Thursday, September 09, 2004

hulllruuuuuunnthh . . . I'm not meant to be up this early. It's NOT NATURAL. How I hate Thursdays. And this looks to be the Thursdayingest of Thursdays.

I couldn't get to sleep, of course . . . I ought to've just stayed up all the way. It's worse somehow to settle into a deep sleep with your measly four hours only to have to be jarred up again, even if it is by the Hope Sandoval/Jesus and Mary Chain song "Somtimes Always".

I finished the Boschen and Nesuko page early, but was not allowed to savour that. No, I had to be asleep. But first I had to find a way around my printer whose lack of a fresh fifty dollar ink cartridge made it feel justified in not printing out a black and white image. I finally figured that it wasn't printing the shades of grey, so I very quickly drew up an entirely black and white image for the Acorn Review flyer I'm supposed to deliver to-day, or thereabouts. Why don't I feel so enthusiastic about the Acorn bloody Review right now? Why am I not sending my stories off to more real magazines? Do I mean "more" as in quantity or are they more real somehow? I'm sure they are more real. The Acorn Review is unreal. Hoo-ha.
So for the Acorn Review--sweet, bitter calcium drop on the brain tongue just to keep typing it--for the Acorn Review last night I hastily drew a face . . . staring with big, dark googily eyes at any hapless passers-by, telling them they have to submit to the Acorn Review, but something horrible shall probably happen to them (the passers-by) anyway.

After that I read a bunch of Scott McCloud comics. Now there's a site with great content. That's what I need; content.

Then I lay awake thinking about the nature of comics. I thought about how comics relate to films and figured the writer is closer to the director while the artist is closer to cinematographer. I thought about how I wish I could work faster and better. I thought about people like Jhonen Vasquez who wrote and drew their own big comic books, and I wondered how long it took them put out a 24-or-so page book. I felt ashamed that the best rate I seem to be doing is sixteen pages a month. I tried to think about what I could take out of my day, but there's not much left to take out. Iiiissssssh. I thought about the sound "Iiiissssssh."

The two predominant things I felt yesterday; happily creative and bitter. I thought about whether I wanted happiness or the continual pursuit for creative fulfillment. I concluded that I don't think happiness is possible, and I'd better get used to the latter, although I think part of that latter is its inability to be comfortable. Like a toothed inner-tube.

I don't feel like listening to myself. The gods clearly meant for me to be asleep right now.

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