Page 1


r eve t n we exac e hat ame t onc s k n n a hi the e th s t t bit s or bit s u m a r j h o nd in ion and expa ly ocat l s a e l t se mic ota iver r cos n u th ear the e d th an as sun the



Foreword Movement Tales of an Indian & His Would be Cowboys And the Dow Closes Intermission Profiled

7 8 12 16 18

Email us at Writings by Bradley E. Robinson, AndyMoore Layout/Illustrations by Luke Swenson, Bradley E. Robinson Published at the Independent Publishing Resource Center of PDX Published 2010



The search for knowledge can sometimes lead one down a path that was never intended. A path that could, and usually does, alter ones previous perspective. It is important to keep in mind, that ones natural inclination to understand, analyze and correlate are far more of a haphazard adventure to themselves, than they are of anything else. This elusive notion that one feverishly labors for, is nothing more than a jotting of the notes, the snapping of a random photo or a doodle for the day. In essence, Observing the Observables is simply that. A documentation of the sorts. A series intended to observe and to take note. An enrichment process if you will. The infamous Mr. Vonnegut himself once quipped, “The arts are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow.� Nothing more, nothing less. It’s just what We do.



Indian AND




y younger brother still resides in the same neighborhood that we grew up in. His house is no more than fifty feet from the house we lived in for about 15 years. He refers to his little cottage in the rough as the ‘alley house’. The neighborhood runs rampant of deadbeat dads, lost hope, dope and dependency. There is an occasional glimpse of light that manages to make its way out of such a scenario, though that is rather rare. As kids my brother and I, mainly my brother, befriended two other brothers. Twins at birth, A N the D two were quite different in their demeanor and mannerisms throughout our childhood. I had always felt great empathy for these two because of their lifestyle at home and awkwardness with other kids. Their father Mike, a full-blooded Indian, was quite the fellow himself. More so a friend than a father, he would almost always be completely canned. It was a progressive drunkenness that was controlled in the morning and throughout the day. But come the evening he was completely wasted. Recently I had stopped in at the alley house where low and behold sat Mike. At first glance he had not realized it was I, the Bradley he had remembered from so long ago.


Mike, my brother and a friend had consumed a large amount of beer by this point in the afternoon. And were well on the way to be canned.

And you know who it is? Those, you know, those guys in those black helmets,” pointing to his head.

My brother and I had assumed that Mike had remembered me, so neither of us went through an introduction.

“They’re coming to take my guns when I got illegals living all around me.”

Mike by nature is a very colorful fellow when drunk. So to say the least Mike is cheap entertainment. Approximately the cost of a six-pack. He immediately began to tell his most recent escapade with his would be cowboys. A N D Known to most as the Wichita Police Department.

“That thing roared like a cannon,” Mike exclaimed. “I crouched behind that tree and let it go. BOOM!” By this point, three young bucks are in pure laughter by this drunken Indian as he continues with his story. “So I run back inside and I sit in my chair. I hear a knock at the door.

Mike is referring A NtoD the S.W.A.T unit that had been dispatched by a call from a neighbor and is busting down his front door. Mike was in yet another encounter with his so-called cowboys, where yet again, he was being hauled off to jail. “You know I was looking to go down in a blaze of glory,” Mike said as he pulled his buck knife from his butt-crack and waived it around. “But I didn’t. I never do,” he said slowly replacing the knife in its previous location and sitting in a position of failure. As if his Cowboy and Indian adventure was brought to an abrupt stop by some sort of injustice, Mike moved on to another topic. His love for the smell of starter fluid.


A man sits on his couch at home after work. A man who is in the buckets, or poverty as some would say, and works day to day, paycheck to paycheck. His wife sits in the other room suffering from her disease; a disease that tears at the seams of their relationship. He sits on his couch in his smoke filled living room, listening to the evening news. His eyes squint from the smoke and the pain of years before... “The DOW closes at a record high today,” the television says.


He sits on his couch in his meager home, motionless, posed with a blank stare. His mind is at idle. This news of the rich men getting richer while he continues to struggle doesn’t interest him. The rich man’s agenda is at full press while his is still at rest.

by Bradley E. Robinson


“We must confront these terrorists,” the television goes onto say. The cigarette crackles and slowly fades away. His mind moves onto much brighter days. Days of joy and laughter. Days of passion, integrity and character. But today those times are in full retreat. “Father,” his child says. “Yes son,” he replies. “What are we to do?” The man is puzzled by this. “What are we to do about what son…?” And the man suddenly feels weak. He begins to tremor. His son stands in a fearful stare as his father’s faded cigarette falls to the ground. “Son,” the man calls out. “Yes father?” the boy stammers. “What are we to do?” the man asks out of fear. The boy this time looks puzzled and struggles to find his words.

his young boy. The now young man leans down to his father’s cheek, gently kisses it and sheds a tear. He then whispers into his father’s ear. “I am to do what you have done for so many years…keep calm; carry on, and continue the struggle in hopes of a better day. Continue the struggle in hopes of a better way…in this sea of giants.” And the television continued to blare as the man sat posed with a blank stare. The DOW continued to rise and the businessman’s agenda continued at full press when the young man laid his father to rest.

“But father, what do you mean?” And the man collapses in front of


Untitled, 120mm AndyMoore

Untitled, 120mm AndyMoore

Intermission 19

The Walgreen’s of choice just so happens to be in the neighborhood I grew up in. The corner is a familiar one located at Harry and Broadway. Memories of riding my bike up and down, back and forth across all of these streets. I once saw an accident at the intersection. A car had a run in with the fire hydrant and the intersection was knee high in water. I remember this because I thought it would be rad to build a boat and float. The area was known for its terrible flooding habits. Though this time my aspirations of sailing were nowhere to be found and I was picking up some film from the 1-hour photo lab at the Walgreen’s of choice. The weather called for a hoodie, so being the Boy Scout that I am, I was prepared. The clinical Walgreen’s scent permeated the store as I walked to 1-hour photo lab counter. The talking fish was still in full stock, as if it were the hot new gift for the good ole boys and the 50 million pack of batteries were on sale for $9.99. Finally making it past the hot sales, I stood at the counter with my hood up. The photo technician asked me what the last name was. “Robinson. Bradley,” I replied. A faint sound muffled in the back of my mind appeared, like a balked fast food speaker. Not paying attention I stood there with hands in pocket waiting for my 1-hour photos. “Put your hands in the air!” The broken fast food speaker box said. But this didn’t make sense I thought, as I watched the photo-technician retrieve my photos from my Florida trip? by Bradley E. Robinson

“Put your hands behind your head!” The speaker box said louder.

21 21

Interested in what was going on I turn around. A moment of question then occurred.

“I do believe I am being profiled right now,” I said casually.

“Why are these two SWAT officers dressed in all black, pointing their guns at me looking a bit bothered?”

And as quickly as they came on, they let off. And then the situation for the two officers went sour.

Lifting my hands like my brain was interpreting, a slow bamboozled apparatus, the two officers rushed me. One of the officers coupled my hands together, while the other patted me down. “Why didn’t you turn around when we told you to,” the officer exclaimed. Still trying to analyze the situation, I replied, “I didn’t hear you.” “What are you doing here?” the officer demanded like I was being of hassle to the 1-hr. photo lab. Immediately he followed up with another question. “Why do you have your hood on?” A fashion for those of the utmost quality of course, though at this point I began to understand what was going on. “Well, if you look behind this counter, you will see that I have photos with the name Bradley Robinson on them.” A bit offended by this, the officer pulled the sleeve of my hoodie. “Are you in a gang?” the officer demanded again. Amused by this I chuckled and said, “No. Are you in a gang?” “What do these tattoo’s mean?” with a final demand, before I abruptly spoiled the escapade.

“You guys don’t even know who I am, or what I do. I am just a kid who goes to school and is here to pick-up some photos,” I hammered. “If you look in my wallet, it says Bradley E. Robinson on my I.D and behind this photo counter… Bradley E. Robinson.” “Well…” one officer stammered. “We have had a lot of robberies here at this location lately and you looked suspicious with your hood on.” “Are you going to stop every person, like you just did me, that comes in here with a hood on? I think that is some sort of grounds for profiling?” I defended. “I was standing here minding my own business. The least you could do was wait and see what I was about to do.” “Well… you have to understand…”the officer began to say as I furiously interjected. “Oh, I understand. I understand that I have just been profiled. I have no interest in the field of being a cop, but I would take a guess that was bad practice on your part.” The situation lay silent, with me on the offense defending my basic rights that were at first thrown out by these two shifty public servants. I got the impression that the two officers were got off guard by this kid full of tattoos, reminding them of my basic rights as a citizen.

23 21

Keep it Sleezy...

The Royal We: Observing The Observables Vol. One  

Art, design, words!