Guillermo Galvan's Blog, page 8

Blubber Island Survival Guide

Several of my friends and other brave souls have recently stepped ashore Blubber Island. They have entered a dangerous world in which nobody can guarantee their safety. As the author of this work, I feel somewhat responsible for the countless people (this includes you) who will end up deranged, scarfing down handfuls of their own “caca” [Latin for feces]. This realization troubled me greatly. “But Ismael,” you ask, “why don’t you just pull Blubber Island off shelves and ask everyone to stop reading it?”

Perish the thought, I say.

In order to tip the scales in favor of “not eating caca,” I decided to write an official “Blubber Island Survival Guide.” Blubber Island is a vast universe encompassing countless dimensions and worlds. It would be impossible and impractical to try and cram everything in one shot, thus I will instead focus on key elements. Follow these guidelines and you might make it out alive.

This is perfectly natural. (winsomeaunt.blogspot.com)

Exploding Heads are a natural phenomenon on Blubber Island. The postman could be handing you a letter from your friend in Monkeys Eyebrow, KY, and then you’ll make some offhand remark like, “Hey, my neighbor is sort of an asshole. You think I could fart into one of his letters?” The guy gives you a funny look and BAM! The mailman’s head blow up like pumpkin stuffed with cherry bombs. Whatever you do, do not stop and try to figure out why it happened. Just accept it and move on. There have been reports of chain reaction head explosions. Why risk it?



Think of an exploding head as a traffic light turning green. Head blows up, you move forward. Simple.

I’m sorry family, I wanna live! (all-funny.info)

Blubber Island is inhabited by flesh eating zombies. Exercise all traditional zombie survival tactics such as; keeping a sharp ear, running away instead of fighting, and abandoning infected/slower traveling companions (see Image of father above). Occasionally, zombies will seem to appear without warning. Be on guard for zombies bursting out of the ground or falling out of the blue sky. Much like exploding heads, don’t think run. The following film clip is for educational purposes.

Now wasn’t that easy? He made it and so can you.

They’re not doing any good just lying around. (tucsoncitizen.com)

Another natural phenomenon is the abundant presence of guns. On Blubber Island, they seem to pop up in the strangest places. But you can’t just reach into a bush and pull out AK-47. The rules of karma are that you must put some degree of effort into it. Think outside the box and look for secret compartments. If those zombies chase you into a kitchen, it wouldn’t hurt to check the refrigerator (if you get my drift). All guns come equipped with two things: unlimited ammo and unlimited bad guys. Learn to shoot while running at a full sprint, and I recommend learning from the pros.

[image error]

They definitely read this blog.

This is a good crash course in dealing with the chaotic Blubber Island universe. I will continue updating the survival guide. Hope to see you next time. Keep your finger on the trigger and always aim for the head.

Blubber Island Chapter 2 Gorilla Shakedown in the Jungle (part 1 of 2)

If you haven’t read Chapter 1, click here

Chapter 2

For your relax time. (ablogtoread.com)

Elis wrote in his journal:

I’m listening to the sound of waves outside, glad to have escaped my life. I no longer owe it anything. My tea is almost finished boiling. I’m excited because I’m using the herbs I collected by the waterfall. All this feels fake.

Elis had been living on this beach for several months now. He began to find the peace he so longed for. His old life was unbearable and, one day, decided it was no good anymore. He determined the best thing to do was throw it away, but reconsidered, and threw himself away instead.

He sold all his personal belongings then called his office and told his boss he wouldn’t be showing up that day—or ever again. The boss freaked out, demanding he show up that moment. Elis calmly told him to “shut the hell up.” This wasn’t about him; it was bigger than both of them. Elis wasn’t close to his family nor did he have any real friends, so he didn’t bother to contact anybody. He removed himself from his life and now lived on a remote beach, far away in a place he hardly knew.

Elis sipped his hot tea. He inhaled the intoxicating aroma, allowing it to permeate his senses. Exploring the jungle, he discovered that certain herbs had psychoactive properties. His evenings were beautiful nights of self-discovery and exploration of the cosmic mysteries. Upon the rhythm of crashing waves, he elevated to a higher plane. He transcended beyond the human body, to where reality is irrelevant. Truth blossomed in his mind like a shining star in perfect darkness. Elis sat close to his hearth. Everything glowed in a flickering orange light by the fireside. For the first time in his life, Elis felt safe. There was nothing to fear or pressing deadlines to meet. No, he refused to belong to the modern world. Elis took another drink of his tea then set his cup down and continued writing.

My old life murdered me slowly. Though I’m more vulnerable now than ever, I’m also the most free. In the city, I was safe but dying rapidly. Here I feel my life is my own, not a divided commodity.

A noise outside took Elis’s attention from his journal. He stood and walked through the entryway cloth to have a look outside. Breaking surf and a blue night sky was all he saw. Elis smiled and turned back into his hut. He froze at the entrance. A man in a black suit stood inside his home. “We can’t let you do this. You have to return with me,” he spoke in a calm manner. Elis was shocked. He hadn’t seen anyone since his arrival, and especially never expected anybody like this man.

How are you doing? (orlandotouristsafety.com)

“I’m going back with no one. Who are you? Is this about some unpaid taxes or bills? Because I can assure you…”

“No.” The suited man spoke, “I am not part of any agency. I am your old life, Elis, and I am here to bring you back. Back—to your bullshit life.

Snatching a spear lying against the hut, Elis screamed and charged. The suited man did nothing to defend himself. Elis harpooned the man’s chest, exploded through the hut and crashed into the sand. Elis scrambled to his feet. The businessman lay on the sand with the spear lodged in his chest. The rod looked like a flagpole jerking with his convulsed breathing. Elis towered over the wounded man, regarding him with an unforgiving stare.

“You haven’t escaped. You can’t escape. Why won’t you understand that?” said the man.

Elis grinded his foot into the man’s face and wrenched the spear out of his chest. “I’m never going back,” Elis whispered fiercely.

Suddenly, the earth shook all around him. Zombies exploded out of their shallow graves and came down in showers of sand and barnacles. Elis tried to run but a decaying hand seized his ankle, face-plant into the sand. He screamed as rotting hands emerged from the beach, digging their broken nails into him. The maggot-infested zombies staggered towards Elis. The suit-wearing man laughed hysterically. “You’ll never escape! You’ll never escape!!” Gaping mouths rose through the sand. The zombies closed in on him. He screamed again as he was about to become a zombie buffet. The suited man stared at him and bellowed “Take that, butt-face! HA, HA, HA!”

Fun in the apocalypse. (etsy.com)

The undead moaning drowned out the crashing surf. Elis struggled to free himself. Another diseased hand rose by his head and clutched his face. Through the cold, rotten fingers, Elis watched zombies rise from the shore. The businessman’s laughter boomed in his ear. Elis’s crumbled hut became a giant fireball on the dark beach.

Elis couldn’t think. His mind was in a white panic. He screamed, “Nooooooooooooo!,” and defecated into his pants. A zombie was upon him. Elis saw its yellow eyes and smelled its acidic breath. The zombie neared its yawning mouth to his face. Jagged teeth slowly broke the skin on his cheek until they clamped on muscle. Elis could feel his face being torn from his skull as ligaments snapped audibly inside his head. Blood and sand crusted his eyes.

Thundering footsteps shook his spine as the zombie gnawed his face off. With the raw force of a diesel truck, the zombie exploded into a spray of pus and splintered bones. Elis rag dolled through the air. Disoriented, he struggled to his feet and fell back down. Bloody sand crusted his eyes. He could barely make out hulking shapes silhouetted against his burning hut. They savagely assaulted the lumbering zombies with inhuman speed. One of the giants fell upon the laughing man, screamed with bestial rage and pounded him with colossal fists. The man howled insane laugher until the beast smashed his skull. With the last of the zombies destroyed, the figures turned to Elis. He tried to run, but his leg didn’t work. They moved closer until one of the hulks lifted him in its enormous furry arms. A massive gorilla mug blew hot banana breath in his face.

The mangled body of the businessman jerked to life as if pulled by invisible wires. It tried to speak, but only made angry insect noises. It faced Elis and the gorilla gang before releasing an unnatural screech, swinging his arms frantically. The sand bubbled and a fresh round of undead surrounded them. The gorilla holding Elis shot a knowing look at another gorilla, which nodded back as if to say, “I got it, gorilla brother.” He broke away and threw himself into the blazing hut. The gorilla’s fur instantly caught fire, turning him into a screaming fireball of pure rage. Like a primal comet, he exploded out of the burning hut and flung himself upon the businessman and his zombies. The tantalizing aroma of roasted gorilla meat was impossible for the zombies to resist. They sprang on the sacrificial gorilla and feasted on his flaming flesh.

That’s delicious. (frumforum.com)

The gorilla band took this as their cue to escape. They charged through the burning zombie pack and scattered them like bowling pins. The gorillas were now in their element, running through the jungle with the swiftness of gazelles. Elis tried to see where they were taking him. Plant foliage bitch-slapped his face as they moved at amazing speeds. After a long time, the gorillas finally stopped. His rescuers let him get to his feet.

A small lagoon laid before Elis. The moon light reflected off the pool, turning the surrounding plants into a silver mystery. The gorilla leader nudged Elis towards a hut bathed in the moonlight. The gorillas lined up, creating a path leading directly to the entrance. Elis tried to back away and bumped into a gorilla who gave a warning growl. His only options were to enter the strange hut or piss off the 800-pound gorillas. He walked towards the shelter under watchful eyes and hot gorilla breath. He looked up and saw a row of human skulls arched over a cloth door stained with bloody hands streaks. Elis stood there staring in terrified awe. He hesitated until a gorilla kick to the ass sent him through the blood-spattered door.

A small pile of embers glowed in the center of the floor. The hot air inside the hut felt disgusting on his face. “You have been bitten,” a brittle voice spoke from the embers. An old man with long white hair and tattoos covering his face and body materialized. He sat like a statue, only moving to smoke his pipe. Hanging talismans glinted like tiny green and blue-indigo galaxies orbiting around him. The old man blew out a stream of smoke which moved in snake-like wisps around Elis before finally entering his nose and mouth. Elis became dazed and dropped to his knees.

“Damn, old man, what’s in the pipe?” he said, blinking the psychedelic fuzz out of his eyes.

“Don’t even think about asking for some. Your pansy ass couldn’t handle it,” said the old man and took another hit. “When the moon passes over the horizon, you’ll become one of the undead. By now, you can already feel it spreading through your body.” Elis felt strange. He broke into a sweat, his hands trembled uncontrollably, vision became stained in different colors, and a furry serpent stirred against his stomach and spread through his veins.

The old man sat motionless and watched Elis painfully clutch his stomach. “Yes, it seems the sickness is spreading faster than I thought. You’ll become one of the undead soon enough, and one of my gorillas will have to smash your head like a ripe cantaloupe.” With this analogy the old man exploded into a fit of wheezing geezer laughter and choked on his smoke. “Heh heh heh”—cough—“like a fuckin’ cantaloupe”—cough—“heh… that is a good one…Heh heh.”

Old and wise. (dragonball.wikia.com)

“Hey! I thought your gorilla crew rescued me for a reason! Mix some of those weird-ass herbs together and make an antidote or something! Hey! Listen to me, you old man! I’m gonna turn into one of those things if you don’t help me!” Elis shouted but the old man just sat there, pointing and laughing at him. Enraged, Elis let out an animalistic scream and charged. The old man shrieked and threw a boney fistful of herbs in his face before Elis began strangling him.

They smashed around over the fire. The inside of the hut exploded into a shower of orange embers. Elis and the old man ripped through the cloth door and thrashed into the sand. Elis pinned the old man down, strangling him until his eyes bugged out. Suddenly, Elis released the old man. An ungodly wave of nausea hit, and he vomited a thick, putrid green slime.

The old man quickly got up. “You idiot boy!” he screamed and kicked sand into Elis’s face with his scraggly feet. Elis hurled more emerald sludge.

Elis shoved him back forcefully. “Get away from me, you crazy old kook!” he hollered, wiping his mouth.

“You moron! Wait till my gorillas! Wait—” The old man swung around, his eyes confused. “Where are they?! They’ve vanished!”

“Screw your dumbass gorillas. They’re probably off in the jungle corn-holing each other.”

“Ahhhh!! My hut!” The old man’s home burst into flames. “The cuuuuuuuuuure is in there! All my herbs! Grab it before it’s burned to nothing!”

“Fuck you! I’m not going in there! You burn alive!”

“No! No! I’m too weak and oooooold and will surely die! Don’t you see? If you don’t save the antidote, you’ll become one of the walking dead!”

“Shit!” Elis knew the old man was right. By then, the hut was a house of flames. “It’s the grommet jar with the green feathers. Hurry!” Elis ran to the burning hut. The flames burnt him as he got closer.

“What are you waiting for, you imbecile? Hurry!”

Elis charged into the inferno. Immediately catching fire, he screamed hysterically, grabbing at anything in arm’s length. He crashed out of the burning hut and collapsed in a flaming heap. The old man tried to put out Elis’s flaming body with his skeletal feet, but quickly became tired and urinated on him with his wrinkled wang.

Elis fizzled out in a yellow cloud of steam. The old man frantically rummaged through the charred gourds until finding the right one. He raised it above his head and declared, “Yes! This is it! This is the one! I must admit, I thought you’d burn up faster than a match head, but you did it!” screamed the old man in joy. Elis’s body was collaged in second and third-degree burns.

The old man looked up at the moon drifting off into the horizon. “Quick! The moon is almost gone! Drink it!” ordered the old man before uncorking the gourd and shoving it into Elis’s fire-blistered hands. With hot, white pain shooting through his body, Elis stood up, holding the gourd in the jungle night.

(http://www.allbestwallpapers.com)

“This is the cure? If I drink this, then I won’t become one of them?” he asked, holding the gourd to his mouth.

“Yes!” the old man cried with wild eyes. “The moon! Hurry before it’s too late!” Elis looked at the moon disappearing over the palm tree silhouette. Elis lifted the gourd to his lips only to stop it a hair’s breadth from his mouth. He could save himself…

Elis pulled the gourd away, lowering his burned arm. Slowly, the liquid poured onto the sand.

“No!” the old man gasped, watching the antidote disappear into the ground.

“I’m sick of humanity. This is why I came here—to get away from everyone, but still, people manage to interfere. I don’t even want to be human anymore. Look at all the so-called ‘people’. They’re the real brain-dead zombies. Why would I want to turn into one of them? At least as a zombie, I’ll be able to live in the jungle. Hell, I might even wander to the bottom of the sea and check out what’s going on down there. By the way, old man, you got any more of that stuff you were smoking earlier?”

The old man grabbed Elis by his charred shirt and desperately stared into his face. “But, zombies are evil!”

“Zombies are evil? Look at me! Because of you, I’m human bacon, covered in piss, and a gorilla kicked me in the ass— In the ass! No, you’re evil, along with the entire human race!” accused Elis, pointing a condemning finger at him.

“Where are you going?” shouted the old man.

“I’m’a look for that businessman. After meeting you, maybe he won’t be such an asshole after all,” said Elis as he walked off into the jungle. The old man hurried behind him, pleading for Elis to reconsider, but he would do no such thing. Elis quickened his pace, but he had no idea which way he was going. Completely lost, he moved in whatever direction he pleased, and yet, all the while, couldn’t shake the old man off his trail.

After wandering aimlessly for hours through the sweltering jungle, Elis became exhausted and thirsty. The old man stood next to him, leaning on his walking stick, then looked around until finally seeing what he searched for. Elis watched the old man walk off into the dense vegetation where he lost sight of him. When the old man returned, he presented Elis with a round fruit, one he’d never seen before. The smooth surface was covered with beautiful spirals that changed color in the moonlight. The old man broke off the stem and stabbed two holes into the fruit then passed it to Elis. Reluctantly, he accepted the fruit and drank its juice.

“My god! This is delicious! Is it possible? I can see the flavor of the juice!”

Taste the colors? (http://www.flickr.com)

“Yes, this is one of many plants here that have the property of not only being able to taste its nectar, but see its flavor with your mind as well. There are countless species of plant life here with attributes the world knows virtually nothing of.”

Elis felt himself relax after drinking of the mysterious fruit. In his mind, the aftertaste of the sweet blues and sour yellows lingered in his imagination like the first few seconds after turning away from an impressionist painting. He had to admit that amongst the landfills of bullshit, there existed fleeting moments of pure beauty; the radio playing a song he hadn’t heard in a long time, witnessing somebody wet their pants in front of a crowd, sharing sweet ganja with close friends. Elis floated away on a cloud of nostalgia until he shook his head and the dream state vanished.

What about the ugly things? The grinding stress, failed soul-mates, demeaning jobs that shit on us for eternity. All the destroyed dreams re-destroyed. And forget our petty issues. There is the systematic waging and re-waging of wars based on lunatic rationale. World super powers crush the dirt-poor people of earth. Masses of fools scream in ecstasy, “VICTORY!” for their own demise. The cost of living is astronomically high. We pay our employers to let us work. Every penny earned buys a bullet in a man’s head, a grenade concealed in a woman’s bread basket, an exploding bomb in the sky, a forgotten mine. We’re like a red hot engine raging to its breaking point. The foot of humanity smashes on the gas. Who’s behind the wheel?

“Yo, buttholes.”

The voice caught Elis and the old man off guard. Together, they turned around. The Samurai sat on a stone, drinking a cup of sake from a bamboo jug hanging around his neck. His face was flushed with alcohol, yet he sat still as stone.

“Whoa! A ninja!” exclaimed Elis, amazed.

The Samurai took a drink. “I’m a Samurai, you idiot.”

“Yo.” (strategywiki.org)

Elis ignored the insult. “How do you speak English?”

“The same way you do.”

“Yeah, but what are you doing here?”

The Samurai’s pause had a deeper silence than all the darkness of the jungle. He became like a statue. Elis and the old man stared at the Samurai then looked back at each other, both unsure if he was even breathing. The three of them remained that way in what seemed unnaturally long.

“I am tired.” The Samurai’s words were like black pebbles falling into a chasm. His face and voice lacked expression.

Judging from his tone, Elis couldn’t decide whether the Samurai meant to lay down for rest or renounce the world. Nothing made sense, and thereby, everything made sense. ‘Does that make sense?’ Elis thought to himself.

The old man stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Ahh, yes, hello there. I’m not sure you’re aware, but there is something of a situation on this island. The undead are crawling out of their graves, you see, and there is a man who appears to be controlling them. Now this young imbecilic man here has singlehandedly managed to get himself bitten, destroy my home along with the antidote, and frighten away my noble band of loyal gorillas. Seeing as that zombies will eat anyone without prejudice, it is in everyone’s best interest to work together. Also, it being that you’re a highly trained swordsman and I am a man of science, we can live!”

The Samurai set down his cup of sake. Without looking up, he responded to the old man, “Coming to this island, I left behind a life of blood and sorrow. Like your gorillas, I too was loyal to a Master. In my absolute surrender to his knowledge, I realized the nature of the absolute. In the beginning, everyone is as the both of you are now: afraid, confused, lost, mistaken. There is no shame in this, as there is no shame that a newborn must cry. We feel ourselves trapped in a dark labyrinth of solitude, and so, we search for an escape. At first, each new corridor seems to promise liberation, but only leads to a multitude more. And this, we believe is good, for one of these passageways is sure to let us out. Yet passing through countless thresholds, we find ourselves only infinitely lost, and in despair, we strike the walls and cry out.”

The Samurai paused for another drink before continuing.

“For years and countless sessions of deep meditation, my Master and I searched for an escape. At times, the Master would venture so close to discovering the true way out, but he was an old Master, and it seemed he also neared closer towards death. Through wars and famines, we never wavered in our search, yet time was not on our side. He grew weaker each day. One day, my Master informed me this would be his final attempt, that the mat he meditated on would be his death bed. We partook in a farewell tea ceremony, then sat for my Master’s meditation onto death. Sitting in shared meditation, I sensed him reaching levels of consciousness defying the boundaries beyond good and evil. At the moment before death, he emerged out of meditation and grabbed me. Looking at me with deranged eyes, he muttered, ‘The walls are soft! Soft, they are…’ ‘Master!’ I shouted. At the threshold of death, he looked at me and spoke, ‘Blubber Island’.” The Samurai became silent once more.

“Then what happened?” inquired Elis.

“His head exploded.”

“His head exploded?”

“Yes, it is completely natural when engaging in Harakiri Meisou-suru.”

“Your head explodes?”

“Yes,” the Samurai answered in a matter of fact way.

The old man pushed Elis out of his way. “Yes, exploding heads are unfortunate, but let us stick to the matter at hand. You are a great warrior, and with your skills, we may destroy the zombies on this island, and thus, you may continue your search for this Blubber Island your Master spoke of.”

“It is obvious you do not understand anything I’ve said. Every corridor will only lead to more. I will not choose a way. I will not become lost.”

“So you’re just going to give up and stop searching for a way out? You can’t! You’re a Samurai!” said Elis.

“No. I am not.”

“But you just said you are! When did you stop being one?” Elis demanded to know.

“I never did,” responded the Samurai. Having said so, he poured a cup of sake and drank it without hurry. The Samurai then stood to face Elis and the old man. He gave them a gentle look and with closed eyes, became the embodiment of serenity. The Samurai put his hands together in the pose of meditation and bowed deeply.

Then his head exploded.

Concentration is key. (http://www.digitalbusstop.com)

****

Will Elis turn into the walking dead?

Will the old man continue being a geezer?

And does this novel really go on?

Find out next post on the exciting adventures of Blubber Island.

Blubber Island is Shitty

You heard me right. Let me say it again for all the Anti-Blubber Island fans visiting this page. BLUBBER ISLAND IS SHITTY. I posted the first chapter on Reddit “the front page of the internet” and already it’s pissing off people across the net. These dick-weeds have called Blubber Island “shitty” and “dreadful.” Someone even wrote “The first paragraph alone had me running for cover.”

He’s right, and I suggest others do the same, because Blubber Island is stomping through their neighborhoods, high on a 12 hour cocaine binge, looking to scatter brains with a tie-dye bat. If you really want to make me blush, remember to add “ugly”,” dirty”, “vulgar”, “crude”, and good old fashioned “fucked up.” We’re talking about Gutter Surrealism. Apparently they didn’t get the message.

“Everything sucks but me”

I didn’t write B.I for a bunch of snobs with fragile sensibilities. First of all, I wrote it for my sister who knows I love her. After her, it’s for all the punks, weirdos, Greñudos, anti fascists, and homies because those are the type of people I associate myself with. So now everyone knows where I stand.

When I started this blog I thought only people from the US would take interest. But my post “Gutter Surrealism and Punk culture” has gotten hits from places I would have never expected: Canada, United Kingdom, Philippines, Australia, Germany, Japan, Greece, Denmark, Hong Kong, Austria, Norway, and France.

You have to be blind to not see the comradery in that.

To everyone who’s down with punks, Gutter Surrealism, counter culture, Oi!, and the common man/woman, I cheers you a mug of dark beer.

Philosoraptor ponders Blubber Island

For Immediate Release

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

GUTTER SURREALISM TAKES FORM IN BLUBBER ISLAND

A New Counter-culture Art Form Emerges from a Controversial Novel

OKINAWA, JP—(August 26, 2012) Still in its infancy in the art world, Gutter Surrealism’s place in literacy had yet to be developed—until Ismael Galvan wrote Blubber Island, a reality-bending, dark comedy novel that questions today’s human freedom. The story centers on a group of outcasts struggling to maintain and disrupt the fabric of reality.

“I think of Blubber Island as the first solid attempt at the genre of Gutter Surrealism in literature,” comments Galvan, indicating towards his background in Art History and Art Theory. “If you do a Google search for Gutter Surrealism, at most, you’ll find scant remarks.”

Although Gutter Surrealism seems synonymous to other counter-culture forms such as junk art, sewer punk, Anarchism, Dadaism, and Surrealism, Gutter Surrealism stands alone. “Gutter Surrealism is its own legitimate movement seeking to cut out its own path,” Galvan noted on his blog, Blubber Island (http://blubberisland.wordpress.com). “But there’s a lot of similarities [punk culture and Gutter Surrealism] have in common; a spirit of D.I.Y. (do it yourself), liberation, anti-authority, high energy, [and] anti-mind control.”

While Galvan’s book, Blubber Island, embodies the ideas of Gutter Surrealism, it also challenges society’s attack on people’s imagination. Using a story that centers around a mysterious dream device with the potential to destroy or re-create the world, Blubber Island juxtaposes bizarre scenarios with metaphysical and philosophical ideals. The inept authority figures, such as the creator of the dream device, are painted in a negative light while the young, homeless teenagers and punk rockers become noble presences in the book.

Many readers who have read the book attest to Blubber Island’s ability to speak to the contemporary audience. One customer reviewer wrote, “Blubber Island confronts […] controversial issues that we all face in today’s world (racism, sex, homelessness, religion, politics, drugs, dreams, modern philosophy).”

The paperback and Kindle editions of Blubber Island are available on Amazon for $4.20. Also, a review copy of Blubber Island is free upon request by emailing ismaelggalvan@gmail.com.

About Ismael “ish” Galvan

Ismael Galvan is a first-generation Mexican writer from San Diego, California. He graduated from San Diego State University with a Bachelor’s degree in Art History and Art Theory. Galvan currently lives in Japan as an English teacher with his wife.

###

If you would like to contact Ismael “ish” Galvan, please email ismaelggalvan@gmail.com or visit his blog at http://blubberisland.wordpress.com.

Chapter 1 of Blubber Island. Introducing a bashing nightmare

“GRRrrrrrrr…..” He pressed his hands against his head to still the splitting headache. His eyes crunched shut with deep wrinkles. The pain began to subside but strongly lingered in his skull. His eyes opened. Blurry vision, only fuzzy lights and shadows, then his sight focused. He lied on a smooth concrete floor and his body terribly ached. People were pressed all around him. They were alive but out cold. Everyone was green.

His mind felt like clam chowder being scooped back into his head. “What… the…” There were gloves on his hands. They were made of rugged leather and had a sporting design. He stared at them as he turned his wrist and moved his fingers. He noticed he wore a lime-green body suit. His other hand touched his helmet.

He found himself in an unconscious pile of identically uniformed people. Somebody’s elbow dug into his ribs, and he shifted his body to avoid the dull pain. He was in some type of warehouse or test facility. Industrial florescent lighting stared down at him from high above. Wide white support columns went soaring past the lights before silently vanishing. Each column was positioned on a compass axis, the space between each pillar never varying. Like a double mirrored reflection, one pillar echoed the one before and so on forever. When he inhaled, the air felt strangely artificial.

The others started to wake up with identical headaches. There were about twenty-two other green men and women. Instincts urged him to separate himself from the pack. On wobbly legs he climbed to his feet, taking one step, and falling on the bodies below him. They let out their moans “Urrggghhhh….”

His movements felt intoxicated, but he had to get away. A support column stood only a few meters from him. He had to get to it. At first he tried stepping around everyone but it was hopeless. Faces and torsos became stepping stones for his hurried pace. He felt undefended body parts breaking under his feet. He tore for the edge of the human island and misstepped on a helmet. The neck unnaturally twisted with a horrible snapping sound and he fell back into the mound. His nerves snapped. He charged on all fours with a panicked scream, until he rolled onto the concrete. He stood up, ran towards the column and dropped behind it. His heart hammered inside his chest. Cold sweat beaded on his face. Tears wet his cheeks and his body trembled in a state of shock.

A man attempted to stand but fell hard. His head bounced when it hit the floor with a hard plastic bang. Hiding behind the column he watched green bodies crawling over each other, trying to stand and only falling back down. The disgusting sounds of those people made him cringed. Eventually, everyone got to their feet.

“Uuuhhhh … What’s going on?”

“Where … am … I?”

“Who are you!?”

Confused talk. An orgy of angry cursing and crying replaced the silence and echoed away into the high ceiling. A woman struggled to remove her helmet but the straps wouldn’t give. It drove her mad, literally pushed her to the edge of a nervous breakdown. A green man yelled at her to stop but she wouldn’t listen.

‘Why is everyone acting crazy?’

The group became an angry green mob and directed its stupid anger on itself. A brave soul tried to bring order to the growing chaos “EVERYONE, PLEASE LISTEN! WE HAVE TO FIND OU—” It was useless. Panic bubbled over the situation and claimed more followers. The brave man waved his arms in the air. A man and woman wrestled on the floor. He strangled her and she gouged his eyes with her thumbs. Her face turned purple and blood streamed from his ruptured eyes.

He just stood there, watching at a distance far enough to be removed from the situation but close enough to see every detail. Punches could be heard connecting. Helmets and bone hit concrete and meat; they mingled with curses and the screaming that wouldn’t stop. The peace keeper waved his arms until an angry wave of bodies submerged him. Suddenly, an intercom announcement made everyone freeze. “NOW ARRIVED LEVEL FOUR.” Anger retreated back into fear. The fighting stopped. People could be heard sobbing. Nobody dared speak.

A dull roar echoed. The sound of stampeding feet loomed towards them. The group turned into a green shivering mass. Everyone hugged each other as if in a giant cuddle party. Terrified crying echoed. The growl rushed closer. The ringing noise of metal striking metal ricocheted in the distance.

Beiiiiiiing beeeinngg beeeeiiiingg.

Thirty roaring lunatics in blue uniforms charged, swinging their aluminum bats.

Grown men screamed like little girls. Players tried to run, but tripped over others struggling to escape. Heremained hidden behind the support watching. The green team frantically scrambled. A green player put up his arms in feeble defense, a shiny grey bat swung through his wrists and smashed into his face, exploding into a violent spray of blood. The avalanche of metal clubs crashed down on them. FUMP! FUMP! FUMP! Green arms, legs, and torsos were indistinguishable under the assault of bats. Green players tried to wrestle away weapons of their own, and got their heads smashed like pumpkins. The blue players beat the green team mercilessly with uncontrollable rage.

He stood there gripping the support beam, paralyzed in fear. Something bumped into his foot. He looked down. An aluminum bat with blood and hair caked on the sweet spot. He reached down and picked up the bat. Adrenalin flooded into his blood stream. Madness overtook fear. His eyes became large and, with a scream, ran towards the beating circle and smashed the skull of a blue player who looked away. He continued swinging blindly into the crowd, assaulting blue and green players without prejudice. His bat struck a blue player, crushing his hip. The blue player turned around revealing a face twisted in pain and murder just in time for his mouth to be smashed in with a bat. The bat became stuck in the blue player’s shatter-toothed mouth and he kicked him in the chest to dislodge it.

All of a sudden, he felt hands strangling his throat from behind. He turned to face a green player choking the life out of him, but the attacker let go abruptly from a random bat breaking his spine. He made eye contact with the blue player that saved his life, and with brute force, crumpled in his rescuer’s chin. The blue player dropped to the ground, falling victim to the overhead swings of indiscriminating bats. He raised his bat above his head, and brought it down on one of the attackers, killing him instantly.

He raised his bat to further destroy the man when, charging out of the chaos, a woman speared her helmet into his gut. With such unexpected strength, she knocked them both away from the crowd. She mounted him to the ground and bit his face. He could feel teeth ripping flesh from his cheek. He screamed and threw her off. Immediately she dived at him again. He struck her in the face with his boot, knocking her back. She regained herself, picked up a nearby bat, and charged at him screaming. He got to his feet, and before she could smash his head in, he crushed her nose with his fist. She fell. He brought his boot down savagely on her face and throat. With each stomp, he felt the bones in her face give way. He then picked up her bat, and with both hands, swung it on her forehead, scattering her brains everywhere. The green players ripped bats from their attackers and fought back.

The violence continued

“It’s looking ugly, huh?” A calm, raspy voice spoke behind him. His eyes widened and he spun around. A man in a trench coat stood alone. His face hid under the shadow of his fedora. A cigarette glowed from his darkened mouth. He stared at the stranger dumbfounded. The mysterious man spoke through a cloud of smoke.

“You don’t have to die like them if you have friends in the right places.”

“Who are you?!” he demanded, threatening him with his bat.

The mystery man didn’t reply. He let out a small laugh before taking another drag off his cigarette, paying no attention to the mass beating.

“I’m here to offer an advantage for your survival, kid. You’re lucky to have made it this long with the… welcome committee showing up. A tough guy…

He paused mid-sentence for another drag then blew out a cloud of blue smoke, further hiding his face.

… I can tell one when I see one.” Thoughhe couldn’t see his face, he could feel the man grinning.

“I SAID WHO ARE YOU?”

The man was unfazed. He gave his unhurried reply.

“Call me Casper. So what’ya say kid, sounds good?”

Casper tossed him something. He looked down at some type of syringe. It was no ordinary doctor’s needle.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a handshake kid. If you decide you want to live longer than a bat swing, just follow the instructions…

‘The instructions?’

Casper reached into his trench coat and leveled a 357. snub nose revolver, pulling the trigger in a single fluid motion. The bullet hit a charging blue man in the upper part of his chest, bringing him down with fatal stopping power. The combatants froze and turned in the direction of the gunshot. A trail of smoke rose from the barrel.

Everything went quiet except for the tiny whimpers of the wounded and heavy breathing of everyone else.

Casper spoke to him without moving the gun. “Do we have a deal?” He looked down at the high-tech syringe. Picture instructions were depicted on the side. He broke the seal by twisting the plunger and the clear liquid in the barrel turned green. He then removed the cover, revealing a two-inch needle. The last step made him stop. The rudimentary drawing showed a needle being inserted through an eye and into a brain wherein the plunger would automatically sink. He stared at the instructions.

“No……no… NO! What is this?! You want me to inject this into my brain! You can’t make me do this!”

Casper blew out another cloud of blue smoke.

The mob positioned itself around him. He looked at Casper for any kind of response but got nothing except another cloud of blue smoke. He stared at the primed syringe in his gloved hand, stalling in his decision of what to do. Casper gently lowered his gun and took an excruciatingly slow step back. The mob moved forward in relation to Casper’s receding form. His eyes darted from Casper to the crowd and back down to the needle. The mob raised their bats in unison as Casper began to withdraw into the shadows. Sweat poured down his panic-stricken face. Casper continued to fade into darkness. The mob prepared to move in for the kill. He raised the syringe and slowly brought it to his face. He stared at the point. The needle touched an eyelash and he jerked the syringe from his eye. He looked towards Casper in desperation.

Casper raised his gun and tipped his hat before vanishing away into nothingness.

The mob charged forward.

Fighting the urge to shut his eyes, he drove the syringe into his eyeball, feeling the needle enter through his pupil. His eyelid hugged the needle as it slipped in. The plunger moved down, forcing its liquid content into his brain. A warm, glowing sensation spread from the right side of his head. The charging mob moved in slow motion, leaving glowing streaks of thick-colored mist behind them. The figures stretched into a radiating wall of blue and green. The sound of their screams grew into a fevered pitch.

Then, everything went black.

****

Continue the savage journey into Blubber Island

Photo Credits

1. http://www.squidoo.com/minimalist-posters?utm_source=google&utm_medium=imgres&utm_campaign=framebuster

Gutter Surrealism and Punk culture

I want to write about Gutter Surrealism and its relation to Punk culture. The reason I want to address this is because Gutter Surrealism is heavily influenced by the madness and beauty of punk culture. First of all I want make it clear: I’m not a punk and I’m not trying to pass for one either. Gutter Surrealism is its own legitimate movement seeking to cut out its own path. But there’s a lot of similarities the two have in common; a spirit of DIY (do it yourself), liberation, anti-authority, high energy, anti-mind control, you get the picture.

I’ve always been fascinated with the underdog. It’s a personal thing of mine. Whenever I watch a youtube video of someone running away from the cops, I instinctually cheer him on. The news actors (I only use the term “reporter” when connected with real journalists. Everyone else is just an actor) can say whatever they want about the guy. In that moment he’s the hero to me. After they catch him, he goes back to being just another ordinary baby killer or whatever awful thing people tend to become. I’m not saying all underdogs are criminals because that’s obviously not true. But if you’re an underdog yourself, you’ll quickly learn the law is not on your side. You become suspicious of anyone in power.

It was while I studied Art History and Theory at SDSU, that I became convinced that throughout history, weirdos were always more interesting and imaginative than normal people. It was around this time that my younger sisters were fully immersed in the underground punk scene. They started telling me about these things called “sewer shows,” which are hardcore punk rock performances literally down in the sewers. The whole idea was surreal, I had to check it out and so I tagged along. The experience was amazing. Mosh pits, people were throwing up graffiti murals, hardcore punk rock music, booze and herb everywhere, everyone having a good time. It was a different world down there. I got smashed off a box of wine and thrashed around in the mosh pit. Some guy even had a homemade flamethrower strapped to his back. He was guiding people through the darkened tunnels with gigantic fireballs.

CA sewer show at secret location

The whole event opened my eyes. We’ve been conditioned to always ask for permission. This group of people circumvented that whole process and made it happen. What hit me the hardest about being down there was the overwhelming sense of freedom. You could do anything you wanted to and were encouraged to. But there was always a base level of respect maintained. People got stupid, but not that kind of stupid. If somebody was an anger junkie, they’d step in the mosh pit and go insane. What I’m saying is that there was a place for everyone. The only time I got negative vibes was after we returned to the city level. Some Neo Nazi mistook my shaved head for being one of him. Besides that, it was beautiful. Yet, the fact that you gotta go hide in the sewers to enjoy music and be free, said something to me about how we live. The message isn’t a 100% clear to me, but I felt there was a definite connection between that subculture and Surrealism.

It’s been said, that the only place we are ever truly free is in our dreams. We can be and have anything we want. The world is yours. As the saying goes, “In your dreams.” Yes, exactly. But what happens when we want to take that freedom that is in our head and move it into reality? That’s where things get complicated. In the world we live in, real prime freedom costs money. Not everyone can afford that pure uncut freedom, but everyone wants to get high off it. If you’re rich then you can afford the freedom to do the most bizarre things and get away with it (just look at R. Kelly). If you’re poor, then you make it happen any way you can.

It was through this shared love of real freedom, by hardcore punk and surrealism that “Gutter Surrealism” was born to me. The term “Gutter Surrealism” came to me after I finished writing Blubber Island. I did a Google search and found only scant remarks. I’m still looking for other Gutter Surrealists in all forms of art. My longtime  friend Cahnan Hickey (bassist of California Punk band Corpspazm) describes G.S as “trashy and mind bending.” I know he gets it. I’m including this bit from Blubber Island which I believes captures the poetry of G.S,

“He took the last drag and flicked his burning cigarette over the edge. At that moment, a strong wind picked up, and the smoking butt flew away like a bird set free.”

It’s about seeing beauty in the ugly things, yet they always remain ugly. Click here to read an example of Gutter Surrealism.

Photo Credits

Dali Photo from: http://tracyinthestars-tracyinthestars.blogspot.jp/2010/08/rebirth-of-salvador-dali.html

Corpspazm Photo http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/corpspazm

Blubber Island lives

Blubber Island by Ismael “ish” Galvan

 

Welcome to the official Blubber Island blog. I’m starting this to promote myself as a writer and debut my first book Blubber Island. So what kind of a writer am I? To give you the fast response, I write fiction and gutter surrealism. You’ll find it’ll be difficult to pin me down outside of that. I’m sure as I create more works I’ll be labeled as many things. I’m not in the business of mind control, so go ahead and call me whatever you want. There’s too much control over our minds. The last thing I want to do is be part of the problem.

Did you ever stop to think how we’re living in a constant state of psychological warfare? Our minds are under constant attack to surrender and believe. Blubber Island deals with the exaggerated idea of “mind stealing” and how its unlocked powers could be used.

This book was a lot of fun to write. I really got to let my imagination off the dog chain and run free through the city. I knew I had to go really far out because I wanted to free everyone else’s imaginations also. It’s your imagination. How’s the old saying go? “Don’t even think about it.” Really? Not even a thought? Honestly, what’s the harm in a tiny little idea? Man, I hated being told that by teachers. I’d imagine making their heads explode with telekinesis. It’s my mind, I choose what I think. I encourage you to do the same.

Imagine! Go ahead, anything you want. You can blame it all on me. As long as it stays in your head, who cares? Do it right now. Close your eyes and imagine yourself flying through the clouds, and for bonus effect, give yourself unlimited laser vision. Go crazy with upgrades, it’s not like you gotta pay for the special effects.

So anyways that’s my thing.  I hope you give my book a try and trip out on Blubber Island. The Facebook page is up, so be sure to check that out and say “hello.” Thanks for your support.