I’m posting this as proof to myself and my inner skeptic. I’m doing a fucking comic. Take that skeptic Jim. Most of the action of Jim is will be set in this room. Occasionally we may catch Jim being philosophical while taking a crap, but this is where Jim spends most of his time. The set will probably be tweaked before the first strip and improved over time.
Pandyland
There’s a lot of stuff on the net. I found Pandyland. It is good.
Some other faves from Pandyland:
Witches Brew
Randys Redemption
Gorefield
Goblin King
Jim Is ep .0- Birth of a Comic Strip
Jim Is will be a self-deprecating, and hopefully humorous comic exploring issues of depression and anxiety, existential terror, etcetera. For now the strip will be posted here, but it is likely it will eventually find a more fitting home.
Jim Is, is created with Photoshop, angst and a fucking ray of hope for the purposes of laughs and therapy. I welcome comments, criticism and suggestions.
Why A Perfect Circle’s “Passive” Describes My Relationship With Miss X
A dark and broody song, this was a favourite of this angsty teenager, and it was one of the first songs that conveyed the feelings I had about the apocalyptic breakup of my last relationship. As with any symbolism or metaphor, this song does not perfectly represent the situation, but it is as close as any song has been. Miss X, and many others in my life, would say that said relationship is so far gone and dead that there’s nothing to even be angry about now – nothing left to discuss or fight about, or for. But here I am, still just as and angry; still just as thirsty for answers.
Miss X is the woman I love and hate with equal strength. She is someone I always want to see, but if I came upon her a hundred-thousand years from now, it would still be too soon. Compound this issue with the fact we have a child together – yep she’s in my life for now and ever. She’s someone I would feel very conflicted about knowing they were having a bad and horrible life.
In this way she is a prime candidate to become my perfect enemy, but she has never faced me, never given me any answers – just walks away – just plays dead. This lack of closure is very disappointing. There is no conflict to pour the immensity of my deeply conflicted emotions into. I am now walking away in disgust. She is obviously better off keeping her reasons to herself, too afraid to face me and admit the truth. At the best, I can expect passive aggressive bullshit. So deeply unsatisfying from someone I care/d for so much.
I will certainly be better off for moving so far away, where she can’t rely on me to be there for her needs, while completely ignoring my own. You fucking disappoint me.
Now, regale me with your comments telling me to get over it.
Dead as dead can be
The doctor tells me
But I just can’t believe him
Ever the optimistic one
I’m sure of your ability
To become my perfect enemyWake up and face me
Don’t play dead ’cause maybe
Someday, I’ll walk away and say
You disappoint me
Maybe you’re better off this way(The only answers I ever got amounted to nothing. The breakup is still a raw and bitter deal for me. To me it could have always been salvaged. Now I can’t even
Leanin’ over you here
Cold and catatonic
I catch a brief reflection
Of what you could and might have been
It’s your right and your ability
To become my perfect enemyWake up and face me
Don’t play dead ’cause maybe
Someday I’ll walk away and say
You disappoint me
Maybe you’re better off this wayMaybe you’re better off this way
Maybe you’re better off this way
Maybe you’re better off this way
You’re better off this
You’re better off this
Maybe you’re better offWake up and face me
Don’t play dead ’cause maybe
Someday I’ll walk away and say
You fuckin’ disappoint me
Maybe you’re better off this wayGo ahead and play dead
I know that you can hear this
Go ahead and play dead
Why can’t you turn and face me?
Why can’t you turn and face me?
Why can’t you turn and face me?
Why can’t you turn and face me?
You fuckin’ disappoint mePassive, aggressive bullshit
Passive, aggressive bullshit
Passive, aggressive bullshit
Nightmare Spaces
I’m out of time and out of options. The walls are too near – closer upon every measure. Doors are closed and lights fading to null. It really shouldn’t worry me. A life spent lingering in the spaces between possibilities, sniffing at uncertainty, always knowing that ruin was inevitable. The best days were spent firing off riddles into the dark. Questions, statements, curiosities. Little flares placed to navigate the night lands, each a living sanctuary. Imperfectly made, usually incomplete. DNA unstable.
And now mutated horrors come back looking for me. My miserable little zombies, they have become. Unfulfilled. Hungry. Seeking. Stuck between the walls and the abortions of dreams, hideous refractions of the reality I wanted nothing of. Now I am a pathetic parody of my creations, and I know, deep down, they were always prophesy.
All refuge is comprised of nightmare spaces. My fellow travellers urge me into this one or that one, but one other door reopens. All know of its existence, but they dare not speak its name. It is a vilified space. It is cold and absolute, a one-way deal, but it proposes a personal redemption and an end to horror. There is no anxiety or despair or picking between nightmares. To gather up my mutated creations and enter the oblivion that was before time, or not, that is the final question.
The Lament of Doom
Something I wrote back in 2010 about a certain person. I think younger me did better writing than current old me. Not sure why it is titled “The Lament of Doom”.
You probably have no idea why I lost my temper and abruptly ended the conversation. Instead you will invent a theory from the omnipotent maelstrom you call reason. The effigy has already been constructed and the pyre assembled. You will divine my malign intent from failure to submit to the inquisition. Yet again I will burn. It is not only me; there are more for your righteous hate to consume. Though the world is dark, and evil, and ignorance reign supreme, there is hope. You are the Flame and The Guardian of the Bastion of Truth.
You, just and supreme, stand alone against the retarded tide of humanity that would drag us beneath the waves. You stand against greed and corruption and lies, imagining yourself up high, passing judgement on all the filth of the world – the perfect candidate for ruler of heaven and earth. Your myopic vision cleansed of the faintest hint of empathy, nothing would go uncorrected to fit the image you hold dear above all.
You have no idea of the suffering you represent. A martyr, a lord, a hypocrite. No compassion or love, only need and want – the manifestation of the blood drinking demon.
I can try to forgive you. You are what you are. But never pity. Never trust. Self-righteousness will only ever ensure a quick descent into conflict.
There is no escape and no reconcile. Living with you is a distant second best.
Anorexia: They Bring It On Themselves
The Young Turks YouTube channel cops a lot of trolling, ignorance and generally inflammatory rhetoric, but seeing the levels of aggressive ignorance on a recent video was truly appalling. Ignorance, I can deal with, but when when it’s accompanied by this degree of hostility, it fills me with a bitter, despairing rage. So, what was the video about? Well, for this years Halloween, a company released a costume dress titled “Anna Rexia”.
Why the name? Dunno. Seems like someone decided to be puny, but headed in a distasteful direction. The panel was split on whether the company had gone too far. I think the name is offensive, and given the way it’s marked I can understand why there is noise on the subject.
Of course, no one is expecting a rational debate on a platform like YouTube. But I found it deeply disturbing to witness the tirade of statments like, “they bring it on themselves”, “stupid people deserve to die”, “anorexia is a made up first world disease”, etc, etc. And this goes on and on, and some of these “discussions” become brutal, with anorexia survivors (who had the courage to identify as such in the ruthless forum), we told they were stupid, vain, self-obsessed, attention seeking, and so on.
One can only assume that most, if not all of these people’s whole logical process must be something like, “oh, I don’t understand or know anything about anorexia or mental health diseases, therefore all these things are made up, and/or self-created.”
Where does this faith in one’s own ability to know all come from? What makes them believe they know more than the psychologists, and neuroscientists that research these issues? What makes people, in general, think they should even voice an opinion, let alone be highly outspoken on any given subject, when they are running on nothing more than their own assumptions, and the assumptions of similarly uninformed types.
I think we need to discuss, as a society, what is the value of an opinion, and when one should bother to utter their opinion. Sure, we all have that right to free speech, but if we don’t know squat about the given topic then there is a good chance our opinion is worth shit all, and can be more harmful than constructive. I know, let’s teach critical thinking in schools from the very start. Surely these sorts of comments and unfounded opinions are beneath us, as a species.
Tales of Mere Existence
Lev makes videos that make us screwy anxious and depressed people laugh and feel at ease a while. He perfectly expresses a relatable inner monologue and rational behind the sorts of decisions common to introverts, especially those that suffer from the aforementioned conditions. His “cult following” (actually, let’s call them subscribers) often can’t help but edge out of their shell to share their thoughts, feelings and experiences related to the topic at hand. Lev, you have my thanks and admiration.
Gobstopper Horror Spoof
I’ve never come across this one, but apparently this spoof trailer staring Christopher Lloyd dates back to 2009. Lloyd plays a twisted Willy Wonka who lures unsuspecting victims to his chocolate factory. From this trailer we get the impression that Lloyd was born to play Hell’s version of Wonka (who was admittedly already a creepy fucker). Could this have been the finest comedy horror never made?
Chemical meltdown synaptic style
Disembodied space, jacked in over low bandwidth remote. The meat still processes commands, performing languid functions. It sends vague impressions of touch, but it is only the music that comes in clear, as clear as medium quality MP3 and insufficient output allows.
I feel the brain sitting uncomfortably inside the bone prison. The flesh droops, eager to secede from the confederacy of structures that push ever on against gravity and logic. Retreat to the primordial sludge. None of the components are particularly happy with current relations, the enforced symbiotic cohabitation of systems. The microorganisms that inhabit the vast megastructure are entirely unaware of the potential crisis brewing. At least, that’s what one may assume. For all that is known the little bastards are holding emergency talks and think tanks on how to coerce life from the tired biological golem. Likely, they are drawing diagrams for plans to stimulate the lizard brain. And phase two, enforce crippling sanctions on the conflicted processes in the prefrontal cortex.
Well, let them gag and blind the executive! Airs of individuality. Thoughts and feeling and self. All noise! So here I am dreaming of shutting down amid all this wonderful, horrid and crippling noise. Let the executive head-butt its rubber stamp on everything. Just leave me out of it a while, to unload the cores. And be at null.