Volume X: The Industry of Chemical Artistry - or - The Age of Rockism

Part 2: Vaguely. Inside. // 1. Artistic Reflection

There’s a place where the restless souls wander. That place is eternity. We’re all restless in one way or another. Whether we’re restless in body or soul, it’s still a part of ourselves that isn’t stable. At all times. I think I was born especially restless; after all these years, I’ve found no cure for the habit. No distraction strong enough. So here I am, putting my restless soul to paper yet again, in the hope of temporary peace. That’s the best I can hope for. After all, everything is ultimately temporary. Myself included.

There’s nothing wrong with an unconscious arrival at something successful. If it works, even if you don’t understand it, keep doing it.

My peers call me Hyde, due to my moody recession from the world. They don’t understand - I’m constantly observing. People fascinate me; I simply hate to be bothered. That’s the truth of it. I make my solitary existence in this way. I choose my lifestyle, whom to let in, how, and why. I kept myself to myself more often than not. Most of my observations are kept on paper, whether it be drawn, written or photographed. This is how I deal with being continuously restless. Observation seems to be a dying art anyway. Art is another rant entirely.

My real name came to me after years of searching, checking backgrounds and taking notes. My search for identity led me to my obsession with observation. I have books upon books, filled with quick sketches and written rants in great detail, painstakingly kept after hours of work. My mentality may seem that of a serial killer, but I’m merely a dedicated artist. Trust me.

To survive, I do all kinds of work, any odd jobs I can find. I make enough to get by, and that’s what matters. Luxury isn’t necessary to observe. Because of my habit, I find myself seldom at home anyway. One of my more interesting haunts is the Drowning Raven, local tavern. There’s always something going on, whether it’s between employees or patrons. There’s a special group of people that tend to pass through that always spark my curiosity. The freaks, the misfits - whatever you choose to call them. There was a steady procession of them throughout the day and night, all manner of type. They seem to come in and disappear, never staying in sight, to my general disappointment. But that’s all part of the fun. Wondering.

The most interesting observations come from the weekend rock shows. They brought in the major crowds of young people looking for a good time. Music and its effect on people never cease to amaze me. The power of words sent through the calm, carried by desperate screams, following chords played almost flawlessly. The transitions, everything about it - I’m left speechless. Music is the heart, being pulled taut across a fret board and plucked without conscience or prejudice. It was the one medium that I couldn’t master; I was helpless but to observe.

The bartender and possible owner by this point was a girl named Irish. Whether she had more of a name or not, I didn’t know. She was in her mid-twenties by now, though she barely looked it. Most of her staff was female, minus the few helpful males that hung around for security reasons. Irish spoke bluntly, having no patience for inefficiency. She kept the place open almost 24/7, having her most trusted employees work while she slept. As for the rock shows, she liked the music and supported the cause. She had deals with the cops, so any trouble disappeared before touching paper. For some, it was a home away from home. It was a center of social activity, the bar. Irish’s personality just intensified the effect. She was made for that place.

I spent countless nights in the corner, watching the workers move. Irish’s smooth smile, the shine moving person to person. Her gaze was impartial; it gave nothing away. Never did she lose herself to someone without allowing it. Her workers were fun and interesting, each playing their different parts in turn. Business was good and the people were great, all in all a good surrounding. It had a nice, homey feeling to it. I would record countless notes as I watched the various kids come and go. When the same bands starting playing, I’d focus on them. Get to know the names and instruments, the sounds. It all became vaguely familiar as more time passed, a sort of background noise that consistently moved through my mind. A continuous wave of sound was playing through, softly, carefully, in my subconscious.