Sunday, December 16, 2012

Diagnostics.


The Long 15's never liked me. Something about this city, this state and the one I found myself in, feels like it's been forcing me out. The weather doesn't help either- popular music promised me that it never rains in Southern California, but surely someone lied to Albert Hammond Jr., too.

Where we find ourselves at an impasse is that there isn't anywhere to go- things aren't going poorly, per-se, in fact this might actually be a banner year in terms of personal accomplishments... but why do I  always feel like it isn't enough? I've sometimes felt that I was an inherently sad person, just one turn from spiraling out at any time- the kind that can get blue because it's too sunny outside, or that you care too much about the people you're with. That can't be normal, can it? In having a conversation with a dear friend who will know who he is as soon as I mention this, he informed me that when he was younger he was the only person he knew having thoughts of sadness and depression at an early age. I'm not saying I was/ am depressed, but I know that before I learned enough about the language to parse out what I was feeling (as I'm doing right now) I would just keep it to myself, because I was the problem and not them. It's funny, I always felt like I wasn't alone in this matter, but knowing that I wasn't hasn't really helped- in fact it just gives me a new concern that my mood/ severity is more unstable or volatile than everyone else's. No one's cross to bear will ever be as hard as your own.

Back to the Long 15- the last few months haven't been the easiest, ironically starting on my birthday weekend, but the fact of the matter is that life hits and it don't stop hitting, and some days it gets harder to convince yourself you've got the gut and grit for that last punch, that one that you know is coming, even when it's just pouring blows. With my car breakdown it spiraled into a series of troubles, whether it be having to arrange a lift to work to not being able to afford a tow to a series of ever-expanding bad days that get drowned out in the sound of bourbon in a glass, and that's not even to mention the crux of the matter, the eponymous “girls, dawg” whose affection and approval and companionship I seemingly need more than anything in the world. The Long 15 doesn't care about any of that and it let me know that, as the entire world passed me by while I sat in the backseat of my own car and sweltered about what the fuck I was going to do now. I had time to think, seemingly the first time in ages, and it came to me.

I would persevere. I didn't know how I would, or even where the first steps towards this would be, but I knew that just like the asphalt and the concrete that I was cursing left and right, I would continue into the horizon. The Long 15 isn't out to get you, or us, or anyone- it simply conveys you and your vessel from the point you're at to where you're meaning to be. While furious at my breakdown, I realized this isn't life doing this to me- I could have had my radiator checked sooner, gotten tune-ups and conversely I started to think of all the things I could not have done- could not have had the money to call a tow company, could not have had someone to give me a ride to work, could not have had the fortitude to continue on.

I'm not here to tell you that life is a highway, and I assure you I don't want to ride it all night long- that song is garbage and fuck that. What I'm here to tell myself is that life mirrors the Long 15, but worrying where this route is going will close you off to other avenues- as of late I've been making many changes internally, many I've known I needed to make, and these alternates are the ones you don't think about when you're coasting- call it personal velocitation. It closes you off, keeps you on the idea that you take the same road every day for a reason, until the day you break down on it and you never want to see those fucking overhead signs ever again.

It isn't California or the city of San Diego or the Long 15 that was trying to keep me out- it was me, looking at my map and not knowing where to even jump on. But now I've got my directions.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Rafael Gaitan in, "EATING MACRO"

Things were not better then. You were just worse at knowing they wouldn't last.

 "LIKE" THIS POST IF *an unexpected error has occurred.*

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Take Care.

I drink and I bare it all. That can't surprise you.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

STOP CALLING

Is there anything more condescending than calling someone out on their awareness?

"Oh, you just did or said something now? Where were you when..."

Uninformed, dick. But now I know better. Shouldn't the goal be to inform people and then allow them to choose what to do, or if to do anything at all? If you wanna sink to your level, the time spent criticizing others could be spent being active in this oh-so-passionate cause of yours that you dedicate every waking moment to.

Conversely, reblogging or simply posting about something without becoming informed is the equivalent of "thumbs-upping:" ineffective gestures just for show, and that's almost as bad.

Fuck this, what's one more smarmy, feelings-drenched scream into an ocean of indifference?

React any way you want, as long as you react.

Monday, February 20, 2012

No Me Queda Mas.

Cada corazon estraƱa como comunicabamos.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Heartbreak Season All-Star Status.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Why Would Anyone Pay to Feel This Way?

Comics, everybody.

Jacob Kurtzberg warned us- he tried to, at least, that this sequential art we loved so much would break out sequential hearts. It's an ugly business that's run by distant, disinformed "people" who couldn't care less about why we buy, as long as we do.

Yet we do, and we do so gladly. I cannot count the times I have sandblasted any ambiguities of my character with the defense of buying comics. Supporting an industry that brings me such great pleasure... on the backs of so many dismayed. The heads buried in the hands, so plentiful and perfunctory in the business. It ain't right, it ain't fucking right, but, "What can we do as a consumer?"

I DON"T HAVE AN ANSWER. NO ONE DOES. MARK WAID IS RIGHT, AS HE USALLY IS

As comics folk, we get ostracized, inflicted, shunned. Even worse, we become a novelty- someone's quirky friend who's "into all of that," as if it's too shameful to name. In a way it is, if you're the ethically combatative type, but rarely have I come across someone whose anti-comics stance is informed enough. /smuggo.

I didn't intend to write much more than an esoteric sentence that I'd delete tomorrow, but I believe in comics. I am a sequential heartist. I want to follow in the footsteps of all these titans, these giants, these geniuses who saw nothing but the need to put down what they could shake from their dreams and visions, and were "lucky" enough to get a paycheck for. But like all invention, they expected to be kept in the loop, and were callously derailed.

I once read or heard or imagined an interview where a creator said that no one gets into comics to make money. They do it because they love it. The funny part is, this person could not be more wrong. These creators, they went into this business because they saw the need to express their talents doing something they loved and to reap a modest reward. Except that the industry, struggling to survive, found the need to take figure and not people into account.

These gibbons, these Gibbons and Moores and Anglos and Kirbys,they came into the business with nothing but love and stuck around as the object of their affections Charles Atlased them into submission. They deserve(d) to get paid for their work, as any of us would. They deserve(d) to be recognized and acknowledged for their efforts, because they're not just names on a page- they are and were people with lives, families and needs. And the singular corporate need to survive overtook the social need to persevere. It was the unforgivable sin, yet it slid. That's what the love of comics does to a person. We, the interested parties, know the stories and tell the tales, swearing it won't happen to us, but then we find ourselves grinding and grinding to make it, to print our work, to get it noticed in the hopes of what? To get Kirbyed? Why would anyone want that?

And at long last, the answer to the question(s) posed.

Because we fucking love it, we love it more than anything, and we couldn't fathom our lives with out it.

Comics will break your heart. There's no way they won't. But the heart is a muscle, a thorough and tough one, one that adapts- it must be broken in order to be rebuilt. Once it is, though, it's damn near impenetrable... unless the circumstances are correct.

Why do we pay to have our hearts break, you still might ask?

Because heartbreak helps. In times of joy, in sadness, in boredom, ad nauseam- heartbreak helps. It's a fucked up industry that's built on twists of knives and lie after lie, suit after suit, but it's ours, groddamnit. It's ours.

No one gets into comics to make money. The ones that do, the misguided tourists/ weekenders rarely reach beyond the entryway. But that's what keeps this industry limping along (let's not kid ourselves) and will likely do so for a while. It keeps on kickin', though, because of us. I believe in comics because I believe in happiness and I believe in following dreams and I believe in expression in any form... and I believe in comics because I fucking believe.

You take the good and the bad, and these creators, they taught us as they did with their work- their hardships don't go unappreciated. As much as we love what they drew and did for us, we have to take them as cautionary tales- it may not be what they intended, but they're far from martyrs. They're saints- they worked miracles and have been publicly canonized. It's not financial restitution, and it's far less than they deserve, but it's a start.

No one gets into comics to make money- they do it to make a living out of what they love. And is that really so wrong?

Why would anyone pay to feel this way? If you read comics, - you already know.

If you don't, it's never too late. Especially if you don't.

PS: Fuck BEFORE WATCHMEN. Great talents being coerced into beating a dead horse. No rancor for them, as they're wonderful talents who take what work they can get (and also JMS,) but C'mon, son.

Monday, January 30, 2012

New Adventures in Emotional Esotericness.

We'll always have that look and those words, even if we can't have each other.

Well, I always will.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

TWITTER < / 3 BREAK

Rather than spam your feeds with maudlin, esoteric Tweets about how atrocious today has been, I've decided to compile a bunch of musings into this blog since no one is reading. This is for release purposes only and not at all a call for attention or an attempt to appear woeful. I just hate everything today and wouldn't want to worry you beautiful people about it.

-Life is full of disappointments.
-I've come to accept I'm an inherently saddened person. I'm not incapable of feeling happiness... it just takes a lot more to make it last.
-The cruelty of cyclical feelings cannot be abided.
-What did you do when you were in my shoes?
-I can't have anything. Not the things I want or the things I don't.
-It can't always be "make it up to me."
-Believe in the line of best fit. The belief is the function.
-Sometimes you have to bounce the signal back, even if it's the only one coming in.
-It'll be better tomorrow, unless it's not.

I'll be right as rain soon, but for now I'll just soak.

TODAY WILL ALWAYS BE ENDLESS.

Friday, January 13, 2012

On My John Darnielle Jawn

Liquor store prices for liquor store people.