Best Screenplay and Best Sound Production for "Da 208"

Matthieu Duquette and Eric Ohlsen holding awards received for Best Screenplay and Best Sound Production in the I-48 Festival of April, 2007. The video was a parody on the project itself called "Da 208" and was filmed in Boise, ID. You can watch the video below from YouTube

"Corner"

"Corner"

by

Mann Wynn

Acrylic on Canvas

16" x 20"

2007

Mann Wynn is the "nom de artiste" for 
Matthieu Duquette's painting.
The name comes from the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc

runic alphabet representing the Letters "M" and "W".

My Lonely Hilltop

Bitter cold comes at autumns passing.

Winds glide ‘cross my silent hill.

Rustling the wild grass around me.

While snow falls like the years before.

Coming is the frigid winter.

When all that once was green will die.

Many years I’ve been here watching.

Watching seasons pass me by.

I’ve learned the signs of violent winds.

Of cleansing rains, or gloomy fog.

Though at this lonely time I wish,

to be again in summer’s arms.

Still, I’m left here in this place.

Behind this gate that’s seldom used.

Assuming that which might come next.

From cloudy heavens up above.

My marker has seen many winters.

So many none could read my name.

Yet in this grave. I’ll be here still.

Watching as the seasons change.

Hades

Shrinking shores and gloomy mist.

I've woken on a perilous trip.

It seems so real, could it exist?

It must be, no dream could be like this.

I wish a wish I would awake.

In linen sheets, so soft and warm.

As solemn cold brings me to shake.

The waters round me call my name.

I walk the deck of ghostly ship.

A wooden beast with fiery sails.

With two small coins caught in my grip.

Yet heavy-heart, with them I feel.

And though this voyage many share.

Somber sea swells stop thy tongue.

No word is echoed through the air.

Nor song of poets from their time.

But one, I see, with greedy eyes,

and withered skin of endless toil.

Steers the craft against the tide.

Gaze fixed yonder vision's end.

While riding still these murky depths.

The man begets a haunting smile.

What‘s caught his eye, he’ll not proclaim.

Though doubtful I’d believe his tale.

Now stretch of land hath caught mine eye.

Though fears within do stir and mount.

Growing till all doubts have passed.

For giant gates ‘tis where we sail.

With boat now moored, we restless souls,

are summoned to these gates of old.

Then he asks me for his toll.

The boatman asks me for his toll.

The Downward Stair

In desolate home I cry for death.

For life to end, to cease my breath.

I can’t release this great despair.

For all is lost on downward stair.

The warmth is gone, though sun still shines.

My clammy hands are pale, white.

No resonance is in the air.

For all is lost on downward stair.

God why my life, did you forsake?

For joyful be my days no more.

Oh, Help me if you really care!

For all is lost on downward stair.

I’ve no more reason left to live.

To hangman’s noose I’ll surely go.

I've cast my love on downward stair,

and still she lay, lifeless below.

A Chance Encounter

Imagine, if you will, walking down a crowded street corner in Southern France. Imagine that it is mid-summer, just days after the Solstice, and the sun's brilliance has had no hindrance for a good few weeks now. You are just strolling along, taking it all in, maybe you live there? Or perhaps you are just visiting, and today you are out enjoying the sights; the tanned bodies, the ocean air, and the expertly crafted window displays. One after another you see them; bathing suits, summer dresses, the finest tailored linens, the shoes, the jewelry, everything plays of the glory of your natural surroundings, nothing is out of place, it's almost desensitizing, how systematic it can be at times, beautiful yes, yet so predictable, so afraid to disturb the balance of the world around it.

You continue to shuffle along the rocky cobble stone that lines the storefronts, but soon you are ripped away from the comfort of formality, your whole system of what is suppose to be is torn asunder by a sight that inflames your senses as your mind attempts to grasp what this image is that has been forced upon it.

White, Red, Black, all colors in there purest forms, you see them and can't loose them, so sharply distinct that it hurts to consider them all as a whole. It's a woman that you see, she is walking toward you, and you cannot stop watching her. Although you tend to shy away from producing such a blatant gaze at another person, you are transfixed, paralyzed. Perhaps at the radiance of this glorious creature, perhaps, but all you are sure of is that you have never seen such an awesome sight in a very long time.

Her hair is jet black and shines as if still wet, long and flowing with curling ends. She looks like the grave, so pale and almost lifeless, but not as you know death in real life, but as you remember it from the fairy tales of your childhood. Snow White would have looked like this, lying lifeless in her glass coffin, cold, discolored, but as beautiful as the un-trodden snow that surrounds her in a white forest. Your skin begins to chill as this angelic being continues closer and closer, it is a welcoming chill in the moist heat of the summer air. She is dressed so elegantly that you find yourself wondering if this might be some princess from a land that must still observe the customs of dress from many years ago, you've seen them on television after-all, but none yet have been as fair as this girl, and as you come close she stares back, emitting a smile that shines like diamonds lain in a bed of roses of the deepest red, a red so unfathomable that your heart seems to sink into it's complexity.

This meeting has seemed like a lifetime of melancholy, you long to look again, but her beauty is so toxic that it pains you to even think upon it, and now she is gone, and all is what once had been, and you feel the blood begin to circulate again as your soul begins to thaw under the summer sun.

"Latina"

"Latina"

by

Mann Wynn

Acrylic on Canvas

16" x 20"

2006

Mann Wynn is the "nom de artiste" for 
Matthieu Duquette's painting.
The name comes from the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc

runic alphabet representing the Letters "M" and "W".

The Sun is Risen

It comes to this, that we begin a journey into an unknown future, with but one small step. But what an important step is this which marks the paths we take. Ages pass, friends are made, lost, forgotten, but through writing, we may capture glimpses of a time, a place, or the people that once filled our lives with such bliss, such regret, or sometimes just a fond memory dying to resurface. So as we continue this voyage, and find that time is a cursed virus, killing us quickly, silently, before you know it you find yourself face to face with an old, fragile creature, scarcely more than an apparition, living on, just to live, at the end of one path, and preparing for one final venture ‘cross the fabled river sticks into the unknown afterlife. All that matters in the end is what legacy we have left in the wake of time, after our light fades into oblivion.

My journey is now on the verge of a bold new horizon, whether it be the ominous end of the oceans edge, or the path to astounding or horrifying new lands, I do not know, but I am ready for wherever the stars may lead me. I have been equipped with the means to continue on into the unknown, and taught of the joys and dangers ahead, yet when the frightful mists of a new dawn embraces the world around you, it always seems that with a little more time, a little more effort, the path wouldn’t feel so threatening and bent against your will.

I look back fondly on my humble beginnings, yet for all the gold of Solomon’s temple I shall’t surrender the great mentor’s that have made me who I am, for one can have all the knowledge of men, but without wisdom he is nonetheless blind, it is folly to shape one’s foundation on the ways of the world, and all that one can find fault in is their own aversion of commitment to what they are so desperately yearning for in life. All else is but poisonous vanity, slowly suffocating our dreams, until dreams evade us.

Who am I? This even the self does not truly know, but through writing, small pieces of one’s true nature can be brought forth. As he who studies the past may find his ambitions in another, and thus may discover ways in which he may exploit his gifts to the utmost ends, and trim the dead branches from his character that bears no fruit, or fruit that may look as pleasant, but once consumed it becomes the means to his end. Weakness is no virtue, it must be overcome, nor mistaken as humility, for in humility one may ascend, but in weakness he is overtaken, and shut away from any significance. My weakness is a plague to me, but through wisdom and discernment I may perish the thought that my words, no matter how raw my throat becomes from screaming them, they will not be heard, or perhaps heard, but taken as foolishness and of no consequence by others.

I feel strength growing in me, may it one day become great enough to release me from my chains of doubt. And with strength comes hope for a brighter beyond. The rains lighten, the storm is passing, and I can feel the warmth of the un-shrouded sun beating upon me further with each passing moment. Yet for all I’ve learnt, it would all be useless if I hadn’t have found the courage to believe in myself, in mine own abilities, but it is also wise to learn when to lean on others when one’s will alone is not enough to get through the trials that are encountered on the way, and to this I hold as I continue on in this journey, and begin to carve my name into the book of life, to live on once all returns to dust.