4/7/2011 - Minneapolis, MN 55405 - 6:11 PM.

I await the day of chariots and fire; my apocalyptic vision brought to life. But until that time, I' will learn to enjoy the good in the world. I will force myself and struggle to bleed every fucking drop of purity and enjoyment from the shit we're living in. And when I say "purity," what I'm speaking of is things being wholly what they are; the complete essence of a person, situation, experience: this is why I live.

And why I live right now, the purity I most desire at this moment in time is a bag of BBQ Potato chips and a Dr. Pepper. Maybe some kind of vegan pizza later with kale on the side. Maybe watching a really amazing Italian horror film. Maybe finishing up one of these 7 books I'm reading. Maybe doing some real writing, or making a new comic panel drawing. Maybe it's a long bike ride, around the lakes perhaps - if only so the fuzzed out doom of Pentagram can fill my ears.

Maybe purity is easy to find when I look for it, and impossible to spot if I don't.

A new place called home.

I've moved. If you care to read any of the shit I'll continue to write, go here:

http://amotherfuckingwerewolf.tumblr.com/

Diabolik Vs. Fantomas

When I was a kid, my favorite superheroes were The Phantom and The Shadow. Something about the - then unknown - world of dark 20's-40's quasi-noir/pulp quality dragged me in and struck a real chord with me. I got Doc Savage and Alan Quartermaine, too but not in the same way. Those two were ripped muscle men with a Hemingway style, "Great White Hunter" quality - which I didn't understand when I was 7 - which made it less exciting. None of that was even possible in my world, in my life. Sure, The Shadow spent time in the far East, and the Phantom spent time in the Amazon - both in their late teens/early adulthood, learning the ways of mystical religions and ancient teachings about the mind - but they lived and fought much more in the atmosphere that was real to me: the decay of the city.

I still have a soft spot for both of those 'Golden Age' heros, despite the awful films they produced in the 90's. But in the age of information, colliding with the obsessive nature of my own mind, I found two European characters who eclipse the depth and bizarre of either of the aforementioned heros. Granted, neither of these anti-heros can be considered good guys and - if anything - their both villains. However, they're the sort of villains you want to cheer on, the kind of villains you want to be drinking buddies with.

The first is Fantomas, a cryptic, French pulp novel protagonist. Through disguises and other strange trickery, Fantomas is able to damn near bring all of France kneeling before him and seemingly for little more reason than that he enjoys it as a joke. Over 35 Fantomas books have been written, several films, and a black and white tv series. Given his amoral and extremely dark view of the world and humanity, I remain continually puzzled how he was so famous in France (and how he remains fairly unknown in the US.)

The second comes from Italy in the 1960's. Diabolik is the brainchild of two sisters, who apparently loved spy stories. He is - again - an anti-hero type who, with the help of his assistant, Eva, steals a bunch of money and valuables from rich people; but all in the name of making himself rich, there is no "Robin Hood" mentality here. The comics, unfortunately, haven't been translated into english (a horrible trend that needs to be remedied, we'll have to start with Diabolik, Baba Yaga, Dylan Dog, and anything Alejandro Jodorowski ever wrote), but from what I've seen they involve a compelling amount of knocking people out with rags soaked in Chloroform, driving around while looking bad-ass, and having sex on huge piles of money - it's pretty much everything cool in the world ever. In 1968, Mario Bava turned the comic book into one of the greatest examples of both the Psychedelic Spy and the 60's Euro-Trash genres ever produced. It also spawned a great episode of MST3K, but don't let that ruin the fact that this movie is pure fucking gold.

The Vanguard is boredom//with plans for infection.

The plague is already here. Specifically within the post-modern context, it's easy to realize just how empty the space we inhabit really is; full of all the junk, clutter, noise, and distraction. We're meant to see nothing as it really is and in return we get clever packaging and promises of a whole new you. Although the bargain really is about you shutting the fuck up and ignoring the fact that we live in a pre-fab, sterile world that's been made so safe and clean that anything even remotely dangerous or true eventually becomes just another market. It's all been said much more clearly by much better writers, but again: within the post-modern context this is exactly what I feel. This is what comes pouring out when ink hits paper, or fingers hit keys.

------

And then it seems that I've become so goddamn frustrated that I just want to erase everything I've ever fucking written and replace it with, "fuck this." As though that will help me feel better. Not to say that a small act of destruction of my own creation may not be needed, but replacing anything with such a void and depthless expression merely veils the fact that the world hurts. Being in the world hurts me. I hurt when I can't express how I truly feel. I hurt because the world seems like a sick fucking joke played on all of us. Those who've really got it figured out end up laughing with the cruel joke, at their own expense, because that seems the best way to cope. So I fight for some kind of reason to not give up amongst the bullshit, within the vortex, outside of the abyss. Who knows, maybe my humanity is dying, but shit is starting to look more humorous as the days go on; but it takes a sick kind of mind to find this decay and excrement funny. The smell of rot can be beautiful, after all flowers emit gorgeous scents as they break down. Your love of daisies or lilacs or roses or orchids is a love of decomposing organic matter. There is an almost nihilistic beauty in this fact.

Fuck Art 2.0

I had some shading on the face problems, these are to be resolved once it all dries.

tiny keyboard

If I could make myself forget, through this sea of misery and self loathing, just how alone I feel most of the time - well then you might not want to ever say another word to me. The brief moments of actul and realized humanity make for an interesting little speed bump on this road to ruin. Don't kid yourself, there is no shocking sefl-discovery or triumphant actualization here; only the cold. Only the harsh and cruel moments of real life and the horror left in their wake.
So that leaves me here, cold from the sweat and the rain, with heavy breathing and an ego that's more than a little confused. I suppose it's all par for the course, but I'd totally be lying.to myself if I thought that what is will remain and what isn't won't rear it's fucking ugly head, as it has a thousand times over. So, what I really mean to say is that I'm sorry. Let me say that again: I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the fact that I won't make you feel better - I'll much sooner make you feel worse. I'm sorry that the earth is round. I'm sorry that you - none of you - are at the center of this annoying little Universe and lives of all the assholes contained therein. I'm sorry for all the assholes contained therein. I'm sorry for martyr complexes and the redundancy in which they are acted upon. I'm sorry that I stopped giving a shit five minutes ago, and I'm sorry if I come across as a dick. The honest and total truth about it all is simply that the world makes zero sense at all and I feel like a fool standing here, dick in hand, hoping it may open up to me for a mere moment; to have a true communion. But you can't be close to something which tells you a new lie every second of every day. It's a foolish venture to crawl into bed with a sociopath. And it's pointless to try to change a rock into air.

Trauma.

Every time I'm on the verge of something profound, I end up throwing it all away for comfort and safety. If I could ask myself a million questions and expect honest answers I'd start with, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" regarding just about all of my life choices. I'm not trying to be negative, just honest. It's not as though some drastic thing has effected me and I stand at a crossroads trying to make the right decision and knowing all the wrong roads I've gone down. No, this is more about a challenge to myself.

Don't get pulled back down, into nothing. I stand at the edge of the Abyss and spit - waiting to see how long it takes to hear it hit the bottom. Or, that's what I tell myself. If I were to crawl out of the empty, primordial void and walk away whole then I'd be doing well. If I were to crawl out with a fierce contempt and brash will, well then I'd be doing very well. What fear strikes out is that of a battle for survival in the deep which brings me to the edge of nothing and I slip at the top. Crashing on the nothing below; black and vacant.