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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Dec 2006
Location: zeebyville USA
Gender: Male
Posts: 237
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The Rubber Factory
A small piece of something i plan to edit and add to
Tubman lived in the heart of Brooklyn. In 2005, he was living in the artist commune called "the Rubber Factory" on 55th and 1st, formerly an abandoned warehouse. His room was much like a cell. He had no toilet, one sofa chair he had found while walking home from the Mcdonalds three blocks down, one small end table he had bought at a thrift shop, a mini-fridge, and a canvas. He often times liked to lay across the floor, and stretch out until his hands and toes met opposing walls.
He hadn't always lived in squalor. In fact, there was a time when Tubman had a nice home in the suburbs to return to, where there was always a cooked meal and a nice warm bed to sleep. When he turned eighteen, he said he was going to be an artist, and decided against college. When his mother objected, he promptly moved to the city. For three weeks, he stayed in shelters, stubbornly deciding that he was done living off the efforts of others.
Finally, he met up with another artist while checking out displays at a nearby art museum. He told Tubman about the commune, and said that at roughly 50 dollars a month, just about anybody could afford it. There were two functioning bathrooms in the building, both with working showers and hot water. There was a kitchen and dining hall. The 33 seperate occupants of the building were expected to pay the rent, as well as help out in order to keep the place tidy and possible to live in. Tubman didn't mind the cleaning, cooking, and other various chores around the commune to which he'd been assigned.
Tubman had many useless skills. He was creative, he could write, he could paint, he could read fast, speak eloquantly and sound intellectual. He wasn't very handy with tools, couldn't think on his feet, and had trouble betraying his morals in the name of profit. He just wasn't made to be a competitor.
As soon as Tubman had drawn his first picture, a family portrait, at the age of 2, he was hooked. Following that moment, Tubman was drawing all day all the time. When his father died, Tubman was crushed. He had been 7 that very night. That night, August 16th 1994, was the first night he creatively wrote.
Tubman liked writing fiction, but he found poetry to be much more satisfying. He was constantly torn between the visual beauty of paintings and the aesthetic beauty of a well organized poem. His favorite poet was E.E Cummings. His favorite author was Alexander Dumas. He didn't have a favorite artist.
The abandoned warehouse he had lived in from 2005-2007 had a terrible effect on his mental health. His work became darker and more convoluted, but he felt free.
One thing he missed about his home life was music. In his transition from wealth to extreme poverty, Tubman lost access to all cd players and ipods he once had. In the commune years, he took an active interest in the musicians in the building. Thats what he loved most about living in the "Rubber Factory". The walls were thin enough so that he could faintly hear music late at night. Acoustic guitar strings being plucked, type writers being typed, singers singing, and various other sounds of which Tubman didn't know the orgin.
He especially loved the music of the man in the room beside his own. The musicians name was Vladimir Kolchev. Vladimir couldn't play guitar very well, and when it really came down to it, his voice was not all that good either. What Tubman loved about Vladimir was that he played all of his own music. Vladimir swore that he had over a 1000 songs written that he could perform on a dime. Every song, as well as journal entries he had written daily, was written in small black and white marble notebooks that were stacked along the walls of his room. He had no need for chairs, he simply stacked notebooks on top of one another to make a makeshift chair. The only material things he had were his typewriter, his guitar, and his 100 dollar pen.
The 100 dollar pen had no previous owners. It was not a gift, nor was it stolen or found on the street. The truth was that not even Vladimir knew where he'd gotten it, he had just always had it. Tubman found Vladimir to be very strange, but he swore by his intellect and thought he wrote the most heartfelt lyrics of any poet that had ever lived.
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Everybody's got something to hide except for me and my monkey
Last edited by zeeby : 07-04-2008 at 12:49 PM.
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