History/Origin:
Cody is...

Education:
Self-taught screen printer, graphic designer, photographer, special effects editor, conceptual designer, installation artist, bologna-pants producer

Interests:
The effects of sleep deprecation, poster art, street art, laughing and making others laugh, the understanding and deconstruction of media, finding new music which makes me feel good, learning more about the various mediums I use on a regular basis.

Activities:
Cassette recording conversations and enviromental sounds, screen printing posters that fill boxes and boxes, extreme amature photography (35mm, 120mm, and Polaroid), designing graphics for personal means, reading fiction novels, occasionally spending time in the sun at the local park.

Projects/associations:
QWERT
Sort of Like a Dream
CodyFrost.com

Anything else you want to add:
This is a little experiment.
I want to see what happens when I try to write something.
Of course there are no rules here,
I can write as freely as a bird flies.
But I am curious about the results.
With a lack of formal structure,
Can't anyone write just about anything?

What causes one's work to be found interesting?
Maybe interesting is a terrible word to use for this example.
How about...
My, there are a lot of ways to describe a piece.
Oh, I hate the word 'interesting' anyhow.

And on to the show.

Space peas have been dancing in the head of a pig
For close to nine months now.
And no one has chosen to change the records in rotation.
"Benny and the Jets" can't contain the answer to the Riddle of Life.
But neither can any Nirvana album or the sweet nothings sung by dead soul singers.

Actually I'm finding it rather difficult to think of anything.
My mind is a huge block,
Uncarved and blank-faced,
Not a single scratch of interpretation or preparation on it.
Just a huge chunk of flat-sided nothing.
How dull.

What drives me to write anything at all?
I'm not a 'writer'.
I am something else, or nothing else.
I can't quite remember which it is.
I know that I have written words before,
Strung them along, piece by piece,
Into the forms of sentences and paragraphs.
Heck, I even have written tiny, little short stories.
But these pages are usually reserved for something more
... Magical.

I wish I could type with my eyes closed.
Then I would be able to render all the images I see behind the darkness of my lids
Into words for the masses to be able to interpret.
They could take the ideas and run,
Either away or towards me.
Both are fine.
I do often need my space but I also appreciate some company once in a while.

Sacks.
That's all I wanted to write there.

Costly as it may be I believe we should just stop standing around.
People don't believe in themselves enough to do anything,
Whether it is of an artistic or activistic or productiveistic nature.
I made that last word up.
I don't have much of a vocabulary.

Big words don't scare me;
Axes do.
Honestly they don't scare me either.
The axes.
I just don't know large words, or axes.

This seems to be failing miserably.
I wanted to be writing all the nonsense that I love letting my mind let loose upon this blank screen.
But tonight I guess I had other plans.
Depressing plans.
Or enlightening ones.
I guess it depends on who's reading this and when.
If it is me, then hello there stranger.
Glad you were able to get around to reading this little piece at least once since you wrote it.
You don't often reread what you've written,
Just saving it all for some later date,
An unknown occasion where something like this may come in handy.

A court date perhaps?
Trial by fire toads wearing top hats and monocles.
Could that ever really happen?
Could yesterday ever really happen?
Could tomorrow ever really happen?
The present is all that I know,
All that I can understand and comprehend.
Even with all the misspellings and unabridged versions of the Titanic floating around the Internet.

I thought there was a D in 'unabridged'.
I mean the first D.

Polygon tiger on an open plane,
Licking a paw because he doesn't know what else to do.
Black, white, woodblock train entering from stage right,
Not knowing what it is doing there on the plane with a geometric-ton feline.
Is that a car in the shape of Jesus doing situps?
But of course it is.
There can be no other.
The headband is a nice touch but a little too kitsch for my taste.

Globetrotters ransack a Sac's while taking stacks of wax to the court.

Only in a few short sentences do I get the idea that the madness isn't spreading;
It's just in low tide.
No spark, no sparkle.
Nothing sensation or ever expanding the consciousness of the human mind.
Just simple words that are often typed incorrectly across this keyboard of plastic and metal.
The La-Z-Boys of the world have conquered the endless rattle from within my calcium casing.

However I shall never give up.
For what is the point of tossing in the towel of Success if one has never experienced it before?
From the smell of sweat, blood, and a few other bodily fluids,
One can be certain of just a few things:

Cats often walk sideways in a way which the human eye cannot perceive.
Shallot mushrooms don't make for good honeymoons due to crampedness.
Words which don't exist now will soon exist in the future.
And Warhol salad isn't something one should toss about lightly.

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