A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES

Introduction:

Once again I find myself at an impasse; My words are stilted by the fear of the injustice they may serve my own life. Each day adds a shovelful to the mountainous (and mostly factual) lore I'd hoped to climb. What I offer, dear family and loved ones, is a compromise. A series of tales and truths with aspirations to entertain. Before which, some exposition better bulleted than worked into story:

• One more year! One more year! I've been elected to serve my fellow Prattonians as a Lead RA during my final days within Pratt's gates.
• Junior years's films did well: a few festivals, fantastic internet exposure, and a lot of experienced gained. 
• I am currently interning at Augenblick Studios: Augenblick Studios
• I am in production on my senior animation until I graduate. Its a whopper of a project entitled BREADHEADS. The three pictures below are:
• 1. A character sheet in which I map out the quickest and easiest way to draw my Sargent  ten million times.
• 2. A screenshot from the opening scene. 
• 3. An example of my mental state throughout the process

For more on Breadhead related shenanigans, and the dark, doodled depths of my sketchbooks, visit: http://codywalzel.tumblr.com/


For those of you who haven't seen, here are three of the four animations created during my junior year:

Now to the fun part for all you reading enthusiasts. I proudly present, my life in segments:

It's surreal to see the labors of your own artistic hand alive on television. So much so at times, that you forget to be appreciative for the opportunity. A quiet moment with a steaming cup of coffee in the Augenblick Studios screening room provided some perspective. Dense walls and carpeted floors blended sounds near and far into a smooth, soft murmur. Windows on my right showcased the heavy fog hanging on buildings to turn reality to landscape. I could almost hear the brooding jazz decorating the mood. A block from where I sat the bridges labeled Brooklyn and Manhattan shook hands. Floating over the River East, my vantage point witnessed the parting of the two friends in a v shaped path to the hazy island beyond. Stone giants with a century of stories invited a look around. Kind red bricked structures smiled from behind colossal painted advertisements decades faded. Creaking ships drifted exchanging  low, breathy "good-days."  They all turned to ask if I remembered why I came. I couldn't help a smile as I headed back to my desk.    

Endless angled paint strokes aim to imitate the look of linoleum cut relief prints. I am bound to the endless wall in part by the fear that I will find a paint-covered Kayla starved three days from now. My hard working girlfriend tirelessly prepares for her senior show. It seems the comic book created entirely from the painstaking linoleum relief cut process didn't satisfy the over-achiever in her. I find myself recreating a full scale reproduction of a planet sized black hole on which to display the prints. How long have we been mining this coal mine? How far will human civilization have advanced when we emerge?

Breathless and grasping to life, we escape with success, as the night of the show comes crashing down. Hands are shaken and congrats showered. Echoing gallery exchange builds a roar and we squeeze through the thickening crowd, and land out in the sushi restaurant where I meet Kayla's parents. The lovely but brief dinner gives way to the Brooklyn Public House rendezvous and a mob of my friends celebrating a conglomerate of birthdays. the fabric covering my ass grazes the comfort of a chair a nanosecond before a whirlwind rips us from the pub and ushers me into a gypsy cab. Limited shoulder room assures I get aquatinted with these new friends hell-bound for Manhattan. Chattering uptown girls in cocktail dresses more expensive than my combined wardrobe fill the lines on both sides of our huddled mass of insider Brooklynites. Steal and glass winds in a fused double helix to the heavens above us. Determining the specifics of this free invitation to watch millionaire's children spend their parent's money seemed a waste of energy at this point. Panic seizes me as I vocalize my realization. One short month from my 21st and this establishment only allows patrons who can purchase their products. So much for my 18 and up hopes. Stepping from a cartoonist's rendition of 1970's NYC was a four foot black gentleman in an alligator skin hat, a pair of Ray Charle's glasses, and a hawaiin button down revealing his navel. "Play it cool my man," "But-" "Don't sweat and nobody will sweat ya'" A mountainous bouncer glazes over my card. The heated pool is so inviting, and this view so nice.

Screaming red light  echoes on the reflective building and bumps the glass. Residents glass's thickness away take pictures. It is the fourth of July, and this balcony kindly reveals the city. Due south, some amateur pyrotechnicians test the patience of the law from our neighboring building's lawn. The occupant's don't seem to mind. The East river is ablaze with impressive displays of fire that sponsorship allows. Across the island, the Hudson tells the same story. Celebratory color arm in arm with satisfying pops trace the water all the way up the river's spine.

Level 5, sky-side: Motion indicates the life forms and mechanics that layer the levels below our subway window. Diverse and industrious, these racing specks recede into the massive distance on all sides. We ride the canopy of a rainforest with steal leaves. A crisscrossing clutter of bridges, tracks, buildings, and roads loosens its knot and allows my metal worm to spit me out.  Weathered structures beg to tell the tale of the millions they have known. Urban expression on level 4 below these swinging concrete branches. Placed behind glass walls, what was once called degenerate feels itself entitled to the term art. Dipping, we feel that stomach tickle hit our throats while the coaster throws us downhill. Thus the nature of the places in which we exist.
- Level 3: Rain pounds and shudders the walls of the neon lit, youth-filled bar. Alive with laughter, the Knitting Factory ignores the rain's tantrum as the comedian pours his heart from the stage. Shoulder to shoulder crowds surround the worn nostalgia of the vintage living room. Soundproof glass blocks the distant energy of a band's passion in a room behind the silhouette of the tattooed bartender.
-Level 2: Under the steaming, enormous ironing board bridge buzzes a wooden-shingled burrow.  Radiating beer signs make visible an old irish pub from beneath the black shadow of the bridge. I nod respect to this ancient establishment for endured this perceptual dark, and pass downhill. If the city is a rock, I'm dancing amongst the wriggling life forms below it. Level 1: The outskirts of my concrete forest  are free from the reaching branches of the manmade foliage.  5 points opens its mouth, and we graciously enter:

Finals were strapping on the gloves, and my birthday right around the corner. I locked horns with decisions of work and play that have plagued me for the entirety of my college life. I beseech wisdom of you equipped with years and perspective. I constantly question whether to spend the night working towards the future or make some memories in my youth. How much freedom do I allow these competitive ideologies? The night of my 21st offered a treaty: a tableful of shots before a coffee fueled all-nighter.

I've taken to the art of wandering, and documenting my findings in a tiny cork sketchbook. Ever wondered what the Brooklyn Navy Yard looked like from below the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway? If you have, thats weirdly specific, but either way, enjoy:

In an aside from my colorfully descriptive adventures I must admit the true nature of my recent life. Most of my days are spent buried in ambitious labors that keep 16 hour work days the norm. Juggling the aforementioned senior film, my RA job, presidency of the animation club, an internship,  15+ non thesis related credits, and the occasional side project means very limited leisure. Last semester and the next year will likely be remembered mostly for exhaustion and impoverishment, weeks of canned chilly and 4 hours of sleep. Despite this, I always have more to share than I am capable to writing. I will try always to regale and provoke pride from all those who know I can endure. 

-Love,
Cody