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"so they cut me to ribbons and told me to drive,
I've got your name tattooed inside of my arm.
and I called for my father, but my father had died,
while you told me fortunes, in American Slang."
was going through some files, had this kicking around- just needed to be processed. moreorless.
Lux at age 17.
I've got your name tattooed inside of my arm.
and I called for my father, but my father had died,
while you told me fortunes, in American Slang."
was going through some files, had this kicking around- just needed to be processed. moreorless.
Lux at age 17.
Category All / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 1200 x 1000px
File Size 800.6 kB
I'm really impressed at how you took not only the shading into account in this image, but also at how you handled the light shinning through things. I was moved to remember the many time I had driven through the Desert for two years, sometimes from dawn to dusk looking for work. Of course my friend Jim and I would take an occasional long trip where he'd drive. I guess it all depends on which side the sun is setting.
Y'know, cars...
Eh, cars. Lemme take a drive down memory lane...
I've been having an obsession for vehicles ever since I was a little kid. In former Yugoslavia, you can't get even close to driving until you're 18, and there are serious tests before you get a license. Simply, there's no driving culture in my place; everyone is encouraged to take a bus or a train. It started when I was 7, I think, I watched a movie "Black Bombardier", which featured a youth gang that used to steal and wreck cars for fun. Car robbery wasn't common in my city -- the soviet upbringing made everyone scared of the police. So, I saw a bunch of kids driving around and doing whatever they like, a very embodiment of rebellion. I like it. Later on, I saw 'Oliver and Friends', a Disney movie where a kitten actually drives a car. Further more, cartoons featuring three Donald Duck's nephews were constantly played on TV, and the three little ducklings were, again, driving their uncle's car. I grew jealous, I wanted to have my own ride, but it was a far cry.
By the age of 13, I saw the exodus of Serbian war refugees from Croatia. They were coming back home, on tractors, old volkswagens, ox carriages. There was a lad, my age at that time, whose parents were killed, and he packed up his grandma and brothers in a Yugo, and drove ~600km to Serbian border, without an hour of sleep. That made me blush, hard. That... Unobtainable freedom, that roar of the dusty sunsets over deserted highways.
To move. Away? Maybe towards within, dunno.
Then came my late teen years; I got a job, and suddenly the driving became a necessity. I passed my driving test, and instead of jumping right into the seat, something strange happened. I actually got scared of the whole thing. It was something with my brain, or with my eyes; I couldn't sense the right distance between me and the surrounding objects; and I couldn't feel the shape of the chassis. After few smaller bumps and scratches during parking, I decided that was it: I'm gonna crash it, so better leave it in the damn garage. Then came the following miserable six years of passenger seat life. I'd drive very rarely, mostly on the highways and during Sundays, when there wasn't too much traffic. The drive-phobia was overwhelming; I couldn't drive more than 30 minutes without getting extremely tired and anxious. I would come home, take off my coat, and bang my head against the wall, thinking what the hell is wrong with me. For a few times I thought about going to a therapist, because the phobia was really threatening my job, not to mention my self-esteem. I didn't dare to tell any close friend about this, because I'd be ridiculed as a weenie or pussy.
For years, I watched as my childish dream was shattered and deconstructed before my eyes. Managing a vehicle was a thing other people did, what other people excelled at. There, twenty years later, I was old enough to own a car, but something else was lacking. The magic of confidence, I guess... It was gone.
Until summer of last year. One late afternoon, the cold breeze and aunt and dad too tired to drive to town. A silvery sedan. Fuck, I was tired of running away. "Come on, you know how to drive," she said. We packed in, I slammed the doors, squeezed my balls and shifted the gear, taking on a trip. I knew I had to take the wheel sometimes, but only now it really happened. It was late when we got home, and I think I realized it all, shutting off the engine, and looking at my hands. I wasn't tired, and my fingers didn't ache of the steering stress. I could drive.
I realized that the journey isn't away, but towards the within. And all the roads are going to the same place, now, as they always did.
Gaah, beautiful pic.
I've heard a comment on a radio, not long ago, that Americans are born in cars, they spend their lives on wheels, and they die in their cars.
Curse me if I'm not tellin' the truth: I'd be sad to see the States go. It comforts me that such place exists; a vast, gun-free territory, a playground for unbound hearts and hot-rods. I'd be sad to see the States get civilized like Europe.
Fucking beautiful...
Eh, cars. Lemme take a drive down memory lane...
I've been having an obsession for vehicles ever since I was a little kid. In former Yugoslavia, you can't get even close to driving until you're 18, and there are serious tests before you get a license. Simply, there's no driving culture in my place; everyone is encouraged to take a bus or a train. It started when I was 7, I think, I watched a movie "Black Bombardier", which featured a youth gang that used to steal and wreck cars for fun. Car robbery wasn't common in my city -- the soviet upbringing made everyone scared of the police. So, I saw a bunch of kids driving around and doing whatever they like, a very embodiment of rebellion. I like it. Later on, I saw 'Oliver and Friends', a Disney movie where a kitten actually drives a car. Further more, cartoons featuring three Donald Duck's nephews were constantly played on TV, and the three little ducklings were, again, driving their uncle's car. I grew jealous, I wanted to have my own ride, but it was a far cry.
By the age of 13, I saw the exodus of Serbian war refugees from Croatia. They were coming back home, on tractors, old volkswagens, ox carriages. There was a lad, my age at that time, whose parents were killed, and he packed up his grandma and brothers in a Yugo, and drove ~600km to Serbian border, without an hour of sleep. That made me blush, hard. That... Unobtainable freedom, that roar of the dusty sunsets over deserted highways.
To move. Away? Maybe towards within, dunno.
Then came my late teen years; I got a job, and suddenly the driving became a necessity. I passed my driving test, and instead of jumping right into the seat, something strange happened. I actually got scared of the whole thing. It was something with my brain, or with my eyes; I couldn't sense the right distance between me and the surrounding objects; and I couldn't feel the shape of the chassis. After few smaller bumps and scratches during parking, I decided that was it: I'm gonna crash it, so better leave it in the damn garage. Then came the following miserable six years of passenger seat life. I'd drive very rarely, mostly on the highways and during Sundays, when there wasn't too much traffic. The drive-phobia was overwhelming; I couldn't drive more than 30 minutes without getting extremely tired and anxious. I would come home, take off my coat, and bang my head against the wall, thinking what the hell is wrong with me. For a few times I thought about going to a therapist, because the phobia was really threatening my job, not to mention my self-esteem. I didn't dare to tell any close friend about this, because I'd be ridiculed as a weenie or pussy.
For years, I watched as my childish dream was shattered and deconstructed before my eyes. Managing a vehicle was a thing other people did, what other people excelled at. There, twenty years later, I was old enough to own a car, but something else was lacking. The magic of confidence, I guess... It was gone.
Until summer of last year. One late afternoon, the cold breeze and aunt and dad too tired to drive to town. A silvery sedan. Fuck, I was tired of running away. "Come on, you know how to drive," she said. We packed in, I slammed the doors, squeezed my balls and shifted the gear, taking on a trip. I knew I had to take the wheel sometimes, but only now it really happened. It was late when we got home, and I think I realized it all, shutting off the engine, and looking at my hands. I wasn't tired, and my fingers didn't ache of the steering stress. I could drive.
I realized that the journey isn't away, but towards the within. And all the roads are going to the same place, now, as they always did.
Gaah, beautiful pic.
I've heard a comment on a radio, not long ago, that Americans are born in cars, they spend their lives on wheels, and they die in their cars.
Curse me if I'm not tellin' the truth: I'd be sad to see the States go. It comforts me that such place exists; a vast, gun-free territory, a playground for unbound hearts and hot-rods. I'd be sad to see the States get civilized like Europe.
Fucking beautiful...
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