard liquor, something to whet the whistle. Some innocent thing, some 151 rum, and we began to take shots, me considerably more than her. At about the fourth or fifth shot, as the first began to kick in, I edged closer and closer to her until our shoulders were near touching. When we were close enough to feel the heat of our skin, I put my prickly arm around her. She didn’t mind the spikes, being a cloud and all. She was rightly unaffected by my prickiness.
We moved along and along and along, and it began to grow late. We decided to catch a bus back to our place, a ramshackle hotel at the end of the strip. When the bus pulled up, though, the driver wouldn’t let me on. First, he said, because I was too drunk, and second, he said, because I was a cactus, and they don’t give too much mind to cacti on a bus, especially those reeking of booze. He even went so far as to get off of his bus, walk over to the one behind him, and tell him that I was drunk and a cactus, and not to let me on. So, I pulled myself away. I didn’t know how we were going to get back as I was beginning to lurch inevitably into unconsciousness.
That’s when she began to wind and wind and wind. She began to blow and wind and the fussing wind lifted me up into her arms and she began to carry my limp body down the strip, back to the hotel. She did it with ease, wrapping her wispy arms around my body, carrying me along. She didn’t tire, and everything moved away from her path, running about in a frenzy, trying to find cover from her storming. With her wind came some rain, and then a thunderstorm, moving down the strip, just carrying a cactus.
Something happened to my inebriated body, wrapped in her water-molecule arms. I am not sure to this day, since I passed out halfway down the strip. I woke lying next to her in the hotel bed. Something was different. Something about my skin. It didn’t hit me at first, but after a moment of contemplation, I realized that I was naked. I had taken off all of my spikes before I had got into bed, and my skin was damp from her skin, her dense condensation. At first I had panicked, remembering what had happened to my good friend, those many years ago. I shouted and hollered and fussed and she woke up, calmly and calmed me down with “Shh, shh, you’re okay, there is nothing to worry about,” and I said “What in dagnab tarnation?”
She told me that while she carried me home, her water-molecule arms began to transform me bit by bit as she walked block by block. The molecules began to permeate my skin, and slowly they began to transform me. By the time we reached our room, my body was completely different, and it was quite possible that I was no longer a cactus, and that I might never be a cactus neither again.
I felt fine, physically, and could cope with the idea of being forever without spikes. Perhaps now people wouldn’t shirk so much away from me. We held each other, and made love, and lightning struck, a pathetic fallacy of sorts, I realize, but this is no matter. When you make love to a cloud, you have to allow these things to happen.
So, we drove back, down the opposite way of I-15, back towards the desert of my home, back to the ocean of hers. She dropped me off with a wink and a smile, and I waved as she sped away, over the curvature of the earth in direction she came, disappearing over the horizon. I admit, I am a tough guy, and hadn’t shed a tear for nothing, not even for Cactim when he died, but that day, when she left I felt a bit lonsome and had to choke back a couple drops of something from my eyes. I wandered around feeling as though I didn’t belong among them red sands, that dry air, or anywhere thereabouts. So I kept on wandering, and wandering. I wandered into the mountains, and into the towns in and over, and through the valleys, and all around and around. I reckon I was looking for somewheres I could settle in and be comfortable. I wandered and wandered until finally I made it to the ocean, and remembered she was from thereabouts. I looked all abouts for her, my beautiful cloud, but could not find her. I decided to stay put right there until I saw her.
In the meantime, I got used to the new climate. The people were much friendlier than before, and were eager to approach me, and some seemed almost too enthusiastic about the whole deal to the point of being downright suspicious. I decided to get a place of my own, and I found one, right on the shore. It was bit small and a bit cramped, but with plenty of windows to look out of to watch for her, and cozy otherwise.
Maybe, I reckon, I’ll never know what has happened to her, somewhere out there in the horizon. And, too, I might never really know what had happened to me that day, in Vegas, when she carried me back to the hotel. I reckon I will never fully understand all the voodoo and science and specifics of it all. But I know that I was different from that day on. I know because one after noon, while I was moseying about my room, I needed to use the restroom for some private matters. As I walked through the doorway and steeped onto the tile, I noticed a movement to the left of me. When I looked to examine what it was, I realized after a few moments that it was nothing but a mirror, and I had just noticed myself in the mirror. And then, I looked a little closer, because I couldn’t believe my own eyes as I was looking into that mirror, I couldn’t believe what was looking back at me. It was a cranberry bush.

The desert collage

The desert collage is nearly complete. This collage will be on the underside of the umbrella covering. It is still a bit too small, so I intend on expanding it a bit outward, so that it may exceed the limits of the covering a bit, and I will add more photos of desert images. The paintings that make the backdrop to the collage are by Conrad Buff. Cactus images are from the book The Great Cacti by David Yetman. Scientific sections of the collage are from The Cactus Primer, by Gibson / Nobel, and Pilosocereus by Daniela C. Zappi. The middle image is the cover of Utah, by Compass American Guides, writen by Tom and Gayen Wharton. I intend to add more layers over this image and the collage as a whole. After both collages are complete, I suppose I will take them to a signmaker and have them put the images on vynal, or have the collages screenprinted so that they will be one entity and ableto fold over the umbrella skeleton. Please note that this is not intended to be a functional object. In fact, I am trying to make it as nonfunctional as possible, both as a story and as an object.:

The Cactus and the Cloud

Below is a rough draft of the story that I will be using in my genre studies project. I need to do a lot of editing, proofreading, etc, but I still feel that otherwise it is still an okay story. The project idea is so: I will be doing two collages which I will place on the skeleton of an umbrella to create the umbrella covering. The underside is desert scenes, focusing on cacti. The topside will be a Portland collage, focusing on rain and clouds, etc. Hanging down, off of the sides of the umbrella, will be the following story, cut up in paragraphs, which will fold into the umbrella whenever the umbrella is folded:

I was a cactus living in a desert at the time. It was a drought, mostly, but I didn’t mind. I had gotten used to it. I hadn’t seen a cloud since I was just a baby cactus. When I was a baby cactus there was a tremendous thunderstorm over the scorched land. Many of my friends nearly died. My best friend, Pauley died that day. Drowned. I think him about him every day.
So you can imagine my apprehension when one day, as I was looking up at the sky, admiring the sun, and saw a faint wisp of cotton over the horizon. At first I didn’t think much of it. I see wisps all the time. In the past twenty years I had seen at least five wisps, and they didn’t much scare me. Anything larger than a wisp, though, and I get a bit nervous. This wisp got larger.
Soon it was a cloud, and it was looming right over me. I shuttered a bit. I couldn’t bear to think about what it might want or do to me. I cowered, my spikes trying to cover me from the inevitable downpour. My green skin shaking at the thought of a wet raindrop.
Instead, the rain cloud said “Hello.” I lowered my arms and said “How are you doing?” and she said “Just hanging out up here, and what about you?” and I said “Nothing much just kicking it, where are you off to?” and she said, “I going down to this place, Vegas,” and I said “Oh, yeah, I heard about this place, do you mind if I come along?” and she said, “Sure thing stranger, if you don’t mind the ride.”
So we took it down the interstate, racing to sin. It seemed like a perfect fit for the two of us. Vegas in the desert, a climate that I am used to, she would feel at home among the fountains, spitting their streams to the sky, and all the lights, lights, lights.
When we rolled into town, though, and we got nothing but cold shoulders. Everybody looked suspiciously up at her, and they kept a safe distance from me. The town just wasn’t too friendly, despite the warm glow of the neon lights and the ring of the slot machines. We didn’t much attention, thought, or too much company of others. We strolled down the strip, taking notes of the sidewalks and the streets and the different buildings. We got to know each other, and began to feel more comfortable around each other. My tenuousness around her began to ease. I didn’t think she was going to kill me.
As we strolled around, I picked up some hard liquor, some rum, some 151 and we began to take shots, me considerably more than her. At about the fourth or fifth shot, as the first began to kick in, I moved closer and closer, and put my prickly arm around her. She didn’t mind the spikes, being a cloud at all, unaffected by my pointiness.
We moved along and along and along, and it began to grow late so we decided to catch a bus back to our place, a divey hotel at the end of the strip. When the bus pulled up, though, the driver wouldn’t let me on. First, he said, because I was too drunk, and second, he said, because I was a cactus, and they don’t think too much of a cactus on a bus. He even went so far as to get off of his bus, walk over to the one behind him, and tell him that I was drunk and a cactus, and not to let me on. So, I pulled myself off, but unable to go on. I didn’t know how we were going to get back as was beginning to lurch into unconsciousness.
That’s when she began to wind, and wind and wind. She began to blow and wind and it lifted me up into her arms and she began to carry my limp body back to the hotel room. She did it with considerable ease, wrapping her wispy arms around my body, carrying me along the strip. She didn’t tire, and everything move from her direction. With her wind came some rain, and then a thunderstorm, moving down the strip, carrying a cactus.
Something happened to my inebriated body, wrapped in her water molecule arms. I am not sure to this day, since I passed out halfway down, and woke lying next her to her in the hotel bed. Something was different. Something about my skin. It didn’t hit me at first, but after a moment of contemplation, I realized that I was naked. I had taken off all of my spikes before I had got into bed, and my skin was damp from her skin, her dense condensation. At first I had panicked, remembering what had happened to my friend, those many years ago. I shouted, and hollered, and she calmly woke and calmed me down with “Shh, shh, you’re okay, there is nothing to worry about,” she said, and I said “What the hell happened?”
She told me that while she carried me home, her water-molecule arms began to transform me bit by bit as she walked block by block. The molecules began to penetrate my skin, and slowly they began to transform me. By the time we reached home, my body was completely different, and it was quite possible that I was no longer a cactus, and that I might never become a cactus again.
I felt fine, physically, and could cope with the idea of being forever without spikes, perhaps now people wouldn’t shirk away from me. We held each other, and made love, and lightning struck, a pathetic fallacy of all sorts, but this is no matter. When you make love to a cloud, you have to allow these things to happen.
So, we drove back, down the opposite way of I-15 back towards the desert of my home, back to the ocean of hers. She dropped me off with a wink and a smile, and I waved as she drove back. Holding back tears, I wandered around feeling as though I didn’t belong among these red sands, dry air, or anywhere. So I kept on wandering, and wandering. I wandered into the mountains, and into towns, and through valleys, and all around. I wandered and wandered until finally I made it to the ocean. I looked around for her, my beautiful cloud, but could not find her. I decided to stay until the day that I saw her.
In the meantime, I got used to the new climate. The people were much friendlier than before, and approached me almost too enthusiastically, almost suspiciously. I decided to get a place of my own. I found one, right on the shore. A bit small a bit cramped, but with plenty of windows to look out of to watch for her. And one day, I stepped into the bathroom in a rush, caught a glimpse in the mirror, and staring back at me was a cranberry bush.

Slightly unrelated to pop culture, but not much.

For the two of you that are following, I have decided to use this blog merely to store writing for other classes on here, and giving the internet location to those who have been forced to gaze upon it. Therefore, this blog is shifting in focus from a critique of pop culture around Salt Lake City to genre studies / my umbrella project, and, perhaps, some papers from that other class that I am taking, just as another place to save my papers. This blog, therefore is becoming less focused on anything in particular, and more a blog about my progression through the University of Utah. So, without further ado: