Collection of Stories

The Lance is Real

Good morning Lance, how are you,

So nice I found you/you found me! I have no memory of you, as I have never met you…I have only imagined you.

How did you find this blog??? Did you just google The Lance and looked at ALL the results?

Good morning everyone else!

Remember The Lance ? Be sure to read The Story of The Lance again and check out the comments underneath.

He wrote to me and sent me this link

Here is its content written by MOMO:

The Lance

August 2, 2006

I’d like to highlight the work of The Lance here, but I have NO photos. Only memories. That’s going to be tough. (Here I’ve drawn a few pictures from memory.)

The Lance seemed to be a runaway with some emotional problems, living in Key West Florida, most of the 2-3 years I was there.

The Lance may be one of the best and most real street artists you’ll ever meet. I knew this at the time, but lacked the courage to do anything about it. (or what could I do?). I tried to talk to him once and he couldn’t hear me. He was walking in zig-zag patterns reading a book upside down and I was following him, raising my voice. I thought I’d waited a long time to make this decision; to make this connection, and now I looked really foolish because it wasn’t solely my decision to make, was it?

Finally Lance pulled giant orange industrial earplugs out of his ears and said “Oh, Hello.”

Then I explained I loved his work and named all I knew of, or had seen.

There was the time he dressed in a business suit and wore an cell-phone ear-piece and yelled, really yelled all sorts of business jargon in the middle of the Key West crowds. It was so funny. But to see him going at it, you knew it wasn’t a joke for him, and there was no chance he was earning money as a busker for this.

One time he walked around with a box labeled Top Secret, looking down into it, totally shocked and silent.

Much of the time he would read out-loud from books with a fury that would make you dismiss him as mad. Then you’d hear from the towns only copy shop that he’s there all the time creating stacks of pamphlets with big bold words like “Lance is great”. Or other pseudo-campaigns that would take the rest of the day to hand-out on the street. And that made me think he was really quite clever and self aware.

I don’t think he ever documented his work, and while I was standing there praising him, I saw no sign of pride, not even concealed pride. He just looked through me and asked if I’d read “1984″. It was in his hands and he had to be specific with what alarmed him right then. I didn’t need to meet anyone so “real” and selfless, but I really think I did. I’m a cynic, but Lance was authentic.

Lance was a mystery. Where did he get money for these projects, where did he come from each day?

The last things I’d seen him do – was his name in straight forward letters: The Lance, spray-painted in fluorescent colors on trash.

He’d touched on graffiti from street performance, but it was so funny that while 5 or 6 of us in the tiny town wanted to do our part for graffiti, meaning do something like a Bronx Burner, and we would all get arrested eventually, The Lance never looked up or played that game, just flipped it. I still think seeing big horrible letters freely written all over piles of trash is some of the most amazing street art I’ve seen. The surprise and legality of it had fooled everyone and you couldn’t slow him down without the town becoming less wasteful.

The very last thing I saw was a 4ft cow probably from Ben & Jerry’s – installed in an abandoned shop window. a connected thought bubble told you who’d done it. It looked ridiculous. There was a crime of breaking and entering & some kind of street art installed. But you couldn’t say there was anything cool about it. It just looked so funny standing in the window. It was real Dada. He stuck society with society, which is smarter than say; a cool stencil of anything “revolutionary”.

He also played music on an acoustic guitar that he pounded till it sounded amplified.

Where is Lance now? I’d like to know. My friends say he’s not in Key West. (cc) by nc nd 2013 MOMO

Categories: art and culture, Collection of Stories, Key West, literature, story | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

Johnny and the Birds

On wet mornings when people are still sleeping in their beds in their bedrooms breathing rhythmically slowly approaching the end of their nightmares, only birds scavenge the city. Birds don’t waste their lives lost in dreams as much as humans do. They even sleep with only one eye open.

An absent-minded bird is standing at the edge of an empty street looking undecided, his three pink fingers clutching the cold concrete.


And then more birds start to arrive marching in military formation to inaudible commands: Left, Left, Left Right Left!, carrying the blades of their beaks like pink bayonets, oblivious to the vacuum of the empty city.

They take their post up on a strategic wall, their silk uniforms emanating nuclear white light. Balancing on one leg, one eye locked towards the imaginary slaughterfield, they wait.


As more birds join the ranks of the bird army each minute appearing out of nowhere like puffs of breath on a cold mirror, the anxiety swells.

One Hundred and Nine.

Suddenly, an old man on a bicycle gracefully skimming between the impenetrable green and the wide-open unprotected grey glides in like a ghost. From all directions, alarmed, the birds lift their weightless bloodless bodies pirouetting through the air like puffy clouds chased by winds and gather around the man on the bicycle.

Oh my God!, they have been expecting him, I just realised! They knew where and when, and they knew why (or so they thought) the man was arriving. All this marching and waiting and gathering has been meticulously planned many days in advance. The arrival has been inevitable.

Again suddenly, the man stops in the midst of white feathers and pink beaks. His name is Johnny, but the birds don’t know that. All they know is that Johnny has been arriving on his bicycle every early morning for the past four years gently throwing dog food in the air.

When Johnny goes away the birds become disoriented. The air is void again. The city awakens, the birds disappear. Only scattered droppings remain.

Are you a good guy, Johnny? White feathery hair.

One soldier is going to be missing tomorrow, only his feet to be found.

He has been the bravest but also a bit foolish.

His flesh tastes just like chicken, so he won’t  be remembered.

One Hundred and Eight.

Categories: Collection of Stories, My Lyrical Writings | Tags: , | 1 Comment

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