… (2026/08/11)
OLD MAUDE #4 (2026/07/27)
TOWER OF HEADS
I see the sound! —Chorus
"Chesed is associated with mercy, 'cause that's what you're begging for by the time you get there." Harrow was bullshitting. He'd opened a fresh pack of cards and executed Duquette's roll-with-the-flow spread across the kitchen table top. Smiled.
"You're not a creep, are you? You have to tell me if you're a creep." Maude laughed.
Harrow liked where this was going, so he laughed, too. Flexible, impermanence was his constant métier. He flipped over another card. Quickly changed the subject.
"You were saying something about your son?"
The French centrist Harrow died on his feet, unaware of his immediate fate at the hands of his disabled sometimes-lover, Maude Mold. Looking back on that day he regretted bringing up her son, but by then it was too late to tack otherwise.
Maude buried him in the field beside her house, well away from the corpse of her ship, lest unverified personal gnosis from one timeline should spill over into the next. Five hundred years of dark ages were upon them, then, and there was nothing she could do about it. It tracked.
The skulls, which were all she ever kept, were set in concrete, just as she'd been taught, distributed evenly throughout the field, a jewel box of magic squares garlanded in dying winter wheat. Each candidate's successful entryism had gained their bosses nothing.
Now who was going to take care of her?
Centered herself.
Waited for dinner.
Eventually, Antigone pulled up in her black Dodge Charger, aftermarket exhaust declaring her cheerful arrival, rattling loose heads all around the field. SL and—a friend?—bounded out of the vehicle, streaking towards the house before Antigone could scold them to slow down. The SLAP of the front screen door set Maude's teeth on edge. Again, where in Christ's name was her revolver?
Her family didn't mind her foul mood. Or anyway, they ignored it.
"Who's your little friend?" Maude asked, shoving Harrow's pants under a filthy couch cushion.
Kid looked creeped out.
1986/2006/2026 (2026/07/11)
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no time (2026/07/11)
in memory (2026/07/10)
consciousness is still the bottleneck (2026/07/08)
OLD MAUDE #3 (2026/07/08)
CHEMICAL SUBMISSION
Whatever is doomed becomes. —Chorus
When they weren't there she wasn't happy either. Tired of ads that didn't convert, she resolved to behave differently around people. Even if that meant her sister.
Her test wasn't long in coming. That same pair of troublesome relations, reliably whipping up a passable dinner and then cleaning up after themselves. Maude had never taken care of herself this well. Her father had not equipped her for this kind of consistency. Likewise, her marriage. It left her with nothing to complain about.
"Where's my son!" Maude snapped from the back room, as SL rifled through the drawers of her dining room hutch, and Antigone dried dishes and replaced them in the cupboard. No one answered.
Maude focused on her breathing. Four seconds in, hold for four seconds, and then four seconds out. Even. By the time she came out of it her family had left, departed, split. Her kitchen and front room in noticeably better condition than when they arrived.
Dinner on the table.
It was true: Sometimes you could get what you wanted and still not be very happy.
Screen door slammed. Enter Harrow. Like Maude, no longer employed by Mold Industries, Inc. Harrow's stipend had proven less durable than Maude's, and so he had ended up visiting her on his regular rounds to and from nowhere. True, it was a long way out to Maude's house, but she always rewarded the effort.
HARROW: Thought they'd never leave.
MAUDE: Stop yapping and let's get on with it.
Popped her medication, which meant Harrow had to try harder just to earn his keep. He did all right.
This time, left the TV on.
Harrow's knack for conversation wasn't. It took Maude right out of the moment to have to explain the finer points of Mold Industries standard practices, ones she had figured were common knowledge within the company. Usually, the last thing she wanted was to run the whole show.
MAUDE: You'll have to move yourself, dear, I've only got the one leg.
HARROW: Mmph!
OLD MAUDE #2 (2026/07/05)
PARLIAMENT OF THE SELF
The black panther is sacred to Binah. —Grant Morrison
The driveway smelled like perfume.
Whose?
They were back at Aunt Maude's, seizing the means of randomness before they cut out the Internet. No token anxiety here.
They?
Trust wast regained by automating as much doubt as SL could muster. No matter what anyone said to him, he'd just ask, "Why?"
When that got old he tried to watch TV. Antigone had forgotten to pack his books. He colored on the floor, more than ready twenty minutes ago for whatever she had planned for dinner. Maude simmered in her medical bed, annoyed with herself, avoiding conversation with her guests.
Until...
"Where's my son?" Maude had managed her way into the living room. Managed not to trip over SL. Her walker whirred quietly under the noise floor of appointment television.
Whose appointment?
"Why?" SL asked.
"Maude," Antigone said, drying her hands on an out of season Christmas towel. "You're confused."
Maude glanced around her living room, decor dating from the Johnson administration, at once and momentarily at a loss for words. Regaining her composure, she snapped back at the boy.
"Pick up your fucking crayons!"
The part of SL that was intimately familiar with this sort of treatment began to comply, but stopped himself when the part of SL that strongly objected to this sort of treatment asserted himself and spoke up.
"They're not crayons, Maude. They're markers, see?"
SL slashed an angry line down the inside of his left arm using a marker from the pile. Red marker. Very dramatic. He sensed at once that he'd already lost her.
Maude's attention had wandered to the aromas drifting from out of the kitchen.
"What smell?" SL asked, leapfrogging her question.
She hated when he did that.
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES), PAGE 8 (PART 4) (2026/07/04)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES)
PAGE 8 (PART 4).
PANEL 13.
MIRACLEMAN #2, BY ALAN MOORE AND GARY LEACH. AT SOME POINT, LACKING A LOCAL COMIC SHOP, I STARTED TRYING TO MAIL ORDER DIRECT MARKET TITLES FROM THE ADS IN THE BACK OF COMIC BOOKS. IN THOSE DAYS RETAILERS WOULD ADVERTISE WANT LISTS OF BACK ISSUES THEY'D PAY FOR IN CASH OR TRADE. I WOULD SEND MY MANGLED COPIES OF "HOT" ISSUES OF G.I. JOEl OR THE PUNISHER, AND OFTEN AS NOT HAVE THEM RETURNED TO ME CITING THEIR OBVIOUSLY EXECRABLE CONDITION. SOMETIMES, HOWEVER, SOME KIND ANONYMOUS EMPATHIZING EMPLOYEE WOULD TAKE PITY ON WHAT WAS CLEARLY A SMALL CHILD AND ACCEPT MY TRADE. FLUSH FROM THE BLACK AND WHITE BOOM, OPERATIONS SUCH AS AMERICAN COMICS WOULD EVEN SEND
I DIDN'T QUITE GRASP THAT THESE PAGES HAD ORIGINALLY RUN IN THE MAGAZINE-SIZE WARRIORl AND HAD BEEN SHRUNK DOWN TO FIT ON STANDARD-SIZE AMERICAN COMIC BOOK PAGES. THE LINE ART APPEARED INCREDIBLY FINE, AND THE LETTERING WAS MICROSCOPIC TO THE POINT OF ILLEGIBILITY. THE COLOR PRINTING ALSO SEEMED DIFFERENT THAN THE COMICS I WAS USED TO. I ACCEPTED ALL OF THESE QUALITIES INSTANTLY AND COMPLETELY AS INTENTIONAL AESTHETIC CHOICES THAT SERVED TO EXPAND THE POSSIBILITIES OF THE MEDIUM, EVEN BEFORE I'D ACTUALLY READ THE FIRST PANEL. THIS COMBINATION OF ELEMENTS MAY HAVE IMPACTED AND INFLUENCED ME MORE DEEPLY THAN ANY OTHER ASPECT OF THE BOOK.
THE STORY WAS PRETTY GOOD, TOO.
PANEL 14.
CEREBUS #77, BY DAVE SIM AND GERHARD. THIS ONE CAME AS A FREEBIE FROM EAST COAST COMICS. I REMEMBER IT ARRIVED IN SOME KIND OF WEIRD COMIC BAG MADE OUT OF AN UNUSUAL, NON- (READ: SUB-) STANDARD MATERIAL, STAPLED SHUT AT THE TOP. OKAY. A MOSTLY SILENT ISSUE, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT IT WAS ALL ABOUT, BUT I REMEMBERED HAVING SEEN AN ARTICLE ABOUT SIM IN COMICS SCENE MAGAZINE, WHERE I'D SOMEHOW DEVELOPED THE ASSUMPTION HE WAS TANGLED UP WITH EVANGELICAL CHRISTIANITY. (I'D PROBABLY COME TO ASSOCIATE ALL BLACK AND WHITE COMICS WITH THE WEIRD CHRISTIAN ONES ON SALE AT RADIO SHACK.) TWENTY-ISH YEARS LATER I FOUND MYSELF EXCHANGING TWENTY-PAGE LETTERS WITH SIM, DUMBFOUNDED AT HIS RELIGIOUS CONVERSION, ASKING HIM TO PLEASE STOP TALKING PAST ME AND ADDRESSING YHWH (HIS NAME FOR GOD'S ADVERSARY) DIRECTLY IN HIS LETTERS TO ME.
FUNNY HOW THESE THINGS WORK OUT.
PANEL 15.
WATCHMEN, BY ALAN MOORE AND DAVE GIBBONS. SUMMER 1989, I WENT TO SUMMER CAMP FOR TWO WEEKS, FIVE HOURS AWAY FROM HOME, AND WORE A BATMAN CAPE MADE OUT OF A BLACK PLASTIC TRASH BAG FOR MOST OF THE TIME I WAS THERE. WE BOARDED SCHOOL VANS AND ATTENDED THE OPENING NIGHT OF THE RELATED FILM AT A LOCAL THEATER. A FRIEND AND I CRASHED OUR CAMP COUNSELOR'S DORM ROOM AND FOUND HIM SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON THE FLOOR, SHUFFLING A THOTH TAROT DECK WITH A FARAWAY LOOK IN HIS EYES. ARMED WITH ESOTERIC KNOWLEDGE GLEANED FROM A TRAVELING PREACHER (SEE PANEL 16), I TOLD EVERYONE AT CAMP HE WAS A SATANIST. THE RUMOR SPREAD LIKE AN UNCHECKED AIRBORNE RESPIRATORY VIRUS IN A POLITICAL CLIMATE HOSTILE TO PUBLIC HEALTH PRECAUTIONS.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, HE TOOK IT PRETTY WELL. I ENDED UP WITH A KEY TO HIS ROOM, WHERE I HUNG OUT WHILE HE WAS BUSY IN CLASS, SITTING IN HIS PAPASAN CHAIR AND READING ALL HIS BOOKS, ONE OF WHICH WAS WATCHMEN. I PROBABLY READ IT THREE TIMES OVER THE COURSE OF THAT TWO WEEKS, NEVER REALLY QUESTIONING WHY I'D BEEN GIVEN THE KEY TO A COLLEGE STUDENT'S DORM ROOM. IT ALL SEEMED NATURAL ENOUGH. THANKFULLY, IT WASN'T A SETUP.
OR WAS IT?
HE ALSO DUBBED FOR ME THE BATMAN ORIGINAL MOTION PICTURE SOUNDTRACK, WHICH BELATEDLY REKINDLED MY INTEREST IN PRINCE (AFTER THE SUMMER'S INFATUATION WITH 2 LIVE CREW'S AS NAST AS THEY WANNA BE HAD RUN ITS COURSE).
THANKS, JON.
SORRY FOR THE TROUBLE.
PANEL 16.
SUMMER 1985, MY MOTHER TOOK US TO A WEEK-LONG TENT REVIVAL HOSTED AT A LOCAL CHURCH. EACH NIGHT AFTER DINNER WE WERE TREATED TO EXTENDED LECTURES BY DAVID BENOIT, EMERGING LEADING LIGHT IN THE AT THE TIME APPARENTLY QUITE PROFITABLE SATANIC PANIC. I WAS ENRAPTURED (PUN INTENDED), AND MARINATED MYSELF IN THE BOOKS AND CASSETTES WE BOUGHT FROM HIS MERCH TABLE. DOMESTIC FRICTION ENSUED, AS BEFORE LONG I WAS ABLE TO IDENTIFY "OCCULTIC TENDENCIES" IN MY MOTHER'S OWN INDESCRIMINATE MEDIA DIET. THE BOOKS AND CASSETTES WERE CONFISCATED.
BENOIT'S EARLIEST WORKS HAVE NOT (YET?) BEEN PRESERVED BY INTERNET ARCHIVISTS. HE DOESN'T EVEN MENTION THE ONES I REMEMBER ON HIS OWN WEBSITE. SINCE I'M ONCE AGAIN ESTRANGED FROM MY MOTHER, I'M UNABLE TO RELATE AN ACCURATE LIST OF THE TITLES I STUDIED SO CLOSELY, BUT RIPS OF LATER AUDIO CASSETTES AND VHS TAPES READILY FOUND ON THE INTERNET CONVEY SOME OF THE FLAVOR. LET THE BUYER BEWARE.
I TERRORIZED MORE ADULTS THAN JUST MY MOM WITH MY NEWLY ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE OF THE OCCULT (SEE PANEL 15). BILLY IDOL HAD BOUGHT A BACKWARDS-PLAYING RECORD PLAYER DESIGNED FOR THE DYSLEXIC. DURAN DURAN WORE FINGERLESS GLOVES THE BETTER TO TURN THE PAGES OF THEIR SATANIC BIBLES. AND THEN THERE WERE THE DARK SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES ENCODED INTO THE LYRICS OF KENNY ROGERS' BIGGEST HITS. IF THERE WAS A BAND YOU LIKED, AND YOU DIDN'T PISS ME OFF, YOU AND I COULD PROBABLY HAVE CUT A DEAL TO KEEP ME FROM TELLING EVERYBODY ABOUT THEIR SINS. ON THE OTHER HAND, IF YOU DID PISS ME OFF, I MIGHT HAVE BURNED YOU JUST FOR FUN. THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO; TRUTH WOULD OUT.
IT'S A SHAME ABOUT THE INTERNET. I'D LIKE TO LISTEN TO THOSE CASSETTES AGAIN. IN PREPARATION FOR DRAWING THIS PANEL, MAYBE YOU CAN TRACK DOWN SOME SUITABLE IMAGES BY PERFORMING A WEB SEARCH ON THE NAME "DAVID BENOIT." THEN AGAIN, MAYBE NOT.
OLD MAUDE #1 (2026/06/28)
THE PRISONER'S CINEMA
I'm a bad nurse. I cannot make you well. —Hecuba
She was dead. Or so she supposed. The continuous phantom pains from her amputated leg told a different story. Woke her up at all hours. Hard light filtered in through her bedroom window, confirming her worst fears. Not to put too fine a point on it, but she wasn't dead, and tomorrow was now.
Lit a purple cigarette, deleted all the remaining messages from her sister.
Now, where was she?
Doorbell's warning. Her medical bed creaked beneath her as she scrambled to stub out her smoke and eradicate all evidence she was back on the puff. One of those little George Burns smokeless ashtrays. It didn't really work. But, leg still missing, she wasn't going anywhere.
The front screen door slammed and in scampered SL, bursting to recite a list of all the comic books he'd acquired since his last visit. Antigone soon followed, smiling evenly, tote bags by Trader Joe's. Heavy with something, probably groceries for her sister. Sat them down on the opposite bed.
Maude's gaze drifted to the window, across the tangled weeds of the open field, advancing toward the tree line where her burned out ship lay buried in bales of decaying hay.
"Romita, Jr.'s finally getting good!" SL was ecstatic about the latest issue of THE UNCANNY X-MEN. He really thought she would care.
Maude looked back at the boy. She knew most of the words he was saying, but not what they meant when arranged in this particular order.
So much for her deadline.
Maude sat up in bed, the better to engage her precocious young nephew. "Taxonomy is evidence of failure," she said, and patted SL on the head. He stopped talking and looked at her thoughtfully. He seemed to understand.
She turned to Antigone.
"And what's Nana been up to, this afternoon?"
"Oh, about a hundred and ten, give or take an apple or an orange." Antigone cocked her narrow hips, mockingly.
Maude blinked. Her hand ranged unconsciously under the covers, groping blindly for her misplaced revolver.
"I'm kidding, bitch. Here, have an apple."
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES), PAGE 8 (PART 3) (2026/06/18)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES)
PAGE 8 (PART 3).
PANEL 9.
MISSION EARTH, VOLUME ONE: THE INVADER'S PLAN, BY L. RON HUBBARD. THE PUBLIC LIBRARY IN MY TINY HOME TOWN WAS FULLY STOCKED WITH ALL OF HUBBARD'S MANY BOOKS, COURTESY OF THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY, WHO MASS-MAILED THEM TO LIBRARIES ACROSS THE COUNTRY FOR FREE. BY AGE TEN I HAD READ DIANETICS THREE TIMES, ALTHOUGH THE EXISTENCE OF SCIENTOLOGY ITSELF SOMEHOW FAILED TO REGISTER IN MY CONSCIOUSNESS. HUBBARD'S LATE NOVELS AVOIDED DIRECT IDENTIFICATION WITH HIS CULT, PREFERRING TO BE INTERPRETED STRAIGHT, WHICH WAS THE ONLY WAY I WANTED THEM. I IDENTIFIED SO STRONGLY WITH THE CRIMINAL MAIN CHARACTER OF THE MISSION EARTH "DEKALOGY" THAT I FORGED MY OWN IDENTOPLATE UNDER HIS NAME AND FOUNDED MY OWN SECRET INTELLIGENCE APPARATUS AT SCHOOL. FOR A WHILE MY CLASSMATES WERE ALL SUBMITTING REPORTS ON EACH OTHER (IN TRI-COLORED TRIPLICATE; ONE FOR MY FILES, ONE FOR THEIR OWN FILES, AND ONE TO BE HIDDEN SOMEWHERE SAFE FROM THE PRYING EYES OF TEACHERS AND OTHER SUPPRESSIVE PERSONS) DETAILING ALL THE DAILY INTRIGUES IN THE CLASSROOM AND ON THE PLAYGROUND. WHILE I FAILED TO GAIN "LEVERAGE" ON ANY OF OUR TEACHERS, I DO STILL POSSESS A STACK OF SIGNED REPORTS LINKING THE NAMES OF MY CLASSMATES TO SCANDALOUS EAST GERMAN STASI-STYLE SHIT TALKING ABOUT THEIR SUPPOSED BEST FRIENDS.
PANEL 10.
PATRIOT GAMES, BY TOM CLANCY. AS I RECALL, 1987 WAS A ROUGH YEAR FOR ME. WE HAD MOVED TO A NEW PLACE (WHICH WAS GOOD) WHERE ALL THE KIDS IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD WERE QUITE A BIT OLDER THAN ME (WHICH WAS BAD). THE USUAL CYCLE EMERGED: I WOULD PERSISTENTLY POKE MY NOSE INTO THE OLDER KIDS' AFFAIRS, AND THEY WOULD PERSISTENTLY BEAT ON ME FOR LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT IN THE HOPES THAT I'D GO AWAY. AND IF I DIDN'T, WELL, THEN, THERE WAS ALWAYS THE AFOREMENTIONED LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT TO FALL BACK UPON. I NEVER STOPPED SHOWING UP, SO EVERY NEW DAY PRESENTED A REPEAT OF THE ONE JUST BEFORE IT, WHEREIN I GOT BEAT UP BY OLDER KIDS JUST FOR EXISTING. DURING THIS SAME PERIOD I HAD KICKED INTO HIGH GEAR READING MY WAY THROUGH THE PUBLIC LIBRARY (SEE PANELS FIVE AND NINE), WHERE I WAITED EVERY DAY AFTER SCHOOL FOR MY MOTHER TO FINISH CLOSING UP HER CLASSROOM. BRANDON AND I (SEE PANEL SEVEN) HAVING PAUSED OUR DAILY AFTER SCHOOL PLAYGROUND SESSIONS AFTER A PARTICULARLY HEATED DEBATE OVER THE DIRECTION OF ACTRON VOL. 1, #3.
BY THE START OF THE FOURTH GRADE IN THE FALL MY DAD HAD TIRED OF READING AND REREADING PATRIOT GAMES, SO I WAS FINALLY ABLE TO CHECK IT OUT AT HIS LOCAL LIBRARY (MINE NEVER STOCKED CLANCY, FOR SOME REASON). I WAS MYSELF JUST FINISHING THE MASS MARKET PAPERBACK OF RED STORM RISING, AND SO WAS PRIMED FOR ANOTHER 500-ODD PAGES OF MODERN MILITARY COMPETENCY PORN. THIS ONE TOOK A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT TACK, BUT STILL IT DIDN'T DISAPPOINT.
I HAD FALLEN SICK AROUND THE TIME I FINALLY GOT MY HANDS ON THIS BOOK, AND SO THE EXTENDED SCENES OF JACK RYAN CONVALESCING ESPECIALLY RESONATED WITH ME. GRANTED, RYAN HAD BEEN SHOT WHILE I WAS MERELY SUFFERING FROM SOME KIND OF FLU, BUT SOMEHOW, I THOUGHT, I KNOW EXACTLY HOW HE FEELS.
PANEL 11.
THE NINJA AND THEIR SECRET FIGHTING ART, BY STEPHEN K. HAYES. GOOD OLD WALDENBOOKS, HOME TO MANY FIRST ENCOUNTERS, INCLUDING VIDEO JACK, BY KEITH GIFFEN, AND ALAN MOORE'S SWAMP THING. AS A CHILD OF THE 1980S I WAS OF COURSE WELL ACQUAINTED WITH JAPAN'S FABLED SHADOW WARRIORS, BUT THIS BOOK SEEMED TO BE THE REAL DEAL (I WAS UNAWARE AT THE TIME THAT ARGUABLY HAYES, AND THIS BOOK IN PARTICULAR, HAD BEEN RESPONSIBLE FOR KICKING OFF THE NINJA BOOM IN THE U.S.). IT REPRESENTS FOR ME AN EARLY AND INFLUENTIAL ENCOUNTER WITH BUDDHISM AND SHUGENDO, WHICH FOREVER COLORED BY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY NATIVE CHRISTIANITY. IT WOULD BE YEARS BEFORE I DISCOVERED HAYES, THE DALAI LAMA'S BROTHER, AND SCORES OF TIBETAN MONKS ALL LIVED WITHIN A COUPLE HOURS DRIVE FROM MY HOUSE. IN ANY CASE, I ACQUIRED MORE OF HAYES' BOOKS IN SHORT ORDER, AND FOUND MANY OF THE MENTAL TECHNIQUES I'D DEVELOPED THROUGH HOURS OF FORCED "NAP" TIME AT THE BABYSITTER'S HOUSE COULD BE PROPERLY CLASSIFIED AS MEDITATION. I KNEW I RECOGNIZED WHAT I WAS SEEING.
AROUND THIS TIME I MET AN OLDER BOY WHO I EMOTIONALLY BULLIED INTO BECOMING MY MARTIAL ARTS INSTRUCTOR. IN RESPONSE TO THE INTENSE PSYCHOLOGICAL PRESSURE I BROUGHT TO BEAR HE CONCOCTED A BULLSHIT STORY ABOUT HAVING LEARNED KOREAN NINJUTSU FROM A MYSTERIOUS CAUCASIAN MAN IN HIS HOME TOWN IN ILLINOIS SHORTLY BEFORE TRANSFERRING TO MY SCHOOL. SATISFIED, I MAIL-ORDERED A REAL NINJA UNIFORM, BELTS, WEAPONS, AND BOOKS, AND TURNED THEM ALL OVER TO HIM PENDING MY ADVANCEMENT TO THE PROPER GRADES. MANY LAWNS WERE MOWED FOR THAT MONEY. THE ARRANGEMENT PERSISTED FOR SEVERAL YEARS, SPANNING MANY AFTERNOONS AND MOST WEEKENDS, UNTIL EVENTUALLY, I EARNED A BLACK BELT IN A TOTALLY MADE-UP MARTIAL ART.
MY CREDITS WERE NOT TRANSFERABLE TO REAL BUJINKAN CLASSES, BUT I DID SUCCESSFULLY NEGOTIATE UNSOLICITED HIGH SCHOOL FIST FIGHTS ON THE STRENGTH OF COUNTLESS HOURS OF SEMI-SELF-TRAINING. I WOULD COMMAND HIM TO ATTACK ME AND THEN I WOULD DEFEND AGAINST THE ATTACK. CALL IT PERVERSE, CALL IT WHATEVER YOU LIKE.
PANEL 12.
1984, BY GEORGE ORWELL. EMANUEL GOLDSTEIN'S BOOK WITHIN A BOOK GAVE ME SOME IDEAS. EACH TIME I REREAD THIS NOVEL I WROTE A NEW BOOK REPORT ABOUT IT, REDEEMING UNTOLD FREE PERSONAL PAN PIZZAS FROM PIZZA HUT'S BOOK IT! PROGRAM ON THE MERITS OF MY STILL-DEVELOPING LITERARY INSIGHTS. WHILE I WAS AT THAT TENDER AGE STILL MOSTLY IGNORANT OF THE POLITICAL CONTEXT, IT WAS NOT LOST ON ME THAT WINSTON SMITH EVENTUALLY SURRENDERED TO BIG BROTHER. LOWERING ONE'S MIDDLE FINGER FELT SO ALIEN TO ME (AND STILL DOES). SURELY, I COULD NEVER BE THAT GUY.
WITH MY INTELLIGENCE APPARATUS OPERATING SMOOTHLY, I EXPANDED INTO MAKING PLANS TO ARM THE ORGANIZATION. THIS DIDN'T FEEL LIKE A RADICAL STEP. MANY OF THE HIGH SCHOOLERS DROVE THEIR PICK-UPS TO SCHOOL WITH HUNTING RIFLES MOUNTED ABOVE THE DRIVER'S SEAT. THE GUNS NEVER CAME OUT AT SCHOOL, EVEN DURING HEATED FIST FIGHTS. MISUSING A FIREARM WAS A ONE-WAY TICKET TO AN ASS-BEATING FROM YOUR DAD. IN ANY CASE, I DREW UP LISTS OF WEAPONS TO BE ACQUIRED AND ISSUED TO MY OPERATIVES. SHOTGUNS, BERETTA PISTOLS, SURVIVAL KNIVES, AND THOSE LITTLE SELF-DEFENSE BATONS ONE COULD ATTACH TO THEIR BELT OR KEYCHAIN. AT SOME POINT I REALIZED THAT NO ONE WAS GOING TO SELL THESE THINGS TO A SIXTH GRADER.
I PROBABLY COULDN'T HAVE TOLD YOU WHO WE WERE LIKELY TO MOVE AGAINST. THIS WAS MORE OF A "BE PREPARED" KIND OF THING.
I DIDN'T HAVE MONEY TO BUY ANY OF THAT STUFF ANYWAY.
fuck art (2026/06/13)
cornered at the edge of the world (2026/06/13)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES), PAGE 8 (PART 2) (2026/06/12)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES)
PAGE 8 (PART 2).
PANEL 5.
GARFIELD, VOL. ONE, BY JIM DAVIS. I USED TO DRAW ODIE. QUITE OBSESSIVELY, OVER AND OVER AGAIN. BASED ON THIS SKILL I DEVELOPED A DISTINCTIVE CARTOON ANATOMY FOR THE CHARACTERS IN MY OWN STRIPS, WHO HAPPENED TO BE HUMAN BEINGS THAT MUCH MORE CLOSELY RESEMBLED ODIE THAN JON ARBUCKLE. AT AGE NINE I GENERATED A YEAR'S WORTH OF THESE STRIPS, AND CONVINCED MY MOTHER TO HELP ME PITCH THEM TO THE LOCAL NEWSPAPER. THE EDITOR PATTED ME ON THE HEAD AND PRINTED A SHORT ARTICLE ABOUT MY WORK, BUT DECLINED TO EMPLOY ME AS A STAFF CARTOONIST. FIRST TIME SEEING MY NAME IN PRINT; IT WAS ALL RIGHT. EVENTUALLY, I WORE OUT THE BINDINGS IN ALL THE GARFIELD BOOKS AT THE PUBLIC LIBRARY, PROMPTING THE EXASPERATED LIBRARIAN TO BUNDLE THEIR PAGES BACK TOGETHER WITH RUBBER BANDS. I NEVER OWNED A COPY OF MY OWN UNTIL MUCH LATER.
PANEL 6.
THE UNCANNY X-MEN #208. SOME MONTHS AFTER THE THIRD ISSUE OF THE FIRESTAR LIMITED SERIES CAUGHT MY ATTENTION AND KINDLED MY INTEREST IN MARVEL'S MERRY BAND OF MUTANTS, I ENCOUNTERED THIS COMIC BOOK ON THE SAME SPINNER RACK AT THE CONVENIENCE STORE ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY GRANDPARENTS' HOUSE (BOTH LONG SINCE DEMOLISHED). FROM THAT POINT FORWARD I WAS AN X-MEN FAN. I SUBSCRIBED FOR A GOOD HUNDRED ISSUES BEFORE FINALLY FUCKING OFF TO GREENER PASTURES. MY ORIGINAL COPY OF #208 WAS MARKED UP IN MY USUAL STYLE, FILLING IN EXTRA DIALOGUE OR ARTWORK ON EACH PAGE AS I SAW FIT. I ENDED UP ACCIDENTALLY LEAVING IT BEHIND IN A RESTAURANT ON ONE OF OUR VISITS TO THE LAWYER'S OFFICE DURING MY PARENTS' DIVORCE. I STILL BUY A COPY EVERY TIME I SEE ONE IN THE WILD.
PANEL 7.
ACTRON V1, #1. MY COUSIN BRANDON AND I DREW THE COVER TO THIS FIRST ISSUE DURING MUSIC CLASS, SOME TIME IN THE SECOND GRADE. IT KICKED AROUND FOR A WHILE UNTIL ONE DAY ON THE PLAYGROUND I GOT A BEE IN MY BONNET ABOUT TURNING IT INTO A FULL-BLOWN COMIC BOOK. I COULD SEE THE FINISHED PAGES IN MY HEAD (UNFORTUNATELY, ACTUALLY DRAWING THEM PROVED MORE DIFFICULT). I HAD TO GET MY HAIR CUT THAT EVENING, SO I TOOK ALONG MY CLIPBOARD AND RULER TO THE BARBER SHOP, WHERE I MARKED UP THE OPENING PAGES (IN RETROSPECT, HEAVILY INFLUENCED BY THE TEAM SELECTION SEQUENCE IN BYRNE'S ALPHA FLIGHT #1 WHICH I'D RECENTLY READ).
BRANDON AND I WOULD TRADE OFF PLOTTING EVERY OTHER PAGE OF A GIVEN ISSUE. I'D PENCIL THEM AND ROUGH IN THE DIALOGUE, THEN BRANDON WOULD INK IT ALL IN BALLPOINT PEN (OFTEN INCLUDING THE LETTERING GUIDELINES, MUCH TO MY CHAGRIN). WE SQUABBLED OVER VARIOUS ASPECTS OF COMIC MAKING. I DID SOME ISSUES ALL BY MYSELF. EVENTUALLY, IT WAS ALWAYS JUST ME, ALTHOUGH I KEPT PUTTING HIS NAME ON THE COVER INTO THE EARLY 1990S.
BRANDON WAS THE ONE WHO CAME UP WITH THE NAMES ACTRON (AFTER AN AUTOMOTIVE DIAGNOSTIC PRODUCT MANUFACTURED BY BOSCH AUTOMOTIVE SERVICE SOLUTIONS) AND PIRO (AFTER PIRATES).
PANEL 8.
ELFQUEST, BY RICHARD AND WENDY PINI. BY THE END OF 1986 COMIC BOOKS WERE MY LIFE. I DIDN'T HAVE ACCESS TO A REAL COMIC SHOP BUT I DID HAVE ACCESS TO COMICS SCENE MAGAZINE, A NEWSSTAND PUBLICATION THAT SHOWED ME ALL KINDS OF INTERESTING STUFF I HAD NO WAY OF GETTING MY HANDS ON. ONE DAY MY BABYSITTER (A DIFFERENT BABYSITTER) HAD HER BOYFRIEND OVER, AND HE HAD WITH HIM A SET OF THE STARBLAZE COLLECTED EDITIONS OF ELFQUEST (THE ONES WITH THE AIRBRUSHED PAINTED COVERS). I TOOK ONE LOOK AT THESE AND HAD TO READ THEM. BIG PUPPY DOG EYES. MY BABYSITTER PREVAILED UPON HIM TO LET ME BORROW THE FIRST VOLUME. OF COURSE I BLEW THROUGH IT PRETTY QUICKLY, AND THE NEXT WEEK MY BABYSITTER AGAIN PREVAILED UPON HER BOYFRIEND TO LET ME BORROW THE WHOLE SET. I VIVIDLY RECALL HIS ANNOYANCE (I ONLY HEARD ABOUT THIS SECOND HAND, I NEVER ACTUALLY CAME FACE TO FACE WITH HIM AGAIN) WHEN I RETURNED THEM WITH THE LAMINATE PEELING OFF ALL THEIR COVERS. SEE, I ACTUALLY READ THE BOOKS. I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE BELIEVED I WAS AN ELF FOR THE REMAINDER OF 1986.
out of the drawer (2026/06/12)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES), PAGE 8 (PART 1) (2026/05/31)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES)
PAGE 8 (PART 1).
BOOKS OF MY LIFE. THIS SECTION (AS WITH A COUPLE PREVIOUS ONES) MAY BE RECOGNIZED AS A THINLY VEILED ADAPTATION OF, OR EXCERPT FROM ONE OF MY PREVIOUS WORKS. DIPPING IN AND OUT OF THESE ERAS SEEMS APPROPRIATE AT PRESENT. WHILE THE ORIGINAL PAGES MAY BE USED AS A VISUAL REFERENCE, AND OBVIOUSLY BOOK COVERS ARE A SIMPLE WEB SEARCH AWAY, I'M GOING TO GO AHEAD AND DESCRIBE THEM HERE AS IF THE ORIGINALS DIDN'T EXIST. CONSIDER IT AN EXERCISE FOR THE AUTHOR. IT MAY TAKE ME QUITE A WHILE TO FIND MY WAY THROUGH THIS EXERCISE, SO I'M BREAKING UP THE PAGE INTO SECTIONS AND SENDING THEM ALONG AS I FINISH.
LET'S SAY THIS PAGE IS A SIXTEEN-PANEL GRID, MIRRORING THE MONTAGE OF THINKPADS ON PAGE THREE.
PANEL 1.
COPIES OF THE NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION OF THE BIBLE (WHICH REVISION? IT VARIED, BUT I DIDN'T KNOW THAT THEN) WERE ALL OVER THE PLACE IN THE LATE 1970S AND EARLY 1980S, AND MAY WELL HAVE BEEN THE FIRST BOOK I EVER TRIED TO READ. THE ONE PICTURED HERE SHOULD MATCH THE ONE KEPT ON MY MOTHER'S NIGHT STAND, ZIPPERED UP IN A WHITE FAUX LEATHER PROTECTIVE SLEEVE, EMBOSSED ON THE FRONT WITH GOLD LETTERING THAT READS: HOLY BIBLE. THE BOOK COULD BE DEPICTED TOSSED HAPHAZRDLY ON A BLUE VELVET BEDSPREAD. I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE JAMMED THE CHEAPLY MADE ZIPPER ON MORE THAN ON OCCASION AS A CHILD, NOTING THE ENSUING LAG BETWEEN THE INITIAL OFFENSE AND THE INEVITABLE COMPLAINT FROM THE PROSECUTION. AT THAT TENDER AGE YOU MIGHT MATURE A LOT DURING THE INTERIM AS THE INVESTIGATORS FUMBLED AROUND THE CRIME SCENE. COULD YOU EVEN BE SAID TO STILL BE THE SAME PERSON?
PANEL 2.
GREEN EGGS AND HAM MAY BE THE FIRST BOOK I MEMORIZED IN FULL AFTER HAVING IT READ TO ME OVER AND OVER AGAIN UNTIL MY MOTHER COULD NO LONGER PERCEIVE THE TEXT AS LANGUAGE (A MYSTICAL EXPERIENCE PURSUED FOR DECADES BY DEDICATED OCCULTISTS OF WIDELY VARIED SECTS AND DENOMINATIONS). I CAN REMEMBER SOME OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS QUITE VIVIDLY, BUT CAN NO LONGER RECITE THE WORDS ON COMMAND. MAINLY, IT'S THE BRIGHT ORANGE AND GREEN THAT ARE SEERED INTO MY MEMORY. NOT A BAD LITTLE BOOK, I THINK I RECALL.
PANEL 3.
PETER PARKER: THE SPECTACULAR SPIDER-MAN #75 WOULD BE THE TEXT THAT FINALLY PUSHED ME OVER THE EDGE INTO READING ALL BY MYSELF. I SEEM TO RECALL SITTING ON MY BED AND STARING A THE PANELS, HUMILIATED AT MY OWN YOUTHFUL ILLITERACY, WILLING MYSELF TO FINALLY JUST READ. THE CAPTIONS AND WORD BUBBLES TAUNTING ME FROM WHAT THEY OBVIOUSLY CONSIDERED THE SAFETY OF BADLY PRINTED NEWSPRINT. JOKE WAS ON THEM; MARKING UP THE PAGES WITH MY OWN IMAGINED MODIFICATIONS MAY HAVE HELPED ME ALONG MY WAY. IN FACT IT'S POSSIBLE I NEVER DID LEARN TO READ, BUT ONLY CONTINUE TO OVERLAY MY OWN UNLIKELY HALLUCINATIONS OVER THE APPARENT TEXT. IN ANY CASE, I NO LONGER RECALL THE STEPS OF LEARNING TO READ. THERE NOW EXISTS IN MY MIND ONLY THE BEFORE TIME AND THE AFTER TIME. I WANTED TO DO IT AND SO I DID IT. I WOULD NEVER BE THE SAME.
PANEL 4.
DEAN'S BOOK OF FAIRY TALES (1977 EDITION), BY JANET AND ANNE GRAHAME-JOHNSTONE. THIS BOOK BRIDGED THE BEFORE AND AFTER TIMES. I REMEMBER MOM READING IT TO ME AND I REMEMBER READING IT TO MYSELF. IN BOTH INSTANCES ON THE VERGE OF DREAMS. COME TO THINK OF IT THIS BOOK PROBABLY FUELD A NIGHTMARE I STILL REMEMBER THAT OCCURRED, OH, I'D SAY SOME TIME IN 1985. MY BABYSITTER, WHO HAD BROUGHT OVER A VINYL COPY OF PRINCE AND THE REVOLUTION'S AROUND THE WORLD IN A DAY LP, READ TO ME FROM THIS BOOK RIGHT BEFORE BEDTIME. THE SLEEVE ART OF THE LP AND THE BOOKLET INSIDE REMAIN INEXTRICABLY LINKED IN MY MIND TO THIS DREAM THAT STICKS WITH ME OVER FORTY YEARS LATER. AN OVERCAST DAY WALKING ALONGSIDE A LARGE, LONELY LAKE, SURROUNDED BY COLORFUL FALL FOLIAGE AND A GOLDEN RAILROAD TRACK, THE LOCOMOTIVE ITSELF CONSPICUOUSLY ABSENT. "COME TO THE PARK AND PLAY WITH US." IT WAS ALL VERY REALISTIC, BUT SOMEHOW ALSO IN THE STYLE OF THE GRAHAME-JOHNSTONE TWINS. NEVER WAS SURE WHY IT FRIGHTENED ME SO MUCH, BUT I'M SHUDDERING EVEN AS I TYPE THIS.
… (2026/05/23)
pt. i
pt. ii
pt. iii
… (2026/05/02)
… (2026/04/25)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES), PAGE 7 (2026/04/24)
HARD LIGHT (20 PAGES)
PAGE 7.
AFTER A FULL MONTH AWAY FROM THE KEYBOARD I'M FINALLY READY TO CRANK OUT ANOTHER PAGE. UNLIKE MOST PEOPLE WORKING IN THE COMICS INDUSTRY I'M UNABLE TO SCRATCH OUT A LIVING FROM THE MEDIUM, SO I'M AFRAID I FIND MYSELF REQUIRED TO SHAMEFACEDLY SEEK RENT MONEY OUTSIDE THE BUSINESS PROPER. HOWEVER, ALL IS NOT DOOM AND GLOOM. I RECEIVED A FAVORABLE COMMENT IN E-MAIL THE OTHER DAY THAT CONVINCED ME THIS PRESENT WORK IS DESTINED FOR COMMERCIAL SUCCESS, IN SPITE OF HOW UNLIKELY IT MAY SEEM AT THE MOMENT GIVEN THE DIM PROSPECTS OF ALGORITHMIC DISCOVERY, ETC. IF I DON'T MAKE A LIVING FROM COMICS BY THE TIME I'M SIXTY I'LL DIE.
PANEL 1.
THIS PAGE COMPRISES FIVE EQUALLY SIZED, HORIZONTALLY STACKED PANELS, EACH SPANNING THE ENTIRE PAGE. THINK FRANK MILLER'S REPACKAGED MANGA-INSPIRED RIFFS IN THE EARLY 1980S, OR WARREN ELLIS' REPACKAGED FRANK MILLER-INSPIRED RIFFS TWENTY YEARS LATER. THIS FIRST PANEL INTRODUCES US TO A YOUNG BOY'S BEDROOM VIA A THREE-QUARTER VIEW OF THE TOP BUNK OF HIS BUNK BED, LOOKING SLIGHTLY UPWARDS AT THE OCCUPANT'S FEET AS THEY PROTRUDE FROM THE END OF HIS BLANKET. THE POV IS AS IF AN ADULT OF AVERAGE HEIGHT WERE STANDING ON THE GROUND AND LOOKING ON FROM NEAR THE FOOT OF THE BED. THE REST OF THE BOY IS OBSCURED BY THE AFOREMENTIONED BLANKET, AN UNZIPPED SLEEPING BAG DOUBLING IN THIS INSTANCE AS A COMFORTER.
BOY: No.
PANEL 2.
ANOTHER THREE-QUARTER VIEW FROM THE FOOT OF THE BED, THIS TIME FROM A SLIGHTLY HIGHER POV SITUATED AT THE OPPOSITE CORNER, WITH THE BOY'S NOW-VISIBLE FACE PEEKING ABOVE THE COVERS ON OUR LEFT, AND HIS GOOFY LOOKING FEET HANGING OFF THE BED ON OUR RIGHT. HIS HEAD IS PROPPED UP SLIGHTLY BY A COUPLE OF COMFORTABLE LOOKING, IF SOMEHWAT BEATEN DOWN PILLOWS. HE'S MONOLOGUING.
BOY: You're not me.
BOY: You can't become me just by telling me you're me. Using my own voice. I don't care what you say.
PANEL 3.
ZOOMING IN SLIGHTLY CLOSER WE CAN NOW SEE THE TOP 3/4 OF THE BOY'S FACE, HEAD RESTING AGAINST HIS PILLOW, SITUATED ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE PANEL, AND TAKING UP PERHAPS 20% OF THE AVAILABLE HORIZONTAL SPACE FROM RIGHT TO LEFT. THE TOP PORTION OF HIS BEDROOM WINDOW (MOSTLY CONCEALED BY THE BUNK BED BELOW) SURFACES ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE PANEL, TAKING UP THE OTHER 80% OF HORIZONTAL SPACE FROM LEFT TO RIGHT, HERE FURTHER OBSCURED BY THE BOY'S DEFIANT WORD BALLOONS.
BOY: You can't hurt me.
BOY: You make a lot of promises and you make a lot of threats but I just sit here and nothing happens.
BOY: Therefore, I don't believe a single word you have to say.
PANEL 4.
CLOSE-UP OF THE BOY'S ENTIRE FACE FROM BELOW, CENTERED IN THE PANEL, TILTED BACK AS HE SINKS INTO HIS PILLOW. QUITE UNDERSTANDABLY, HE LOOKS RATHER EXASPERATED.
BOY: I said NO!
PANEL 5.
FINAL PANEL ON THE PAGE. THE TOP OF MOM'S FACE IN THE DOORWAY, ALL THE WAY OVER AT THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE PANEL. THE HALLWAY LIGHT FLOODS THE ROOM WITH A NEW SOURCE OF ILLUMINATION, THROWING MOM INTO DEEP SILHOUETTE. PERHAPS THE CONTRAST IS SOME KIND OF UNINTENTIONAL SYMBOLISM. YOU CAN'T REALLY TELL FROM LOOKING AT HER (BECAUSE SILHOUETTE), BUT MOM IS ALSO QUITE ANNOYED AT HAVING BEEN JOLTED OUT OF A DEEP AND RIGHTEOUSLY INDULGED SLEEP BY A PAIR OF ANGRY VOICES EMANATING FROM HER TEN YEAR OLD SON'S BEDROOM.
MOM: Who are you talking to?
