Narcoleptic-by-Proxy

as struck, so stricken, a bells' ringing

2009-12-11T23:42:10Z

the passion of this, our, broken time(s)

frissonic reconstructed spheres,

so stricken, a sigmoid bell's ringing, as struck

xxxxxxxxxxx xxx xxx __________________.

when it was meant that the concrete floor exhales

into the bones of the feat

through ragged but comfortingable socks.^

this gabled hall, so crowned with bell

anointed with oils

named for saintess LUCIA whose wring knocks; knocks the

minds, knocks the thoughts from, of of the thoughts

of; the thoughts of blood from minds that spinned themselves in tightening

spirals.

This house has neither gables nor tower to holdde ye* bell

but yet

the pealing spills comfort here and in the street

^the same as worn were yesterday there.
*not hearthern y, but a thorn from a back-series of yesterdays, usefully gone from the graphemes herein, but approximated by them.

(other)

going to CO with V to hang out for awhile in the trve kvlt grim cold. say nothing but that I should return safe.

(other)

been working on more cartoonings. in about a million years I should be a success.

xo

(end of entry)

Interludes

2009-12-08T23:44:28Z

Have finished the first of a series of illustrations that I'm working on for a (kinda) new project. I'm re-illustrating one of my favorite book series: The Nancy Boy Detective Agency. I'm starting with "The Nancy Boy Detective Agency in the Case of the Flaming Yeti's Footprints."

The NBDA is like the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew or Tintin, et al. Except it's Jack Nancy, an ex-boxer, ex-policeman, and private detective and his friend Boy Molloy, the richest woman under 25. They solve sweet mysteries and it's much more chaotic than Hardy Boys, etc.

Anyway, I'm hoping to do a number of their books.

Should be sweet.

(end of entry)

bad day

2009-12-03T01:13:43Z

bad day.

bad.

day.

badday. bidday. bidet. crapper.

(end of entry)

post scriptum: absit iniuria verbis: or, less latin-y: my apologies for this: 'this' refers to the above words, and more generally the entirety of the post herein contained: intending that the reader should absolve me of the affront of filling a portion of their visual space with inanities, absurdities, and idiocies: of which I am one: end

Stuff I am working on

2009-12-01T23:21:26Z

absolutely

2009-11-26T04:20:24Z

for all that is going on in my life right now there are things going really well (comics, relationship, general stuff). On the other hand: applying for phd programs is leaving me burnt beyond belief, add to that work woes (well, actually not-having-work woes).

blah.

I wish that I could more coherently describe my state of mind. It is like riding a top, oh there's the good stuff, oh wait there's the bad stuff, oh wait here's good stuff again, oh wait. . . and etc.

(end of entry)

Tea Party

2009-10-18T20:53:46Z

V and I are finishing prep for our Victorian Tea Party. Cucumber sandwiches, scones, homemade candied grapefruit peel, shortbread cookies, whisk(e)y, several types of tea, and fancy clothes (at least V and I are dressed spiffy, I have a slightly anachronistic newsboy cap, V is wearing a yellow dress, green cardigan, penny loafers, and a pearl necklace).

Also, a brand new comic up Unlike Comix.

Yay!

(end of entry)

New stuff

2009-10-11T15:23:02Z

I updated my comics website Unlike Comix.

V and I are making carroty muffins. I desire them inside of me. I am also listening to "This American Life".

smooches.

(end of entry)

coffee stomach

2009-09-26T00:20:38Z

So, I've started reading Finnegan's Wake. Very slow going, but I have, just as when I read Ulysses, decided to read it without the aid of the (100s and 100s) of commentaries, guides, critical essays/books, or any other similar texts. That probably means that I am and will remain largely ignorant of the majority of the text, but at least I get to meet the work on its own terms.

(other)

just now getting over an illness. Some kind of 'cold'. It really sucks to be sick. I mean, that's mostly the definition of being sick, ya know? Feeling bad.

(other)

I desire a working electric typewriter. Possibly a workhorse of an IBM Selectric II, or some other comparable chunk of magnificent moving parts. Progress, so called, only points out how nice some things were. Tippytyping with the magnificent clacking is something that gives visceral pleasure, addicting in its own right. My fully mechanical typewriter is excellent, and (mostly) works, but it would be nice to have something that is nearer to 100% reliable and whose ribbons are more easily procured.

(orthder)

If anyone actually ever reads these rambles(gambols) of mine, are there newer more fertile grounds for social blogging (such as one finds on LiveJournal)? I like the idea of knowing who is reading/following these writings, and being able to easily read their works as well.

(ent of endry)

Huevos Locos

2009-09-23T16:56:13Z

I just completed a belated birthday gift for a friend here in Austin. It is a minicomic about a weird egg and hallucinating and weird creatures and marketing execs. I'll be posting a sample on the comic site that I'm sure no one wants to hear about any more, but I'll also be selling it!

I'll also be finished with a minicomic that collects Unlike Comix, it's going to be about 32 pages, and going to have a signed numbered Linocut print on the front and back cover. Pictures up soon. I promise!

xo
(endofentry)

More comix

2009-09-21T01:50:54Z

3 more comix up on my website. Including my personal favorite "Reversberus". Check it out if one is so inclined. It's at Unlike Comix.

xo

(endofentry)

Reversberus

2009-09-13T16:02:12Z

New comic posted now! One ass shits in the past, one ass shits in the present, and one ass shits in the future. Unlike Comix!.

Check it out, if you so desire.

(end of entry)

If you're feeling saucy

2009-09-10T02:30:18Z

I have a weekly webcomic up at Unlike Comix.

It is weird. I am also weird.

Lemme know if you have comments, criticisms, and etc. And, I really mean that, I am trying to become a better cartoonist and even a "your layout sucks, there's no depth, and your characters heads are disproportionate and not expressive" helps out.

xo

(end of entry)

After much thinking

2009-08-05T03:30:32Z

I finally understand why so many of the young fellows that I have been acquainted with love the song 'Jolene' by Dolly Parton. Not that it is a particularly difficult song to like. Well written and brimming with pathos, it's a damn good song.

Here's my epiphany, as it were, this song is beloved because it feeds a desire to be the object of desire. So many sad songs, love songs, are written with a certain assumption of roles. The person who desires is usually a man, and what is desired is the woman. There's much more too it, of course, enough for a million million Women's Studies Dissertations. But, the point I'm making is not about other songs, but that Dolly Parton penned and performed a song where the plaintive notes are directed at a man. In the song the Dolly's voice calls out to the beautiful and cruel Jolene asking her to please have mercy on the author, just this one time.

At the same time the man-object is absolved of his guilt while at the same time remaining that which is desired.

My apologies for this. I don't think that I can help traipsing down these paths occasionally.

(end of entry)

In spite of and because of

2009-06-07T01:33:34Z

In spite of and because of the clamor, I am going to post my sexy glamour style photos. Taken by the talented autolatry.

AND some kind of close-up.

Check out my

2009-06-04T21:11:18Z

hairs.

I got a hairscut.

It's all pomped up now.

no go

2009-05-20T04:58:10Z

sick girlfriend = no movies.

(end of entry)

fundibular

2009-05-20T03:00:06Z

this silence is never quite silent, always full of something. Really silence is not a space, sound is space. The spatial environment is always full of something, whether this fullness comes from the noisiness of my existing or from things that are mostly not me.

OTHER

I am going to see Demon Seed at the Alamo Drafthouse, I am full of gleeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

(end of entry)

gillesderais @ 2009-05-12T20:52:00

2009-05-13T01:52:43Z

I am my own parasite. Conscious thought riding this meat, seeing where it goes.

(end of entry)

I have noticed.

2009-05-13T01:18:29Z

going
going
going
(other)

So, studying Arabic for the last Arabic test in the foreseeable future. Which is both good and bittersweet. In spite of the fact that I frequently resent the language (projecting my insecurities onto the language, energy that would be better spent in rote memorization time), I will surely miss the class time.

That said I have a plan to get a job that actually utilizes these long years of toiling, carrying the Hans Wehr Arabic-English Dictionary around on my back not to mention al-Kitaab fii Ta'aluum al-Lugha al-Arabiyya aka my textbook, etc. I would love to actually begin focusing on communication, I just wish that more people spoke Fusha/Modern Standard Arabic instead of dialect. I love the music of Fusha Arabic, much more than any one of the dialects. Although just for sounds I love Moroccan, its clipped aggressive energy seems to always push forward in a glowing rush of consonants.

(other)

as the sky blues' deepening seems to generate new breeze. cool winds calm hot concrete and pavement. rising and falling hiss of wind and tree leaves, straining the air for toxic outbreaths and respirating for us anew. not for us alone, nor for us at all.

(end of entry)

overcome. overwhelm.

2009-05-05T04:51:33Z

insert ocean imagery. just on the cusp, the tip, the knife's edge of the end of dusk. an ambiguous concept in and of itself.

I know that there are some humans who don't like the ocean. I admit that it is not made of perfection. Somehow I occasionally crave its specific imperfections.

The sound of the ocean drowns out the sound of ringing. A luxury that I have come to treasure, I'm unsure if other humans could possibly realize what a big deal that that is for me. My ears have continuously rung for years now. It's less a drowning out than the luxury of listening to something else. A matter of attention really, in silence the tone swells and sometimes threatens to engulf me in ochre vibrations, a touch of synesthesia. Filling even the space between the bottom of my eyelid and my eye, the catchpocket for tears.

Beside the point.

Anyway, the moment when the sun, it's last mote, is no longer visible. The end of the sunset is what I think of as bliss. Quenched sun, sleep heavy. Salt air.

Knees in the surf.

(other)

I miss my two best friends from Arkansas. At this moment, intensely.

I'm sorry.

(other)

I AM BORING

2009-05-04T04:53:23Z

ATTENTION ONE AND ALL:

This entry is to advertise that I AM NOT BORING. I ONLY PLAY ONE ON TV.

(other)

Spending so many hours in the library is taking its toll on my fragile sanity.

Holding up the mirror to my brain is reflecting an ice-cold frontal lobe.

What I mean to say is it feels like there is a dry ice cube one half inch above the mid-point between my eye-brows. It is like a chill unibrow. Only visible on EEG/EKG/ULTRASOUND/MRI/MMORPG/AKA/MDMA

(OTHER)

I have been infected. WITH CAPS LOCKS. It's like a captain's version of dreadlocks. Not like pirate dreadlocks either. They are like a vomitous mixture of Captain (of Captain&Tenille fame) and the one and only Captian Stubbing (pronounced: STOOBING) from the Love Boat. Love Boat was a show that I only remember being aware of at the dim borders of memory. I have the same fragmented and mediated memories of re-runs of Fantasy Island (the one with Herve Villechaize, or to mock the man's memory: the midget who said "De Plane Boss, De Plane!" at the beginning of each episode).

(other)

Please continue existing. I insist.

(end of entry)

we love a good apocalypse

2009-05-02T22:07:53Z

It seems like a disease of us human animals that we love, desire, and maybe even need the apocalypse. It's like a mental draught, one that addicts us.

I am not immune. There is a feeling of POWER being a prophet of doom. Why is that? What is it about predicting failure that electrifies the bones, and in which the flesh exults. There's an almost sexual thrill about describing the suffering of the species in a climate apocalypse, religious apocalypse, meteor apocalypse, LHC apocalypse.

I think that it is the same feeling of superiority that comes with knowledge of any kind. The conceit of the teacher, so to speak. Certain kinds of knowing are prone to this feeling of elevation. I'm sure that many have had experiences with school teachers who cannot allow themselves to be mistaken or wrong. The kind of teacher who cannot stand to be demonstrated incorrect. This is because of the addictive nature of this positioning. The role of teacher (rather, the discourse) is internalized until the "being-above" power relationship between teacher and student is a fundamental aspect of the teacher's identity.

What's worse is that this is, as I mentioned above, almost like an addiction. The illusion of absolute freedom, importance, and control associated with being in charge of another group of humans (who are defined by their structural/power relations with the teacher) cannot be challenged.

This represents the multiply centered and dynamic nature of hegemonic discourse, the teacher is both dominated and dominating in different contexts. But, to greater or lesser extents is internalizing these relations as 'natural'. Something like this process seems ubiquitous in human culture.

(end of entry)

harf jar

2009-04-27T16:56:59Z

I have recently been thinking more about the differing means by which affinity groups are entered by new members. That is to say, how these groups collectively welcome new members. I believe that there are a few socially constructed mechanisms by which this process is conducted. Some groups are based upon specific, at-times esoteric, knowledge bases. We might look to fandoms as this type of group. In these groups entry is based upon the deployment of trivia and facts about the object of fan admiration. There are, of course, other criteria, but much variation in dress and other social affiliations is allowed if one has exhibited enthusiasm for and knowledge of the cultural product around which the fandom revolves.

Second, scenes (music or life-style being what I am focused on when I say 'scene') in which one's fashion and physical appearance are key. That is to say if you look like you belong (tallest mohawk or most asymmetrical haircut or most 17th century dandy your clothing) then you are assumed to belong. Mods, New Romantics, punk rockers to some extent, are all examples of this category. Again, the criteria change constantly, and fashion or knowledge never represent the only vector by which you become accepted, these only represent certain primary factors. (also I am willing to admit that I am totally wrong since this whole paragraph is primarily based on initial suppositions and does not represent the culmination of a long period of reading and research, my apologies)

As I have been thinking about this subject, it seems to me that there is a socially manufactured quantity that goes by a number of different names ("cred" being one of them, and sometimes it has no name) that is dynamic and fluid. That visibility (attendance of key events to the community, concerts, art shows, being active on internet forums), contribution (if the community is based on writing music then being a songwriter, television show then reviews of each episode of the show, etc.), dress (conforming to the physical norms of the community, dressing like a mod at a metal show will probably inhibit your acceptance as a 'genuine' metalhead), and other factors all subtle in their interplay and with wide variations possible from time to time as tastes shift, new members change the internal dynamic of the group, or the scene/group/whatever falls apart due to any number of factors. There is a highly normative thread in many of these groups, it seems, all of which is based on the undefinable quantity 'authenticity.'

This quantity is visible when punks or metalheads discuss posers, or discussions of who is the most devoted fan to a certain book series (number of times read, number of fanfiction stories written), or other such social activities. Who is a genuine fan/member seems to be a never-ending discussion within these groups, sometimes as an adjunct to the official business of the group (for example within Leftist/Anarchist groups, or non-profits), and sometimes as a main topic of conversation (within music affinity groups a main topic of conversation is obscure, niche, and minor bands). This topic of conversation has at least two purposes. First, is the explicit discussion of musical trends, i.e. whatever the conversation is purportedly concerning be it folk music artists or metal bands from Norway. Second, these conversations are challenges between members to name the 'best' band, group, or artist. Best, of course, being defined by consensus (black metal fans look for socially constructed indefinable quantities like being "KVLT" which is a mixture of low recording quality, authenticity, extremity in rhetoric and fashion, and ostensible rejection of wide financial gain from the music, although there is more to being "KVLT" than these). Knowing bands that no one else has heard of increases one's prestige as well as one's claim to being a 'true', 'genuine', or 'authentic' member of the group, basically the exact opposite of being a poser since the two terms are defined primarily in tension with the others.

Anyway, back to real work now. I might come back and write more on this later.

(end of entry)

we make ourselves anew

2009-04-13T00:11:38Z

I wish that all of my shirts, coats, and sweaters had a hood. Maybe a detachable hood. A detachable roomy hood for my oversized head-thing with its attendant mass of human hair. [the hair appears to grow out of the head-thing, I am still wrestling with the implications of this rather odd process. See also: finger/toenails]

In addition to hood(s), all clothing needs more pockets. And in each of those pockets, a thing.

And, there needs to be a magical process whereby these clothings become clean without needing the removal of pocketed items. Or, in reverse: These things could be impervious to whatever cleaning process is available.

(other)

When the sun shines, I beam. Eyebeam.

When the sky clouds, you are pleased. Appeased.

We both say 'no' to rain. Precipitations. I don't know about you, but, I do approve of pre-sip-itations. That means: standing invitations to have a little sip of my drink. [Maybe this would work in reverse. It's so hard to know how humans fit together sometimes with these kind of agreements. Maybe you do not want this from my end, or would not offer it from yours.]

(other)

D
o
nt
dont
donut
doughnuts
is what I am thinking about.
are what.
Writing without thinking of
doughnuts is
difficult.

(other)

noisy nose. Last night I thought that my nose was making a weird sound. I don't know if other people notice sometimes that if their nose is stopped up it can make weird gurgling noises as the goo inside it moves around. I thought that that was happening to me last night. But, really, it was just rain outside dripping off of the house. Odd in its sensationness.

od
d
(other(

Dollar signs, snake around the pillars of hercules. herclueles. Her Ack Leys. Herque lackeys.

That's what dollar signs are. snakes holding the world together. Which is the opposite of money. the substance of money makes us all go further apart. further than we would without it, I think.

))
(END OF ENTRY)

xxxxxxxxxxxx - thisthisthisthisthis

2009-03-31T15:56:59Z

(OTHER)
It enters the eye, grayed and dirty. Looking makes the feeling acute, or the reverse. The feeling makes the looking acute. Where does the demarcation line between senses fall? At what point has my seeing been polluted by skin's nerve endings? And the skin's traitorous syncretism, let us not begin to speak of this miscegenated sensation.

When we speak of what we experience how much of this is the viscous oily fluid that has collected between sensation?

It is well known that humans construct meaning through sensation, or it should be. But, as language mediates, feeling obfuscates.

I do not think that most humans, myself included, could productively describe the movement of curtains in a breeze without recourse to words that cannot be easily categorized as relating to any given sense. If these curtains whip in the breeze, the evocation is not primarily visual, although that sense is decidedly present. There is an aural and tactile component.

The intent is not to pejoratively describe this admixture of sensations in language. I merely wish to explore this subject. We possess distinct senses, but who among us actually uses them separately? Senses are merely outgrowths of this ravenous nerve bundle, eager to interpret, analyze, and interleave with pieces of our selves.

And, of course, the disease of language further hews this block down to smaller pieces. As certain sensations, idioms, or events are characterized by different strains of this disease in distinct ways.

As V. has noted, the blood-fluid suffusing our outlying parts calls to mind idiomatic descriptions that differ based upon one's linguistic background. For non-English speakers, the innate character of this liquid may center around the echoes it carries from heart muscle's pumping, or the pressure in throat and wrist as this action transpires. The very identity of blood, then, changes.

There is no immutable description. Only those descriptions that are intelligible and those that are not. Although, in typing that I find that it is not inclusive enough. By definition any description that fluent speakers of language construct is, or should be, intelligible to other such speakers.

And now the mirroring and hedging begin. Productively, then, I think I shall cease this line of mental inquiry.

(end of entry)