Going to see my Villains Records f(r)iends tomorrow night! This is my contribution for what I’m guessing will be the back of the CD case of the Villaintine’s 2014 compilation.
I contributed artwork for the Villaintine’s Day compilation again.
Because something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is.
My ability to sufficiently communicate diminishes day by day; lately I can’t seem to pluck the proper words from the swirling void to properly express myself, so here I am and I wonder what happened and they wonder “What happened? He used to be…”
A while a go — not that long, just a week or two or maybe eight or ten days go ahead and pick one because it doesn’t matter — I was walking to school in the cold overcast early morning and I was overcome by the grey the loneliness and maybe “Bankrupt on Selling” by Modest Mouse was playing and maybe these circumstances combined into some indomitable force of sadness capable of — no, not merely capable, but necessarily — thrusting me into the throes of despair: where weeping or preperatory to an emotional outburst pausing midstride and staring up at the gloom overhead or staring fixedly at nothing in particular to avoid seeing anything, anything, anything that matters or has practical meaning, some mark of progress through the day. But I walked on.
The acme of vanity is made manifest through self-portraiture, but I’ll gladly feign vanity for the sake of faked sanity. Maybe I’ll try to do a drawing people will like next time. Something with animals and violence and maybe some smugly pessimistic words scrawled across the chickensketch and I’ll sit back and say, “Yes, yes, yes, life certainly is fine and grand and I can surely stand another couple decades of this.” Because right there before my very eyes are some animals I drew and they’re saying or thinking or doing something I said or thought or did and I’ll know that there’s no such thing as loneliness and there’s no such thing as then or when but only now.
Another one of those things I did that never got used (was going to be a t-shirt). My friend’s friends’ band, Detta.
Sometimes I feel like it’s my right to do what I always know is wrong. Life is boring, life is short, I am dull and I want to die young (too late for that I guess).
If you haven’t seen The Werckmeister Harmonies, you should check out the first ten minutes which contains more poetry than the sum of most movies i see all year combined. And if you know Spanish (or Hungarian and thus don’t need subtitles) the entire movie can easily be watched in two parts on youtube. I’m currently reading Satantango, which is written by the same writer and was adapted by Bela Tarr into a seven hour feature film (which I haven’t seen, but is also available on youtube—with English subtitles—dog be praised—so I shall soon hopefully remedy that), and it’s quite a good read.
And now…more alcohol.
Strange sensations, doc: I feel I’m old and I feel I know I’m old, yet some part of me desperately jumps back a decade or thereabouts to sift through the ashes and rubble, searching for times when the present didn’t seem so antagonistic, but maybe maybe maybe it was all delusion, living an illusion of the elusive evasive now or then or maybe has been, shall-not-be, no, surely not me. Keep thinking maybe maybe maybe this’ll be my last tumblr post. Less connection is the best connection.
I often wonder how I’m seen by others and how many versions of me there are floating about in the consciences of others. A still life thumb? A squid I portray myself as in comics? Death incarnate or merely a skull and bones? A poorly rendered comic me, long-since aborted? The insect Gregor Samsa awoke as? A fishy-fleshed sea-dweller? Some demon to those religious folks (“left the one true, he has” they say)? A robot performing menial tasks (at work, oh work, all work)? The lines blur, when I’m dead and gone will some other version of me imagine me back into some sort of existence? I want to do something significant, something to look on and say, yes, yes, this was worth doing. Not this or that or any of the others, but something. Something.
A way a lone a last a loved a long the…
On Saturday my sister informed me that my mother wasn’t doing well.
On Sunday my mom was gone.
It feels lonely and dark and I’m trying not to feel. Stoned, numb and drunk, but still alone, still dark.
If Nero weren’t such a nice cat, I’m sure he’d move out in search of happier haunts.