The Worm Collector

A comic I’m kinda working on. I need practice with this…

pg 4 – 7 coming soon… maybe



the worm collector pg 4scaled

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Dream, night of Thanksgiving Day 2015.

Violently sick walking home. No rain, no stars. Wet and cold. Body aches, I stop now and then to vomit. Get home, ingest drugs to quell the pain, eat some turkey dinner (5-MAO?) and sleep.

I’m in some kind of college with a strange girl I’m in a relationship with. Not exactly a dream facsimile of a real person, the body is different. She’s heavier, wears lots of flowing cloths to hide it. But, she’s ample and intense. Willing. Affectionate. Stuff that I’d let go of and forgotten about. The human side of human closeness. Not just wild, chemical driven eroticism. Sweetness and tenderness… Humanitas. A slight sadness follows me in this early set-piece. We cut to a school that she and I seem to be attending. It’s a labyrinthine place of higher learning. A college or something with a myriad of different classes. We’re accompanied by various other students. People who radiate normativeness.

[as I write this the dream vestiges are deleting themselves. Reaching for something that dies as you touch it.]

She and I hit a rocky patch on a sunny day outdoors. Did we take a bus here with other students? Seems that way. She’s miffed with me and turns around and walks into a bakery that specializes in edible cannabis. I look up and the sky is filled with heavy-cargo airplanes. Their rear doors open, and people begin leaping out, skydiving. The people are followed by cars, hummers, Cadillacs. They accelerate out the rear cargo door and plummet into the sky, wheels spinning… this is the end of my recollection.

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Dream: September 14th

I’m an old man in a Victorian prison cell with a tiny brown mouse. I’ve grown a long, tangled beard. The mouse has begun a campaign of writing me notes using the scraps of paper I have collected. He dips his little feet in my inkwell and tries to spell out messages on these little scraps of paper. When he’s filled a corner of the page he tears off the sheets with his teeth. These messages I discover arranged across my lap when I wake up, crowded with jumbled characters. These messages I can make no sense of.. I gesture with my shoulders a gesture of futility. The mouse only redoubles his efforts. In his frustration he crawls into my beard and scratches and pulls at my hair before he zips off to write another note I can’t read and doesn’t make any damn sense because he’s a mouse and I’m human. For some reason I feel so sad for him…

This aftertaste of sadness lasts until after I wake up to cold, gauze-covered autumn sun.

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New Scanner//Late Summer

Ink, watercolour, coloured pencil.

Ink, watercolour, coloured pencil.

"man with lobster claws for hands" comic with pencil and ink.

“man with lobster claws for hands” comic with pencil and ink.

Got a Canon LIDE 220 scanner for scanning drawings and other flat objects I can fit between it’s jaws. A big advantage over having to stage photographs of things. Which was a tremendous drag. Full spectrum light and quality cameras being difficult to come by in these parts. Had to get a decent enough shot and then post-process it.

The dryer at my house, which is shared with a multitude of people, ceased to function the other day, so Mobar and I travelled to the laundromat deep in the ghetto. For such a small town there’s a robust downtrodden neighbourhood with newly-built offices and somewhat gentrified properties standing empty. Pawnshops and strange businesses which never seem to be open. We travel to a laundromat/convenience store. As is often the case this is a thriving hub of local activity. Some friendly people talked me through the ropes and secret hacks of the dryer machines. People ambling by, as we watch my clothes tumble dry. I take photos outside during a cigarette, as the burning sun peeks through a hole in the clouds that have been pouring rain. I seem to have made a new friend. A strange small, slender creature. Odd scattered attention of the young. (I’m now so old… thirty something?) Sifting through the appropriate documents to find credentials of my existence to get around the Conservatives’ “Fair Elections Act” [perverse misnomer, as it is in fact the exact opposite] Technically, I’m a transient, of employment but no fixed address. Exactly the sort of person they want to disqualify from voting. Have to get this done. Control is inevitable, every political spectrum has, as it’s most extreme form, a state of total control. Socialism, in it’s worst demonstrated form, leading to Stalinism. Capitalism leading to oligarchical, kleptocratic wastelands. The third-way democracies of the west are creeping towards the latter the harder that recessions bite. Somehow hardship makes it easy for right-wingers to convince people to blame things on immigrants, leftists, etc… instead of themselves and get re-elected. I’m queasy with fear at the idea that Trump may actually become Prez. “At last a true alpha male in the white house” I read in a tweet somewhere.
There’s no way to even begin to…. I’ve stopped believing that there’s any way to communicate or explain anything to anyone. Humans do not communicate. They broadcast, do not receive. Half-duplex system of human interaction.   I really have so little social stamina left… to deal with people and keep them supplied with attention. There’s nobody left in here, I’m just a passive machine. Laughing and nodding with my head on a spring.

laundromat whirling phone photo

laundromat whirling phone photo

sun breaking through the clouds

sun breaking through the clouds

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La Serenidad

  cokeshits1Vjayjaybloodheilman  anaconda

Fuck Blogger’s inability to post things with images in them. It’s horseshit. I”m so sick of it. Never got it to work. Need to fix things. So many things to fix. Needs fixing. My town was covered in smoke. Animals got sick. It was a mess.

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Murderfingers: The Soul of Ruin

Murderfingers: The Soul Of Ruin. Cursed fingerprints that turn everything to shit with a touch. [installments to the
Destrudo Pages] A touch, a word, anything at all, intent is not important, like a single infectious bacterium. Everywhere you go,
Everyone you meet, everything- is infected with disaster. So you have to drift, and stay insulated.
[India Ink, HB2-4, Gelpen,]




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Icy Stars [fresh out of lives]

“You stole my attention for 10 seconds. I spent it staring at your ass.
Now, I’m going to steal 10 of your seconds, and you’re going to spend them afraid and confused.”  Memorable thought.
I get short bursts of sleep with intense sprints of dreaming. One dream I had last night is almost totally gone from my memory now, but, I remember being at a house party in a condo, and watching my ex through a floor to ceiling window. I watch her drive the car I sold her onto a spit of land and throw her belongings off the cliff into the sea. After that, I followed her to an apartment that kept filling with people. There’s a scene where she’s asleep in a room, naked, half covered with dirty blankets, and I’m chasing off small human-like creatures with a disintegrating broom.
We went for sushi and talked, she asks me how I can just delete crushes from my mind.  [practice]

Rainbow BridgeDat feelDavie in the mistFragment of a terrible poemFurburgerpetey and junior

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