Monday, October 20, 2014
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Here are some articles I wrote in the month of September:
Summer to Autumn in Words and Pictures — Portland Mercury
Fistful of Wrenchies — Portland Mercury
Naomi Klein Recommends the Dismantling of Society — Portland Mercury
Inside the Wild Boyz Comics Tour — Portland Mercury
Friday, October 17, 2014
I have never really posted The Man Who Dies in it's entirety. It was one of the first comics I made and it was not what I wanted. I re-painted it recently (which was discouraged and which I would discourage) and now I'm going to put it up. Will I figure out how to list it chronologically? Hit me with your tips at firstname.lastname@example.org
Let's say I'll do this on Mondays and Fridays. Then I'll put up The Queen Who Dies.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
Monday, June 23, 2014
Like a continuation of the dreams where he is alive I am driving through the night, in Detroit and someone is talking about him. Oh, I think, I should go see him. Remember when I thought he was dead? That was so sad but like all those other dreams where he is alive, in this dream he is alive so maybe I should go see him. We will probably still be in love, that strong emotion that feels like I am a gourd being scraped through my guts for seeds. Why did we grow apart? I should go see him, in the night, in Detroit. It's only 1am so he's probably awake and sitting by himself, thinking about science and space.
This dream is a continuation of the other dreams I have had where he is alive. I wake up with a sad, beautiful song stuck in my head. The fondness, which is not actually sadness, feels like dehydration headache, climbing from the hollow place people often confuse for their heart. The song is not from when he and I were together. The song is from a woman I loved who taught me to miss her in a pavlovian sense by singing the song at every summer party and then moving to Iowa City.
I think I dreamed about him because I read a book about sad cancer teens and the unrealistic male love interest in the book seemed so supportive and impressed by the sad cancer girl. I found it unrealistic. Except for, I guess, Tim was like that before he died. I am tempted to say that I only think that because he died but I still have the e-mails he wrote where he gushed about how great I was. I think you're so smart. I can't stop talking about how smart you are.
It is dawn and I weigh the options of trying to find and actually listen to the song properly or continuing to sing the song half remembered as I walk through the tall grass to the bike shed.