Month: December 2024

evil clarification

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I should clarify yesterday’s post – I’m working on a western comic which deals with revenge, and the inciting event brings our heroine face to face with true evil, men who care nothing for the value of life or the freedom from violence to which people ought to have the right.

A key component is that afterward, our heroine thinks a lot on evil; indeed, she doesn’t (or rather, her husband doesn’t) believe in original sin. She wrestles with knowing these men were bred this way and not born, and moreso with the fact that they may have transmitted this evil into her with their vicious acts.

It’s a question of where evil is born. Is it bred? Created by circumstance? Or is the potential for it contained in all of us (certainly an indisputable fact even if it has no bearing on whether a person is actually evil – potential does not equal actual. Having all the ingredients to make a cake does not make a cake if nothing’s done with them).

What I’m looking at is real evil here, less so the more mundane evil of selfishness, myopia and callous disregard for the people and world around you that while. Not truly evil in the sense that it’s not committing violence, but evil in the sense that it creates the underpinnings for evil, for toxicity, for bad men to thrive like we see now in the right wing.

Again, the way a cake is not a cake until it’s made, we talk of the same with steel and bullets and wood for stocks.

A gun is not a gun until someone’s built and loaded it.

Then it becomes a vehicle for evil (even if it’s working in defense of justice and freedom).

A violent man will die a violent death, as it’s said in the Tao.

Or in this case, a woman?

Target: 1000 words
Written: 576 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Art Of Asking, Amanda Palmer
Comics: Preacher 1-4
Music: Nothing Safe, Alice In Chains
Year Totals:

Target Words: 248 400 words
Written Words: 256 742 words in 1 novella, 4 short stories, 3 poems and 1 comic (plus part of 1 more)
Books Read: 91
Comics Read: 1429
Albums Listened To: 520
New Recipes Tried: 171
Places Travelled: 5 (Collingwood/Kingsville/Temagami/Florida/Bahamas)

original sin

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I don’t believe in original sin. I think it’s fucking ridiculous.

Only a deluded soul could believe that anyone is born evil. Babies are babies; they just are.

Evil is not born. It’s bred.

It’s influenced and created, it has supervillain origins. Origins often tragic and relatable, but it doesn’t ultimately matter because the evil is so ingrained as to overwhelm any compassion one might hold.

It’s a henchman created by an overbearing boss, a desire to please, a fear of independent thought, or whatever.

It’s selfish, narcissistic, and considers no one’s needs but its own. It feeds and feeds and feeds, growing larger and larger, until someone cuts off the damn trough (or it empties its own and starts feasting on everyone else’s, which is when true evil begins).

It needs a slap in the face.

And sometimes, it’s so far gone, so committed to its story of itself as hero, itself as victim, itself as the only character in the story whose needs need to be fulfilled, that there’s no chance of turning back.

There’s only awful behaviour, and ultimately, exile or death.

If, in your story, you are the only one that matters, or you think your needs are more important than anyone else’s?

Fuck you. You’re the problem.

You weren’t born that way; circumstances pushed you a certain direction and you didn’t bother to course correct once you knew.

And ultimately, you started making the choice to be evil, all on your own.

So, fuck you, overentitled pieces of shit, bigoted assholes trying to pretend you love freedom and not just hating on others.

Fuck you, snooty pricks staring down your noses at people for not having the “right” views or the “right” look or having read the “right” books, when the extent of your engagement with justice is a fucking social media post to mask the fact that all you care about is status.

Fuck you, too, people who stand up and say, I’m decisive, I’m advocating for myself, I’m a strong person, but are, in actually, just assholes who treat everyone else like shit over the pettiest bullshit in order to prop up the fiction that they’re somehow worth more than everyone else (your insecurity is showing). Your obsessive need to prove yourself, your obsession with validation, it’s destructive – to you and everyone around you.

And it’s led, time and again, to the same choice – grow, change, be a better person, or close down, stop thinking and fuck everyone else.

Otherwise known as, you know, evil.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 3085 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Art Of Asking, Amanda Palmer
Comics: Chu 9-10
Music: Not The Actual Events, Nine Inch Nails

spoiled children

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Not the granddaughter, that’s for sure. She may be spoiled, but she’s not entitled (yet, thankfully). It’s more loved than spoiled. The fruits of being the only grandchild, I suppose.

Still, there are some individuals around here who behave like sullen teenagers forced to a relative’s house pouting on the couch. Spoiled, ungrateful, living in a fantasy land of projected (but untrue, or at least, delusioned) bad behaviour that ultimately allows them to claim the victim position, despite being almost entirely the offenders.

Man, am I ever sick of that pose.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 271 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Art Of Asking, Amanda Palmer
Comics: Chu 5-8
Music: A Northern Soul, The Verve (so good)

gd (granddaughter)

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I don’t mean goddamn. Just a good deal.

Man, this kid. I could do away with the rest of the family, but this kid.

Just a joy, even if it comes so fraught.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 191 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Art Of Asking, Amanda Palmer
Comics: Chu 1-4
Music: North America Sucks!!, Anti-Flag/d.b.s.

the busiest vacation

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EVER.

And not like you’re travelling and seeing and doing things.

Nope.

House cleaning. In-laws that are mildly insane (okay, a lot insane – seriously, someday I’ll write about it, but it’s very difficult to write about it in a way that’s empathetic and believable, at this point. Seriously, you try to explain it to people and they either reduce it to a simple thing that can be easily fixed (it can’t) or they think you’re exaggerating or outright lying).

Hint: you’re not.

Anyway, my back hurts, my brain hurts, and I’m very, very fucking tired.

Fuck Christmas.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 150 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith (cannot recommend higher - it's a shame she's apparently a TERF as well - I guess we'll have to agree to agree on this, and disagree on the trans thing)
Comics: Chew 60, Outer Darkness/Chew 1-3
Music: Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret, Soft Cell

cleanin’ house

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Literally. We have the granddaughter and other various family coming, so it’s grind time.

Nose to the grindstone.

Grindstone to the knife.

Knife to the food.

Food in the belly?

Wait. Where was I going with this again?

Oh, right. Workin’.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 838 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith
Comics: Chew 56-59
Music: Acoustic Things, Stone Temple Pilots

merry christmas?

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No time for love, today.

Sick dogs, no time, devilled egg salad.

It’ll be a whirlwind.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 241 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith
Comics: Chew 53-55, Chew: Demon Chicken Poyo #1
Music: BYO Split Series Vol. 3, NOFX/Rancid

sergio leone

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I’ll be honest, I’m kind of obsessed; his ability to create a mood simply by creating a static shot with a small bit of movement is unreal. The cinematography in his movies was without purpose.

He once said “the myth is everything” and when it comes to creating a piece of art, I think he’s touched on something that transcends the idea of merely being creative or tapping emotions or cool concepts.

It’s EVERYTHING.

(Hell, it’s technically the entire reason for the MAGA movement, given that they’ve created a whole alternate reality where everything that promotes compassion, freedom or you know, intelligence is considered evil, a web of conspiracy thinking that has no actual basis in reality – except often as applied to the Trump grifters running the joint. See Gaetz, Matt. Where’s a man with no name when you need him?)

Anyway, huge fan of Leone, and at this point, praying he doesn’t turn out to be problematic, like every other artist I’ve idolized over the years and who continue to prove my point:

There is no correlation between skill and the relative morality of its wielder.

Target: 100 words
Written: 405 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith
Comics: Chew 49-52
Music: No1 Record, Big Star

late riser

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Ugh.

Eyes crack in tiny slits. Dark room. Alarm. One hand snakes out from beneath cold linen sheets. Taps a button. Silence returns. Cold air hangs over the bed like black cotton. Presses down heavy.

Ugh. Her legs curl under her, hand clamped between her thighs. She pulls the covers tighter, curled around her shoulders. Across the back of her neck. She feels herself shutting down.

A little while longer.

The mattress tugs. Envelops. Sucks her in, like a smothering friend. She curls into a ball. Trapped between pillow top and the black cotton air, she pulls the linens close. They slither coldly against her naked skin and wrap around her ankles.

The tinny alarm pierces her eardrum again.

God, is it louder now?

Her body turns and one hand rises, landing flat on the snooze. The room is gray now. The edges of the curtain shine with uncertain light.

Uhngh, she cries in silence and pulls the linens hard against her chest. Night air seeps in.

I don’t want to do this, she thinks as she squeezes her eyes shut and prays for sleep to come once more, laying prone. The light at the edge of the curtains teases her. Taunts her. She shifts, but the linens seal themselves around her legs and torso, and she doesn’t get far. She pulls them up to her face, over her head.

The light behind the curtains won’t leave her alone. It grows in intensity. Pokes her. Prods her. Calls her by name. White streaks of sunlight lay flat across the wall and she peeks with one eye out at the white fire outline of the window. She reaches out. Inches back the curtain. Morning light pierces the room, full of promise and potential. A universe awaits outside her windowsill, but the sun is blinding and she can only make out the largest of shapes.

Nope. Not ready for that, she flinches as she lets the curtains fall back again. The room shrugs back on its heavy gray silence. Her hands ball in front of her face.

A few moments more. Not now. Not yet.

She rolls away from the window. The linens constrict more tightly around her naked skin. She plunges, headlong, back into oblivion.

The alarm screams its ruthless tone again. It grates against her insides and fills her head like a spiked pinball ricocheting inside her skull. This time, a hand comes whirling, streaking through the dead filled air. It crashes down.

Off, damn you. It’s not time yet. I’m not ready.

She stubbornly points her back at the lighted window, the linens snapped so tightly across her form that the cold air seeps straight through.

Why is it so cold in here?

She pulls the bedclothes up over her face, over her head. The pillowtop grates at her thighs. Tiny pieces of lint dig into her side. Even the linen itself, once so smooth and so warm, feels like sandpaper that scrapes across her legs and belly.

You have stuff to do, her mind gently reminds her.

I know. I don’t care, she replies. I’m tired.

You still have stuff to do.

Behind her, the window beckons. She can’t see it. Refuses to see it. She squeezes her eyes shut. Spots and flecks dance in her smothered pupils as she refutes the call of the sun.

Ugh. Can’t it wait a little while longer?

She rolls onto her back. One arm drapes off the side of the bed, as she glares at the gray flipping numbers of the old clock. She got this when she was a child and it stayed with her since – her daily tormentor.

Tick tock, comes the back of her head.

Not time. Not yet.

She lays, sheets twisted and coiled around her legs, one arm hanging lazily off the edge of the mattress. Her tired eyes feign focus on the window, outlined in luminescent morning light. The air dances cool across her skin. Black cotton is now gray wool, stiff and suffocating. Beneath her, the mattress scratches.

You should go outside. You know what’s out there.

Thoughts of sky and sun and cars and children dance through her head. Everything so clear and bursting with colour. Violent green grass. The pink flowering cherry blossom beneath the window. The tiny rock garden with its golden sumac and its red rose bush. The tall gingko with bright orange fruit hanging precariously. People. Places. Things. The world. Life.

Ugh. Do I have to?

Yes, comes the soft reply.

I can stay here.

Not forever.

Leave me alone. Let me sleep. Please.

She tries more extreme measures and shoves her head under the pillow. Her breathing stifles. Carbon dioxide builds in the small space before her face. Her own breath, hot and stuffy, singes her eyes and wets her lips. It smells of garlic and ash and doesn’t taste much better. She pulls her knees to her chest, but the linens tighten on her thighs, keeping her from full contraction. She lays, unmoving, uncomfortable, and pulls the pillow down tighter across her face. Sweat beads up on her nose as her exhales raise the temperature. It grows hard to breathe. The room is a hazy gray now, almost white, and still, the light creeps in.

No, she tells herself, the clock.

You don’t have a choice, the clock tells her back.

Muscles relax and her grip on the pillow loosens. Fresh air creeps in through an opening at the pillow’s crease. It brushes against her face, its icy tendrils licking at her nostrils.

Please is the lame reply, the word hanging impotent at the front of her mind.

No choice. Sorry.

Again, she turns to face the window and stares at the clock. The time surprises her.

Already? How did it get so late?

There is no reply. Only silence, still and pale, frozen in the bedroom’s dim haze.

Two fingers gently pull back the edge of the curtain. A sliver of the room soaks in white heat. It bathes her face and she squints, but doesn’t turn away.

Ugh. Just…

No.

A tiny…

No.

One moment…

Not a chance.

She lets the drape fall closed and slides up. She untangles herself from the linens, unweaving the coils from her waist and legs. The air of the room is frigid against her skin and she pulls the sheets up over her naked chest. Her heart sinks as she swings her ankles over the edge and leans on the balls of her hands. For a moment, her stomach churns as vertigo kicks in. She steadies herself against the sinking edge of the mattress.

With a sigh, her feet find the floor, soft and plush, and she grips the centre of the drapes and flings them wide. White light crashes over her. Her eyes adjust and the world convalesces into pure shapes, sharp green and red and gold, full of movement and warmth and light.

Finally, she smiles, a soft and tender thanks, the edges of her lips tipped in the barest of lifts, and she exhales. Her breath waffles against the window pane.

At last.

She casts one last mournful look at the bed with its rumpled sheets and tousled mattress, no longer inviting, merely cold and stiff and sad. She shakes her head and smiles. Farewell, temptress, she says and turns from its cold embrace. Fare thee well. She heads for the door, to greet the day, however much of it yet remains.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 399 words, short story: Late Riser

Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith
Comics: Chew 45-48
Music: No. 4, Stone Temple Pilots

i get it; i’m late

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For all the things I wanted to do with my life, I probably would have had to have started as a teenager.

Unfortunately, the lessons I needed to learn, the skills I had to grow (and am still growing), the mindset, the life experience, all that stuff… it unfolded a little slower than it probably should have.

Maybe I could have gone a more traditional route, and maybe I could have been content with that, but when have I ever been content with anything? In the moment, I can be, in the midst of a good meal or a great book or great sex, a nice moment in the sun while walking the dogs.

But isn’t that the only time ever?

I know it will take me probably until I’m a hundred and no longer able to function physically or mentally to do the work that I want to do, to see the places I wanted to see, to have all the experiences I’ve desired.

I probably won’t make it, barring terrific medical advances. Of course, I could live that long but the growing spectre of fascism, the threat of climate change, bigotry and hatred, the complete breakdown of both civility and the willingness to stand up for what is right, in action more than words, is likely to end this planet (or at least my life or the ability to do the things I desire to do), all that pretty well guarantees that this is a fool’s errand.

But what’s the alternative?

Giving up?

I know I’m a late bloomer, but hell. Fuck it.

There’s no do-overs, so it’s now or never, and if I die in the attempt, without making the impact I would have liked, well, there’s no shame in trying.

Only in giving up.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 1479 words, short story: Late Riser

Read: The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho (also, this has nothing to do with this book, it was garbage, like Eckhart Tolle fucked Hans Christian Andersen and their baby read The Secret on the way out - stuff like this is why people get stuck in their own heads thinking they just have think things into existence, or that all skill is just natural, instead doing the fucking work.)
Comics: Chew 42-44, Chew: Warrior Chicken Poyo (POYO!) 1
Music: No!, They Might Be Giants