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Thread: My Week

  1. #21
    Thanks Jon. Yeah that editor took a silly little zombie story with a dash of punch and turned it into kind of a clunky mess. It's not really my story now. It's his. If I ever entrust a piece that I really, really care about to him, we'll definitely have to have a discussion about his controlling, micro-managing tendencies.

    As for the other, I'm sure I'll be 'fine', just like always
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  2. #22
    Quote Originally Posted by Arcopitcairn View Post
    This is not the debate forum. This is a thread for me to tell you how my week went. If you enjoy my self indulgence, please feel free to let me know. Otherwise, I don't really care what you think. If I wanted to argue about it , I'd post in the debate forum, but I do not do that.
    My apologies, but I was not attempting to debate the subject, only offering my own thoughts in response to your post. That you don't care what I may think does not make much sense, since the purpose of a forum is the interchange of ideas and open discussion of posted topics. But, evidently you feel insulted and I am sorry for that, even though I can find no logical reason why you should feel that way.

    Best wishes, my apologies, have a nice day.

  3. #23
    You are one of those people who, when someone posts something they don't agree with, it's like an irresistible bug-light. There are countless, pompous people like that, and it's old, and it's boring. I made the mistake of mentioning the supernatural, or lack thereof, and that's like catnip to the god-bothering snake handler.

    I don't mind comments on what I write in this thread, of course, I'm happy to get them. But what I don't need is some self-righteous lecture about consciousness and intelligence, a lecture about what I feel in my heart, a critique of my life. Your passive-aggressive non-apology is an archetype of why I try to avoid these sorts of exchanges. Leave me alone.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  4. #24
    Silly of me, probably, to post when not much happened this week. It truly has been uneventful, but I feel somehow, even if it is self-indulgent, that I would like to at least post something. Perhaps it's just a record for me to know what I was thinking or feeling at the time.

    It was one of those weeks in which I had all the time in the world to get any number of things written, drawn, or read, but I did not do much.

    Read All Star Superman by Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely. It's Morrison's love letter to the Silver Age of comics. I really enjoyed it, and Quitely's artwork is so amazingly beautiful in an ugly kind of way.

    Went to a haunted trail with Kristen. It's put on every year for charity (To help end hunger) and the admission price is any canned goods you can spare. It was a very enjoyable little haunted trail. It was a spooky story book land. In one area, I was sure, after a close look, that someone was a mannequin, but then they moved. It actually gave me a start, and it's been a long time since that has happened.

    Working on drawing a zombie picture for the front cover of a small press book. I hope it turns out okay. Sometimes I feel, like writing, a drawing takes on a will of its own and simply 'becomes' the thing it was supposed to be.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  5. #25
    So I had this dream. Like everyone, I often will have dreams that I don’t fully remember. Sometimes I have dreams that I remember every detail of. The other night I had one of the most detailed and strange dreams I’ve ever had. The themes became transparent by the end of the dream, but it was an interesting journey, and for no reason at all really, I’ll relate that dream here.


    Kristen and I were driving in Illinois. It was early afternoon on a Saturday. We went off-highway, just bumming through the countryside down back roads out in the middle of nowhere. Kristen was driving her little blue car, and she was starting to get worried because she was running a little low on gas. We started to see a lot of traffic, and we figured we must have been close to a town. We followed a line of cars and we ended up in this small town; some mini-malls, a town square, and some scattered neighborhoods. There were a ton of people around, all very busy, carrying boxes, tidying things, standing around talking, all very happy too. It was a pretty little town, abuzz with activity.


    We stopped at a stop sign in the middle of the little downtown area. There was a comic store on the corner called Walker’s Comics. I’m genetically hardwired to want to look inside any comic store I see, so I told Kristen we’d have to come back and look after we got gas. She said that she didn’t really want to go in the store, so she suggested that I just jump out and she’d swing back and pick me up after she got some gas. We could see a Speedway sign down the road, so I got out of the car and she drove off. I went into the comic store. The inside of the establishment was not comparable to the beauty of the storefront. It wasn’t dirty or anything, but there was nothing there. There were a couple particle board tables in the large space, with piles of comics on them. The comics were strictly flea-market fare, quarter box stuff. They didn’t even have a rack of new comics, like any respectable shop should. But there were three guys working there, in that nearly empty place, three happy and extremely friendly employees. With such poor stock, I wondered how they could possibly keep the store open. I politely sifted through the comics, exchanged pleasantries with the workers, and I got out of there. I went back out on the street and waited for Kristen. She did not show.


    I started down the street to the Speedway. People were everywhere. Lots of traffic. I got to the gas station, but it was not like any Speedway I’d ever seen. The pumps were gone, and the convenience store part was darkened and closed. In place of the pumps, there was a huge metal tank. Workers were hand-pumping gas from the tank into cars that were lined up, and the customers would hand over cash. Other cars were lined up on the other side of the tank, but the people in these cars were not buying gas. They were delivering it. Each car would stop by the tank, the driver would get out and open his trunk, and then he would remove a full gas can. The driver would then climb some metal steps so he could access the top of the tank. He opened a hatch, dumped in his gas, returned to his car, and left. Then the next person would give some gas, then the next person, and the next. Odd, and I walked on because Kristen was not there.


    I noticed, in the air, a ubiquitous sound, like engines running. I had not noticed it before. I realized that everything that was electric was being run by gas-powered generators behind the buildings. Any buildings that weren’t in use were dark. There was no actual power.


    I passed a little grocery store. There were multitude of people standing around talking, watching a truck being unloaded. Happy people were unloading boxes of oatmeal and taking them into the grocery store. I stopped next to two women who were watching. They were both quite excited.


    “Can you believe all that oatmeal?” one of the women said to me. “This’ll be really good for the grocery store!”


    “Uh, yeah,” I said, “that’s definitely a lot of oatmeal.”


    “It’s outdated, but still good,” The other woman said seriously, “oatmeal lasts a long time.”


    I agreed and walked on.


    I came across a mall. The sign said Walker’s Mall. The building looked like a 1970’s office complex for lawyers or accountants. The architecture was all blocky, dark wood, and the building was surrounded by trees. The parking lot was full, and Kristen’s car was there. I went inside.


    The mall was deserted. It seemed that all the cars in the parking lot belonged to people who worked there. The stores were, like the comic store, overstaffed and under-stocked. It was full of flea market, thrift store stuff, and people were bringing more boxes of stock in here and there, dropping the stuff off at the different shops, like they were donating things for the stores to sell. Every store had three or four people working there. The only other customers I saw were a very ugly family, two parents and three horrible-looking children whose genders were not apparent. They bounced from store to store, greedily poring over the substandard wares, and they kept shooting me dirty looks from their twisted and misshapen faces.


    Next to a huge book store that had two bookcases full of cheap books, there was a large wooden staircase that led up to the second floor. The second floor was deserted, except for a very pretty teenage girl dressed in an immaculate security guard uniform with a white shirt and a gold badge. Next to her was the only shop on that second floor landing. It was a dark doorway with weak red light inside. There were mumbling low voices coming from the room, and there was a wet thumping, a chopping noise coming from the blood-colored darkness. The security girl smiled at me.


    “Can I help you find anything?” She asked.


    “Nope. Just looking.”


    “We have a nice butcher’s shop here,” she said, motioning to the doorway. “This is the place if you’re looking for meat.” She smiled.


    “I’m good,” I said, and I went back down the stairs.


    I found another open doorway in a corner of the mall. It was completely dark inside, total blackness with little pinpricks of light, like outer space. Over the door, in rainbow letters, the sign read Wonderland. There were multi-colored stars and planets dancing around the letters on the sign. There was another security guard there. An old woman.


    “Would you like to go inside?” The guard asked with a smile.


    “No thank you.” And I left the mall.


    Outside the front doors of the mall, another young girl, maybe about sixteen was walking towards me. She’d been crying. On a whim, I asked her what the name of this town was. She looked at me wide-eyed.


    “You don’t know?” She asked.


    “No, what is it?”


    “It’s called Walker’s Abbey,” She said hurriedly, “but if you don’t know that, that means you’re not one of them!” Her eyes darted around, looking to see if anyone was about.


    “One of who?”


    “The people who come here on the weekends,” She whispered conspiratorially. “Do you have a car? We gotta get out of here.”


    Just then, a man came up and identified himself as the girl’s father. He asked me if there was a problem. I glanced behind him at the girl, and she was shaking her head ‘no’, wide-eyed, like she was warning me. So I told him there was no problem, and that I was just asking the girl for the time. He told me it was six, and he ushered his daughter away. She glanced back at me, terrified, but I did nothing. It was getting dark, and I was getting afraid.


    I heard my name called out from the parking lot. It was Kristen’s brother, but it was also Jesus (You know how dreams are). It was Jason (Her brother) and Jesus at the same time. He was standing next to Kristen’s car, dressed in robes, and jingling keys. (In real life, Kristen’s brother speaks in a mumbling stutter, but this person spoke to me in my own voice.) I went to him. He looked more like Jesus than Jason, but I knew him, and I was happy to him in a way.


    “What are you doing here?” I asked him.


    “I came to pick you up. Kristen’s at my convert.” He said with my voice.


    “No, I mean here, in this town.”


    “Hanging out with some friends at my convert.”


    “What the hell’s a convert?”


    “It’s what I call my house. It’s converted.”


    “Converted from what?”


    “Whatever it was before.” He said matter-of-factly. And he started to get into the car, motioning for me to follow. “Come on, Kristen’s waiting for you.”


    I got into the car, and when he started it up and turned on the headlights, I saw a headless cat stumbling around between the cars. It was an orange cat with a bloody stump where his head should have been, but still alive. In the dream I immediately thought of an old ghost story that I’d heard when I was young. It was one of those ‘The Cat Came Back’ stories. At the end of the story I was thinking about, the cat came back carrying his head in his mouth. I always wondered, since I was a child, how the cat could be carrying his head in his mouth.


    “It’s a metaphor,” Jason said, “It’s not his head he’s carrying home. It’s something else.” He’d known what I was thinking.


    “What was he carrying, then?” I asked as he backed the car out of the space.


    “He was carrying me.” Jason said as he smiled at me. And off we drove.


    “I want to show you my venue, real quick.” He said as we navigated the car-filled streets.


    “Your what?” I asked, as he pulled us into a busy strip mall.


    “The venue I was telling you about. The place I’m saving my money for.”


    Then I remembered that he had told me about a concert hall that he was going to buy. He pointed it out. It was at the end of the strip mall, a large space. The sign above, in big black letters, read Billy Walker’s Genocide. A picture of a skull dotted the ‘i’ in genocide. We stopped in front and looked at it for a minute.


    “It’s a place where we can really put on a good show, you know? It goes along real good with the town. We put on a great show here on the weekends.”


    “Look, can we just go get Kristen?” I asked. The whole thing was really getting on top of me. I just wanted to get out of that place.


    We drove a short distance to Jason’s house. Kristen came stumbling outside, followed by several young men who were trying to talk her into coming back inside. I took the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. Kristen was unintelligible, confused, and her face was covered with what looked like sperm. It was on her clothes and in her hair, and I got a pretty good idea of what those guys had been doing to her. Her brother seemed unconcerned. I punched him in the face and knocked him down. I ripped part of his robes off and I wiped Kristen’s face with it. The other guys just watched with smiles on their faces. I put her in the passenger seat of her car. I started towards the young men, but they ran away. I kicked Jason in the teeth as I rounded the front of the car, I got in, and we headed out of town.


    On the outskirts of town, the road was blocked off by day-glo barricades and one man. When I stopped, the man came walking up to the window. He asked where I was going. I told him that everybody was super jazzed about the new shipment of oatmeal, and that I was going out to get a carload of milk. He thought that sounded pretty great, and he let me through the barricade.


    Kristen started to come back to herself the further we got from the town. She was crying, talking about how it wasn’t a town at all, but an idea. I didn’t know what she meant, and then the dream ended.
    I got up in the middle of the night and wrote all the details out, still half asleep. I didn’t really need to do that, though, because when I woke up, I remembered everything.

    Saw the movie Cloud Atlas yesterday. I'm not sure if I liked it or not. I don't think I did.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  6. #26
    There's no ---- way you dreamed all this, and if you did I'm jealous. With all the empty shelves it sounds...soviet or... Gymkata; village of the crazies fight scene.

  7. #27
    Did dream it all, really. It's maybe only the second or third time that it's happened to me in my many years. I wish it would happen every night. Oh, and you're getting major Gymkata respect from me!
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  8. #28
    So on Halloween I went over to Kristen’s house. We carved pumpkins, waited for trick r’ treaters, and watched the ‘Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’. I like carving pumpkins. It’s something you only get to do once a year, and the activity has an interesting history. I’m of the mind that you should never take more than a few minutes to carve your pumpkin, as to try and capture a more slap-dash, child-like aesthetic. My pumpkins always turn out pretty well. Kristen only had three trick r’ treaters (Ghoul, Witch, and Princess), and one young couple who had their infant dressed up like a puppy. The infant’s mother, no doubt, was going to consume most of the baby’s candy, which she was collecting in a little blue bucket. I’d hoped there would be more treaters, because I live in a neighborhood that consists mostly of businesses, and I have not had a Halloween visitor in all the years I’ve lived there.


    The Great Pumpkin is always nice to see. It brings heavy nostalgia. But there’s this thing I noticed. The Great Pumpkin is widely available to watch all year round, if one were so inclined. I own the show myself. But I have never watched the copy I have. There’s something more special about watching it when it’s supposed to be watched, and how. On television with commercials. I think if I ever watched it when I was not supposed to, the show would lose something for me.


    It’s like music. Anybody can have any music they want any time they want it. My formative music is seventies and eighties music, and I have a ton of it. I can listen to it any time I like, and often, I do. But I always find something more special about hearing one of those old songs on the radio than listening to them on an mp3 player or my computer. Perhaps, even if you’re alone, you get a more shared experience-type feeling when you hear a song you like on the radio. You know that a bunch of other people are listening to the song you like as well, as they go about their mysterious business. All I know, is that when I heard ‘Too Shy’ on the radio this week, it put a smile on my face. More of a smile than I might get hearing that song on an eighties play-list in my computer. Maybe the more you have of something, and the easier it is to get, the less impactful or important it becomes.


    I sometimes wonder if I worked at an art museum if perhaps I might eventually become desensitized to art. Probably not, but I’m sure there would be some effect on me. Maybe I would become more discerning and critical. Or maybe jaded and cynical. Never can say.


    Bought a Ford F150 pick-up for one dollar this week. Kristen’s father wrecked it, and he decided to sell it to me for a buck because he likes me. Kristen’s parents think I’m the cat’s meow, though sometimes I cannot understand why. Anyhow, the truck needs a little work, but for a dollar, you can’t really go too wrong.


    Hung out with my friend Aaron all day yesterday. Had a good time talking about our common interests, like art and comics. We had a mini movie marathon. We watched Star Trek 4, Temple of Doom, and UHF. UHF…I love that stupid movie.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  9. #29
    So there was this big explosion here in Indianapolis a few miles from where I live. It happened on Saturday night at about eleven. I’m sure I heard the explosion, but because of the industrial neighborhood in which I live, I have become desensitized to loud noises, and the explosion didn’t register as something out of the ordinary. It was more than likely a gas explosion. Two people were killed, seven injured, and several houses were completely destroyed, and many more houses were severely damaged. All around a bad scene.


    The local news was interviewing one of the people who lived near the explosion. His house was one of the ones destroyed, but he was not injured. He was thanking god on the news that he was okay. That’s all well and good, but it occurred to me that Christians are kind of like people that suffer from Stockholm Syndrome. Or they’re like battered wives that constantly make excuses for their abusive husbands. Or perhaps they are the whipped dogs that sidle back up to their harsh masters, cringing at their heels, full of stupid love for the one worst thing in their whole miserable life. Personally, if I believed in some all powerful magic monster, I would ask why this creature did not prevent the disaster, instead of thanking the thing for sparing me.


    Went to our town’s art museum with Kristen on Sunday. It’s decent, with many fine pieces to enjoy. We wandered the place for three hours. There were many people there. I know that this is the wrong attitude, incorrect, but I often feel that the common man does not have the ability to appreciate fine art like I can, or people who are like me, like-minded, with my sensibilities. It’s the art snob in me, but I sometimes feel that these people just don’t have the capacity, and would be better served staying home and watching NASCAR or reality television.


    I went to a Norman Rockwell exhibit in Dayton, Ohio last year. My friend Kris and I made the drive from Indianapolis just for that purpose. There were hundreds of people there to see the exhibit, and the line stretched out far into the museum proper. No big deal, I say, for I have no problem with crowds, and it was kind of nice to see so many regular joes interested. When I finally made it into the exhibit, I felt then, after observing the people observing the art, that they were not there for the same reasons that I was there. They flew through the galleries, giving cursory glances to the paintings, talking on their cell phones, breezing past. They were there to consume, because they recognized the name ‘Norman Rockwell’ and they had to have some of that. I think that I may have seen some frustration in those scattered faces, a dull rage that sprang from the fact that they could not eat the art, could not rub up against it, or take it home. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was there to see those iconic pieces by Rockwell too, but I had more right to be there, as far as I was concerned. My thoughtful appreciation and contemplation of the collection was loudly salted by screaming children, snatches of irrelevant conversation, and the mental farts of those who understood nothing of what they were seeing. It was disgusting. I’m not saying all the people there were like this, just most of them. And the Dayton art museum itself was deserted. They were all just there to ingest Norman Rockwell, because they recognized the name. If it had been a J.C. Leyendecker exhibit, they would not have been there.


    Kristen made vegetarian curry for dinner, and it was quite good. We then played a couple of games of Carcassonne, a medieval strategy game. It’s a heck of a lot of fun, and I would heartily recommend it for anyone who enjoys board games.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  10. #30
    Oh, call me a 'plebe', but you missed the 'Jeff Gordan Brickyard Smackdown' (who knew Indy was such a jumping town? I hope dale's alright..) Thanks big "A". Always a pleasure to read-k

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