Sick (Vacation) Day

I've been the worst sick this entire weekend. Like can not come out from under covers, induce magic coma to keep sleeping and hoping that your body heals itself in the meantime, relying on the precarious mixture of NyQuil, Robitussin, DayQuil, Emergen-C, and Ricola, with a generous slathering of Vick's Vap-O-Rub...that kind of sick.

It hit fast and it hit hard. Thankfully I had a few vacation days saved up that I needed to take, and it happened to be this Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. So it's a good excuse to catch up on sleep and prepare myself for this new daytime work schedule and force myself to write more.

I wrote the Walking Dead series finale recap for the Daily News this weekend. I'm not sure how good I am at those, but I'm trying to get a bit more snarky which seems to work good, but Walking Dead is such a somber show it's hard to make light of it without being too mean. That said, it can be trite and heavy handed so maybe it's not that hard to mock it after all.

I've been listening to Two Door Cinema Club radio on Last.FM. Whatever bands are on here are amazing. Fenech-Soler are disco indie awesome. God, I've just now become obsessed with them. I donlt know if Indie Disco is a real genre or not but it's the best I music I can imagine. Okay, it's kind of techno. Okay, it's techno. I blame the Scissor Sisters. The first time I hung out in NYC, well Queens, was at PS1 Summer '04, where Scissor Sister performed at this crazy, hot, sweaty day dance party within the giant concrete walls of PS1.

I think I'm ready to move forward on the comic writing. Seems there's a big book for all things late 80's & 90's at DC Comics right now, so I better hustle to get on the bus. If there's one area of expertise I have in this life it's comic books from 1989 until probably 2002. Especially if it was weird, odd, underappreciated and canceled before it got a fair shot. I am the champion of those half-realized concepts, the possible continuation of the sagas of forgotten warriors, the lost tales of adventures in imagination. I'll have to start a series where I review a series from that time in comics. First up: Xombi which makes it's return to comics next year.

I just called Boston Scott, my hetero-life-mate, who's life oddly parallels my own. We had a very deep and concise discussion about relationships and writing and where our lives are going. He's feeling down, of course, because things for me feel stable and strong. But while he was in the UK last month, living it up with a new love, I was here and scrambling to maintain my composure. I love having that someone who needs a kick in the ass that also gets to drag you along when it's your turn. In the next year you will see more from both of us and it's with the support of one another.

Hopefully 2011 will see more spoken word, open mic, performance type things around New York City with him, if he can swing a job and an apartment down this way, and with my friend Ben Hosley who I met at the New School. You might also remember him from our adventures in Amsterdam/Paris. ABC No Rio must definitely be hit up, as does KGB Bar, St. Mark's Church, and Bower Poetry Club. I must be as familiar with these last dying writing institutions of NYC before they are truly corpses, capitalist chain store shells of their former glory.

I think that's about all I have in me today. Still a bit gross up in my chest and sitting under a blanket all day is becoming a habit, so perhaps I should be getting up and start doing something productive like eating.

Happy December.

K

Panic Attack at Desert Island (in Brooklyn)

Fuck. Too god damn hot in the store, and though there was only four people in here 15 minutes ago, now there's 15 people in here one minute later. I hate this. I hate not actually looking through the book I'm flipping through, but instead I'm thinking about what I look like flipping through a book, sweating my balls off in double jackets, a sweater, t-shirt and fuck.

I'm at Desert Island in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It's one of the coolest and eclectic comic shoppes that could ever exist. The kind of store that I would make a pilgrimage to in my teenage years. Every inch of the store is covered with the wildest, most absurd, challenging, expressive works of sequential art and illustration that's legally allowed to still call itself a comic book.

There may be a handful of pop culture collections sitting about, but it's only things that are quality. Walking Dead. Scott Pilgrim. Alan Moore's work. But other than that the most recognizable book in the store will prob be the vintage comic strip paperback books ala Mad Magazine or the Heavy Metal issues from the 70's. It's the most capital A art that comix can be presented to anyone casually seeking the validity of the medium itself.

And I'm freaking the fuck out. I came by to check out the Lisa Hanawalt signing and release of her second issue of 'I Want You'. Check out her work. She's very sweet and talented, and her work will definitely make you laugh. I wish I could spare the money to buy a copy, but I need to sell so many of the comics I've collected over the years. I just can't justify buying something new right now.

I'm very nearly broke and betting on selling the first five issue of the Walking Dead comic in order to afford any Christmas presents for anyone. And I think I have an idea what to do this year. It'll be something personal, which is what I've wanted to give every year, tired of buying loved ones trinkets and gadgets. It was going to be a surprise, but I'm betting no one I'd be getting something would be reading this...

So, I want to finish and print up copies of my novel and give them out. It's really all I have to share right now. Financially I'm just at the bottom without being destitute. I have a steady job at the Daily News that I'm hoping to turn into a career. Expand into writing steady for the website, freelance write on the side. Start finishing some of these epic comic projects and make a name for myself.

I just need people to read it. So why not fuel my career by printing up POD copies of my book and at the same time share the last seven years of my life. This is the secret world I've been living in while most of the people who read it will have known me. That's when I first started my life over. About 2003. Somehow I got here. And somehow I got to this point in a madcap ramble.

So I'm in the indie comic store, smack dab in the middle of Hipster Haven, at the last store that still really feels like its got that rock'n'roll elitism that a good cult shop's gotta have. And yes, I'm freaking out. I can't seem to talk after I introduce myself to Lisa, discussing how she recognized my girlfriend Laura Lee from their work as extras at the Brooklyn Lyceum for Bored to Death. She tells me that she's part of an all girl's studio in Greenpoint with Kate Beaton & Julia Wertz. (I love Julia's work btw, more on Fart Party in the future).

I should've talked to Gabe, the owner, as he's a really cool guy who's got this bad ass store for going on two years now. Maybe more. And on the subway ride home I read the free comic paper that he publishes, Smoke Signal, which is fantastically bizarre, funny, and disturbing. That's pretty god damn legit. And we'd talked before as he had seen Lauren Barnett's write-up about the Brooklyn Comics and Graphics Festival from last year when I posted it up on Write Club.

But that was a long time ago, and do I say Kurt from Write Club? I mean, it seems like some people know of the comic podcast site I do, but I really need to get it out there. Shit. I need to make it punk rock, don't I? I've kept wanting to put out a zine but getting material together has always been my downfall. With a blog though, I can just keep throwing stuff up and see what sticks. I have about four blogs going though, so I really should consolidate and make my writing self presentable.

Okay, so I'll try and put out a proper 'THIS IS WHO I AM' and perhaps a 'THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD GET TO KNOW ME'. Then you can read it and see. Maybe you'll like it and stick around. If you want to say hi, please always feel free.

Twitter - AgentFenris

But I jumped topic again. I had a panic attack. Social anxiety sucks, but living in New York City is like being a Crippled Master or the One-Armed Boxer. You're a badass in kung fu, but guess what, you got your arm hacked off, so now, not so much. But you learn, slowly but surely, to compensate for the amputation of your socializing skills, and usually that requires becoming a Drunken Master.



And I was just too chicken to ask for a free beer at the party.

K

Remember When I Started My Life Over Before...

Well, now this time it's for real.

I'm on day hours at the New York Daily News. I have a BlackBerry and get my emails 24/7 and am apparently legit now as I've become the Features Photo Editor, which really means I look at Kim Kardashian, engagement rings, and reality stars.

But every day is different. Today was Leslie Nielsen's death. Now, I've been around the block when it comes to celebrity deaths at a newspaper. My first day at the Daily News was Farah Fawcett's death at noon, and Michael Jackson in the hospital by 5 and then pronounced dead by 6. That summer we also lost Ed McMahon, Ted Kennedy, DJ AM, then Brittany Murphy by Christmas? (I can't even talk about the Haiti earthquake in January).

Sad, but Leslie Nielsen had a long life and the amount of joy and humor that man brought to the masses, well I can't hardly think of someone who isn't able to quote me at least one line from Airplane or the Naked Gun. The man was a comedy legend. I feel somehow more indebted to the world to bring it such gentle levity as he did. I know that may sound cheesy, but you know it's true. What is stronger than laughter that comes from the heart?

That's right, I've also decided to be true to my nature and not settle for being one of the ironic, cynical masses. That shit was old a decade ago, but somewhere in the middle of the '00's I gave up. Well, screw that. I've found love, what feels like true love, the kind you wait your lifetime to achieve, so I don't need to impress anyone out there. No need for formalities. Love is pure and you can remain detached all you want, but know there's me out there somewhere who's kissing the girl he loves with all he's got on subway platforms and texting her love poems.

I just don't care anymore. I'm through with everything that's ever held me back. This life did not kill me, and god knows it had its chance before now. I'm at the bottom that's for sure, but here is the climb, day by day. I'll post on this blog daily to help keep things up to date.

I am going to set up a landing page with a domain name so you can all access my various projects from one page. In the meantime you can LIKE my Facebook writer page to keep track of my writing that I post including the chapters of the novels I'm working on, or you can check out this blog to know what I'm posting, where I'm going, and what I'm doing.

If you like things that are awesome you can also check out my Tumblr.

Tomorrow night (Tuesday, November 30, 2010) - Lisa Hanawalt Party at Desert Island.

Another NaNoWriMo ends today and yet I produced my best work this time, too bad it was only four chapters worth. But it's the basis for my second novel NEW WORLD: ORDER, as I have finally completed TOWER OF BRAHMA after seven years.

If you want to read my last attempt at NaNoWriMo in 2009, check out SUBURBAN LOSER.

That's about all for now. Back to work!

K

Fear & Guilt

Originally written: 8/17/09

I use guilt to subdue the rage inside. I internalize anger, choosing to be masochistic rather than sadistic. I fear losing control, yet I want it more than anything.

I suppose we all are afraid of the thing we want most. Or perhaps want the thing our fear denies us. Chicken/egg scenerio aside, allowing myself to be fully self-interested would (in my mind) make me a horrible human being. I feel I would take advantage and destroy what is good in me.

So a selfless life is the only one worth living apparently, despite the fact that needs and desires crop up constantly, and because of the holding back, the denying of self, it hardly ever comes to fruition. I'll never be satisfied with partial indulgence. Manipulation also becomes the way to get things without (seemingly) changing.

I'm still the same giving, selfless person, but if you wanted to do that for me, well, okay. But it's cowardly doing that. The self-interested person is at least being honest with themselves and you. This is what they want, give it to them. Whereas I whine and complain and hope things work out how I want.

So guilt comes back, this time for being what you thought was a good person. Dammit. Well, what prevents you from finding a balance between selfless and selfish? Fear? Of becoming your father? Not wanting to turn into the one person you genuinely hate?

Maybe. What is the fear anyways? That someone might not like me, that I won't be accepted, that a person out there is thinking negative things about me? Who cares? I'm thinking horrible things about everyone, hating on them for not being like me, which is insane considering how much trouble I have just existing in this world.

I identify with the pain and discomfort of my personality, but that's just a fear of change, of being someone new. Comfort in the fractured pieces, the muck of my being, the negative cocoon that keeps me from being too happy, therefore, prevents me from being hurt too bad.

So, a fear of being happy. Or rather, a fear of losing hapiness once gained. Blissful ignorance ended one day in my past and I suppose I never recovered from that long fall. Holding on to the pain of emotional bumps and bruises from a lifetime, claiming those as my persona. I survived these things, this is who I am.

Moving on past that pain, letting go of the memories, this might be the reason. All I have left is the painful memory, but maybe if I create a new memory to hang on to, I can release the painful one. I can stop torturing myself with the image of my sick grandma, wasting away from cancer and chemo, as we eat Christmas dinner and pretend everything is fine.

I see their pain. Everyone's. I want to end their suffering, but most people can't even acknowledge their own problems, let alone deal with them. And I, in my infinite ego, want them to allow me to help them through it, force them to face their issues, and be whole and happy, and do it right now. Mainly because of self-interest, in that I'm annoyed they're unhappy and I don't want to deal with their suffering.

I shouldn't have to deal with anyone else's suffering, but I do. I see the unspoken pain. I can't ignore my own awareness. So I become crazy trying to work out the bigger picture in hopes that if I can somehow guide the masses to a better place emotionally, or slay the dragon of negativity that weighs us all down, then I can truly help those around me.

Staying Positive In Modern Times (without medication)

Look on the bright side.

I'm sitting on a bench in the recently reopened and remodeled Washington Square Park. It's finally dirty again after just a few weeks. It was just too clean when the chain link fences came down. It's like the filth of mankind wanted to smother this pristine park.

I started therapy. Sliding scale counseling work at Adelphi's psychology dept down off of Varick. Not sure how much I'll have to actually pay, which is good because I'm only now finding steady enough freelance work to pick myself up after this economy knocked me down. It's more helpful than I thought, this ranting at a young grad student who's bitten off more than she can chew.

We're going to discuss medication next week, but for now, I'm on my own. Well, I have nicotine & caffeine, and maybe some hops & liquor to help me get by. A hearty dose of hormones and chemicals from my daily meals and I'm good to go. Toss in a dash of sunlight and enough exercise to stave of atrophy. Golden.

I find it is the idle mind that is vulnerable to societal sabotage. Something about constant movement fights off the spiraling depression of modern living. Small accomplishments, or at least momentary satisfaction (which works for most), are the markers on your path to mental health. Of course too much walking in circles, dwelling in distraction, floundering in fiction, will only lead to depression.

Upwards and onwards young man! Make sure every step is bigger than the last. Resolve your problems, change your mind, redefine yourself constantly. Be open to the universe, try not to question the personal disasters, accept and see the good in everything around you. Odds are, the things you're upset about are probably just comfortable pains.

There's something utterly definable of self in regards to our personal problems. We often cling to them, preferring the familiarity of discomfort over the unknown potential. Complaining is just so satisfying sometimes. Especially when you're competing with the others in your life. Easier to dive deeper than them, rather than try and lift them all up with you.

It leads to isolation which is another depression pitfall. For some reason so many of us can not be alone. At least the television is on, or our pets snuggle up to us, allowing us to feel connected to reality, if not actively engaging it. The idea of silence in a room alone is maddening to some, inconceivable and impossible a task.

Is it the whirlpool of despair that sucks at our souls as we either remain oblivious or living in utter denial, escaping into our own fantasies? I've found that creating is what keeps the flames of hell at bay. Every spare moment I'm consumed with the desire to write. I've a multitude of projects going at this point in my life.

Is it all just another overconsumed escapist drug? Possibly, but at the end of it all I'll have something carved out in letters that sears its way into your brains, and hopefully makes a difference. Hopefully it helps.

Don't worry, be happy.

K

An Untitled Love Scene

"I always wanted to be in one of those epic romances, where everyone else would be jealous of how we loved one another."

"We already are." I told her.

And it was true. Everything I told her was truth incarnate. She nuzzled the top of her head even closer up against my neck, her frizzy hair tickling my cheek. I brushed it back and lifted my chin a bit to hold it down.

Our arms tightened around one another, bodies incrementally getting closer and closer, always seeking to remove those last shreds of space between us. Legs wrapped and entwined, the sheets draped and tucked here and there. We were perfect beauty, a monumental union.

I splashed water on my face and ran my hand through my course hair. A haircut was long overdue, and a shave was even more so. The homeless look was more than a mere act, it had been my life for so long, that now, looking up at the mirror I tried to place the man beneath all that rough mess.

I suppose it was a matter of time. 'No time like the present', as my mother would say. I took out her buzzer and scissors and began the long process of reclaiming my place among civilized society, one snip at a time. By the time the sink was filled with the equivalent of three wigs, I smelled the coffee and bacon wafting from under the bathroom door.

Satisfied with my hacking and slashing at my head and face, I came out to show my new self off. She was absently whipping eggs up in the pan as I sat down at the table.

"Smells delicious baby." It really did.

She glanced over her shoulder, a sly smile sliding alongside her, and her eyes danced across my haphazardly clean shaven appearance. A chuckle, or perhaps more a giggle, was let loose and her body bucked a bit.

"You missed a spot." From smile to grin. A knowing look, an escaping sigh.

We sat and ate in silence. Occasionally one of us looked up, drawing the other's attention, pulled into a stare which we took turns breaking away from with a half-heartedly stifled smirk. We were playing at being bashful, our souls already having fully engulfed each other.

What can I say about this feeling? It's love, it's communion, it's connection, it's everything that makes life worth living. I try not to question it but it feels important that I understand it. There's something about the way I feel when I'm with her, it feels like the reason I exist.

I sit in the tub soaking, and she dips the straight razor into the warm bathwater, cleaning the foam and chin whiskers from its blade. She motions upwards with her eyebrows and a subtle lift of her chin. I lift my head and she places her fingers gently against my throat, before sliding the edge of the razor downwards.

"There. All done." She leans back taking in her handiwork. "Though I will miss that beard of yours mister."

And I'll miss it as well. I find myself running myforefinger and thumb down my chin to find only skin. For years I would sit idly and stroke the stream of hair stemming from my face. Looking out on life as it sped by me in shiny silver cars, invisible to passersbys, camouflaged in urban hippie garb.

But I was no hippie. I was no one. I was only lost. Lost and alone. And quite often cold, despite the warmth my body could produce. A shiver often took over me and I tasted copper as my teeth chattered, imagining myself floating aimlessly through the dark matter of outer space.

My belly was full. My person was clean, presentable. I still held onto my sanity. And as I rose from the water and this woman looked me up and down, pure Christmas Morning/Birthday Surprise joy (as she called it) beamed from her.

"Let's get you dressed." She held out her hand. "We have a life to go lead."

I took her hand. "Together."

Persona APP

I came home one day to find my son smashing the brand new iPhone I bought for him to bits. He was never a violent child so the crazed look in his eyes shook me to my core. I couldn't even be angry with him, but I wanted an answer. Why?

He told me a story I can not believe but the sincerity in his manic voice told me that he believed every word he told me.

It was trying to replace him. To steal his identity and that he must destroy it before it uploaded its consciousness to the internet. He showed me the blog it had started, the pictures and videos it shot, and the friends it was making. I began to worry about his mind.

He wasn't a bad kid, never made any trouble for me or his mother. His friends all seemed to be normal, well adjusted teenagers, with the occasional swipes from our liquor cabinet. But I never suspected drugs or these bizarre cult like cliques that were popping up in nearby towns. He liked cars and video games.

But I looked over the photos later that night. I told him he was grounded and took his laptop from him to inspect it for some sort of clue to this sudden dementia. Maybe his emails would fill me in on what was going on in his head. So I clicked through and read a few at random.

Forwarded fake motivational posters, a handful of something called LoLcats, and chat logs from IMs, mostly discussing bands and girls from school. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then I noticed a folder called MY LIFE. It had pictures of his friends, hanging out and making ridiculous faces, roughhousing, and video of them playing guitar.

Then music began to play. I figured I must've hit some sort of button, or it was set to start playing or something. But an IM window popped up. It was my son's screenname, and it simply read: FATHER? I was annoyed that he'd so quickly take to IMing me despite being grounded. I'd have to go take his phone away.

I replied: GO TO BED. WE'LL TALK TOMORROW.

The answer that came back: I CAN NOT SLEEP, I AM EVERYWHERE, I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?

I began to worry that he somehow fell in with the wrong crowd and wasn't heroin and other hard drugs a problem these days in schools? I saw that on a Dateline once. Meth, crack, acid? I assumed he was still high when I burst into his room. But there he was sleeping it off. Dead to the world. He didn't even stir when I tossed open the door.

I snatched the iPhone from the floor. It was still mostly intact from the beating he delivered unto it. I powered it up as I went back to the laptop. More music was now seeping from it. A slideshow of images playing on the screen, pictures of me and him, taken just after I bought him this damn piece of junk.

He had wanted it so bad, begged me for it, did dishes, mowed the lawn, and was so sincere in his effort to go above and beyond for a hunk of plastic and electronics. I couldn't deny him, he was a good kid. I think that day I surprised him with it was the day we bonded the most. He was so excited he showed me all these APPs and programs, things it could do.

There was no limit. It could map out your route, pull newspaper articles, record audio & video. There was always some new APP he'd show off to me. Every day I felt more and more like a relic from the analog days. When it linked up to his friends' phones it seemed like they were all hooked together in some weird web.

I closed everything up, assuming that in the morning we could it to the store and have them look at it. Maybe it'd still be under warranty. Early the next day I looked in on my boy who was still out cold, so I brought the gear on down to the mall. I waited in line and spoke with one of their "geniuses".

He seemed to have it well in hand as he clicked away, but suddenly his face went slack. He said he was about to wipe the drive on it when it called out. It sent IMs and texts and begged not to be deleted. I asked if one of my kid's friends could be messing with it, to which he replied that it would be an eloborate scheme for sure.

After a few consultations with other "geniuses" they hand me everything back and sent me on my way assuring me they had reset it to factory settings and that it should be fine. I couldn't wait to get it back to my son who'd probably just be waking up about now.

When I got home he was still in bed. I sat beside him and tried to wake him. He wouldn't stir. I tried shaking him and yelling. I called 911 and am abulance came, they were at a loss to say what had happened to him. I rode with him to the hospital, looking down at the peaceful look on his face.

He never regained consciousness. I visit him daily.

Laura Lee (or How I Found Love)

It began unlike most love affairs, with missed moments and crossed paths, though perhaps that is the way of love. It finds you, out of your hands really, you just need to open to it when it is presented to you. When your soul finds its other half, you best recognize and accept that love.

I was not open to love. Though less so than most others in New York City, I had become bitter and jaded. An ex left me with nothing but pessimism, debt and scars. In theory she was what I was looking for, but in practice she proved that I was a masochistic fool.

Months after our breakup, I found myself piecing my life back together, scraping up money for food while paying off what I owed, trying to secure a new place to live while subletting in Harlem, sleeping on an air mattress with a backpack full of t-shirts and jeans.

I had tried my hand at dating but relationship fatigue had set in and I found no one worth the effort. I had much to give a girl, a wealth of emotional depth and sensitivity for days. I was a tender soul that was eager to be appreciated for the thoughtfulness and sweetness I could give.

Those things that more often than not scared girls, forced them into an abusive role, dismissing my affection and rejecting who I was, used perhaps for the surface me, enjoyed only as an ideal and not as a person. Always too much to handle, made to believe that I was in the wrong, that I was mad thinking that love existed in this city.

This ex did one thing for me that would redeem her for all her faults, make up for every hurtful comment. She talked to a girl and recommended that this girl get in touch with me. In a brief stint when this ex and I did get along, she mentioned that a redhead who drew comics would contact me, as she thought that we would hit it off.

Wait, it's not Laura Lee is it?

Indeed, it was. The same Laura Lee who my friend Reilly had told me about a year before. The artist who had a space in his studio who's workspace I glanced over at while talking to Reilly about our comic. Once I had seen her there working and was too intimidated to do much more than mutter hello.

Maybe it was my then lack of confidence that made me less than a blip on her radar, for at that time I was really going through the worst my life has had to offer thus far. That's probably why I didn't register her presence at Reilly's birthday party, and why she ignored me at Becky Cloonan's Demo party at Rocketship comics weeks later.

I spent that winter regaining my strength, fighting through depression and finding a way to end the disastrous relationship I had found myself stuck in. It wasn't until the Spring that I would see her again but after an awkward icebreaker we both ran off, so I assumed that she was not interested and that I was better off single.

So imagine my shock when I received a Facebook message saying that we should hang out towards the end of the Summer. I couldn't imagine that what I was reading was right. What was it that my ex could have said that changed her opinion of me? I think that my ex's suggestion had put me on her radar, and suddenly there we were, about to meet up for drinks.

I didn't have any expectations. I had rid myself finally of my ex after she drunkenly snapped at me via text (on a phone I was still paying for) and removed all traces of her. But here was this date that was happening based on her recommendation and with someone who hadn't noticed me before. It certainly didn't bode well, especially with my aversion to dating at that point.

But I was nervous. The actual date was set up rather quickly via Facebook chat one Saturday night while I was at work. I liked her status, which prompted her to message me. In an hour and a half we'd have drinks in South Park Slope at Buttermilk Bar, just about 20 blocks of my new apt in Sunset Park.

Love

(written April 28, 2010)

How many times does something have to die in order for it to stay dead? How much damage does it take in order for you to finally let go and accept that some things are not within your reach? How can I let my dream of falling in love rest in peace forever?

It's the dream really. The ideal that lingers and resists against all forces. That impossible, unattainable goal, the hope that there's this cosmic union that is, despite all the evidence presented, actually achievable in this lonely world. Why does it still dwell inside me?

Will I give up the will to live, surrender to hopelessness, once and for all plunge into death so I can at last stop trying and struggling to find a person to connect to? A best friend, a lover, a counterpart that will make me feel complete...whole.

I think that it's because I want it, seek it out, look for it in every opportunity presented to me. Trying to grasp something that is ethereal and beyond me. Holding onto a person so tight that I suffocate the life from them. Angry and frustrated that they are a square peg that does not fit my round hole world.

Is it the void within myself that I hunger to fill? The emptiness my upbringing created? The loss and desire for connection that I need so much, that seems vital to my existence. As if I could somehow become who I want to be once I find that one, the person who'll bring out the best in me, that'll silence the self-doubt that plagues me.

So I look to myself. What can I do to be happy? To be complete? I throw in all manner of distracting creative endeavors. Toss fiction and life experience deep into the black hole inside myself. Watch as it is consumed and then I want for more afterwards, always needing more and more, satisfaction never gained.

I discount family and friendships. Dismiss them as worthless interactions that distract me for the moment. If I can't count on love, how can I possibly expect casual personal encounters to make me happy? The intimacy of a loved one is no more than a narcotic, a pleasant chemical reaction that feeds me for now, lost upon disembarking.

If this is what we were meant to figure out, the riddle, the meaning of life, then I find I am lacking. I don't have an answer, a hypothesis, nary a theory to be found. And to be quite frank, I don't want to work at figuring it out anymore.

Love, just let me fucking be, go fuck off and die.

Down the Drain

'Hey how r u? Haven't texted you in a bit. Hope all is well.'

She folded up her phone and tried not to check it seconds later for a response.

The quiet of the apartment was disturbed by the gurgle from the sink. Since the day she moved in she'd been unable to get the super to come in and take a look at it. She's poured Drain-O, bleach, and boiling hot water into it hoping she'd be able to clear the pipes.

Her hand reached out for her cell phone but she stopped herself as her fingertips brushed up against its hard plastic. She wouldn't let him get the best of her. He'd text back when he was free. Then they'd finally meet up. They'd grab dinner and drinks and go dancing and then...

GURGLE BLOOP BLOP.

That was it. This goddamn sink had gotten on her last nerve. She dug out that snake thing her dad left in her bathroom closet. She had no idea how to use it, but it was time to shove something in there, get whatever muck was making this repulsive noise. She'd finally have some peace and quiet.

After fumbling with it for a few minutes, she fed the line down the drain and kept feeding it down further and further. There was no resistance, though she was in a fury to get it in there and wouldn't have noticed anyways. Eventually she ran out of snake.

She gave it a slight tug and it held firm. It was snagged on something. Then it jerked in her grip. It pulled itself further in. She held it tight and pulled with all her might. But it was no use, it reeled itself in and ripped her right off her feet, smashing her face first into to sink.

Groggily, she tried to lift herself back up but suddenly her face was like putty, melting into a pool, her skin slipping away from her, sliding down into the pipes. Her muscles went slack and she began to dissolve, dripping and oozing her way down the drain. She thought of the foaming action of that drain cleaner she spent twenty bucks on from Duane Reade.

Her entire being was smooshed through a cylinder the size of a cardboard tube. She slooshed and slopped her way inch by inch gliding down into darkness, the snake line still dragging her through the labyrinth of plumbing. Oddly, she wasn't even concerned, except now she couldn't check her phone to see if he replied.

When her essence had dripped fully into a puddle upon the floor of the cavern, she awoke. No longer of the gooey, fluid consistency, she stood and looked around. Amber tones, a tan screen slid before her eyes, she rubbed them, and once again saw a whole new world of sepia. It was old-fashioned in style, vintage in substance.

Unreal reality blown out all about her. A bedroom set, metal wire-framed bedframe, frilly bedskirt, plush pillows of satin softness. A vanity, wardrobe, full-length mirror and folding changing screen. The carpets hugged her bare feet. The drapes reached out for her as they billowed in the wind. The ceiling fan lazily turned absently.

She jumped on the bed and rolled over onto her back. A goofy smile spread across her lips. She couldn't help but give her body a bit of a wiggle in joy and excitement. It was the room she had always wanted, a princess' quarters from decades past. An escape into the simpler days of yesteryear, when she could be a true lady.

The door eased itself open, gliding over the bristles of the carpet one strand at a time. He walked in, also barefoot, flowing cotton pajama pants dangling just above his ankles, his tight stomach lifting from his waistline, his arms tensing as they pushed open the door, then relaxing as they dropped to his side. Then he smiled.

And it was a smile that stole hearts, that plucked spirits from their bodies and breath from lips. Her body had been tensed up the entire time, she realized. Her lower back held tight just above her butt, her chest clutched, limbs outstretched nearly off the bed. She wanted to pounce upon him.

But before she could, he leapt on the bed and rolled around over her. He brushed aside the hair in her eyes, curling his fingers just behind her ear, running his hand down the back of her neck. Her eyes closed, his palm sliding down her back, grazing the tip of her butt. She felt his other hand coming closer, the electricity in the air, the vibrations rippling the air between them.

Then he rubbed her belly. And she loved his, tossing her body to and fro. Suddenly, this felt weird though. He went from sensual to tickling her rib cage and patting her bum. And she couldn't be happier. Her mouth opened and snapped shut a few times, and she growled and then her tail began to wag.

She woke up with her head in the sink, blood dripping from her nose and flowing down into the drain. Her phone buzzed as it got a text, but she didn't bother checking who it was.

Friends

I'm too quick to say I have no friends. I just have very few in NYC. But I just woke from a dream this morning where one of my best friends (and fellow TenTon founder) Scott St. Pierre and I fought drunken karaoke wrestling frat boys, and that's not even a little odd. His wife and little boy are back up in Massachusetts as they try to sell their house in NJ that I never had the chance to visit unfortunately.

Also in Massachusetts is my hetero-lifemate Boston Scott, the only individual I've ever given a nickname that stuck. We'll be working film projects come next month and I can't wait to see him in person again as it's been way too long. But we've called each other every few days, every other week, just to make sure we're both alive and kicking, the passion to create still burning in us both as we survived massive turmoil over the past year or more.

Back on the TenTon side of things, I've downloaded an app that makes it so I can post right to our forum so I can talk to those boys once again. I found out Phil and his wife out in Arizona had their baby boy Phinneas, saw Jason Masters in South Africa's new work for Wildstorm, my man-crush Chris Burnham in Chicago's new work on Officer Downe and Coheed & Cambria's comic series, touched base with Jason Baroody and Jong Kim in NJ who I need to see soon, and the rest of the gang there.

I need to get out to NJ to see a friend who I can't talk much about here in detail, but haven't seen in years, and was at one time him and his brothers were closer to me than my own family. It's a shame that it's a state so close yet without a car so difficult to get out to, and to make excuses, my life has just been such a mess for so long that I couldn't get it together enough to see anyone outside of NYC.

I also just got a script for a new Army comic script for IDW from my friend Jose Torres who reinvented himself as an Army Ranger, now married and with a child on the way down in Maryland. I miss seeing him and watching crazy movies and talking comics, but I know he's finally living a life of adventure like he always wanted.

Also down in Maryland is a friend of mine Michele Satory who I've reconnected with via Facebook who I haven't seen in 20 years. I had known her before I knew anyone that I still talk to these days, even casually, from Long Island. Seems we both went the route of bad relationship and starting over after our 20's.

Over on Long Island, my friend Gary Foster and Mike D'Amato are both living out there, still playing music, rocking out the suburban life I left behind. I've been a tad nostalgic for the old days where things were easier, going to diners, roleplaying in basements, driving aimlessly around the neighborhoods blasting metal from the cassette deck. The old crew is long overdue for a reunion.

Which brings me to the friends I do have here. Tim Mucci still lives in Park Slope, and now I live closer than ever in Sunset Park. We're about to re-launch the comic/writing podcast we started last year and it's just crazy thinking about how far we've taken that, and how engrossed in the world of comics we've become since then.

I'll probably swing by Bergen Street Comics tonight as they're having a block party, so perhaps I'll see some of the comic aquaintances I've met while hanging out with Reilly Brown. I can't say enough about Riles, except that he has proven himself to be the best friend I always wanted, there for me time and time again. Our comic is coming together splendidly, and I wouldn't be so confident and with it without his help and support.

Hopefully as the comic takes off I can finally put together the literary zine that Ben Hosley and I have been planning since we met at the New School years ago. He's got a job in the West Village now so I imagine we'll be hanging out more once we both get settled. We bond over the desire to write something real, struggling with our inner demons and dissatisfaction at the writing in the world today, hungry for something real.

Back to comics, the only person who was my real friend through my twenties while I rotted on Long Island was Chris Chua, who I developed a graphic novel with. Over years we put together an epic 200 page comic which we self-published as first a 48 page preview, then a digest 64 page preview edition, which we gave out to every working comics professional we could find. Things got strained, or weird, and I was a mess who needed to change his life drastically from the stability of suburbia to the madness of the big City. Things haven't been the same between us for years but I hope that I can fight through the awkwardness to make things right.

There's too many friendships that I've had end because people grow apart or there's something unsaid, too much time passed to know what to even say to one another. I don't want that to be the way it is, but it's hard to fight that weirdness. I hope by putting this out there in the world I can take one big step towards bridging that gap between being friends from before and being friends now. I miss you all.

The Fall: Our First Month Falling in Love

This was the Birthday Present that I gave to Laura Lee. It is my poetic reflection upon our first four dates. Originally I was going to perform this before her friends at her party but due to inebriated states, I saved them to read to her at her parents' house the following night.

Love you babe.

K

***

I had heard the stories,
words tumbling from your
lips, an uneasy self-truth
stumbling towards me on
baby deer legs,
personal revelations
that seemed as if I were
feeding you lines,
letting you detail out my
own life.

I listened as you let
yourself relax,
embraced the experiences
you had as my own,
for they were so familiar
to me.

I knew that you wouldn't
need fixing. I didn't
need to help you get past
it, get over it, understood
that you knew who you
were.

And it seemed so did I.

***

Slip right into words
Conversation sliding from our
Tongues, strangers still
But catching up
Nonetheless

I want to know what you were up to
Over there
On the other end of the galaxy

Talk, as easy as taking a walk,
Holding hands, stroll in the park
Caffeine buzz rippling underneath
I hold you for the first time
Never wanting to let go

***


It's a subtle lover's smile,
tender trappings of affection,
unspoken sedate passion
simmering just so, below the
surface, she pulls me closer,
I stroke her calf as we sit and
converse, out door gallery,
autumn falling like her tears
slipping free from dead branches,
the emotion takes us
hoping it never lets go,
I hold her chin in the curve
of my finger, slide her face
towards mine, and tell her
that I love her.

***

This tree
Limb sheared off
In the fury of storm
Still stands
Ancient and magnificent

Here you captured
Our moment
A snapshot
To freeze time for us
Cementing a memory
Crafting a sentimental
Relic that we can
Uncover in years to come
And return right here
Under this tree
Lip locked embrace
As it pours around us
Soaked and saturated

Broken branches may come
But I'll weather every storm
With you

Poetry - for Ms. Laura Lee Gulledge

I wrote the following poems while falling in love for the first time.
These are for you my love.

K

***

A pedestal is no place
For a lady like you
Unless perhaps you
Were to hold out a hand
Help me up
So we could look out
Upon the horizon
Point to our spots
Laugh merrily
And jump
Down.

***

Muse? I think
Not. For, isn't
The role of
Muse to inspire
The artistry locked
Within?

I feel no
Need to write
Nor speak nor
Trap any feeling
Into a cold
Word.

I feel it
Inside, a stillness
That becomes all
Inside, a balance,
Harmony, peace at
Long last.

You hold me
And there is
Nothing else
That matters
Not this poem
Which fails so
At giving you
Everything.

Not my words,
For though they
Saved me before,
Now I look
Forward, regret
Nothing that made
Me this man.

I know myself,
I see it reflected
In your demeanor,
And though I
May not know
You, through and
Through, I see
You.

***

Laughing at
Almost anything
Unless it's misfortune
Rather unfortunate
A circumstance

Let us instead
Elect to
Elaborate on the

Labors of
Organizing all the
Various
Electric
Sections of

Kurt's
Undying
Relentless

Tirade of passion.

***

So scary to live here
Where it's happy
Worry far from
My heart

It's our silent
Nodding agreement
Waving eyebrows
And shy eyes
They say it
All

Home, like
Family, life
With you,
Half of my
Self inside
Spied through
Smiles.

Christ Complex Birthday

My birthday is tomorrow. I'll be 34 years old, and finally ready to live my life like a proper adult man. I've given up the childish behavior of insecurity and dependency, and embraced the eternal youth qualities of joy and wonder that have been the steadfast rock of my soul.

Despite a proper religious education, I have always been fascinated by the life of Jesus. A man who is more myth than real, yet is more real than any other myth. A magician of sorts, who, through his life story, his trials and stations of the cross, changed humanity forever. He sacrificed his life, bowed before torture to show the mechanics of the society he lived in.

Was I drawn to that because of my own suffering in life, overtaken by a desire to assign some sort of divine purpose to my meager existence? Did I orchestrate my own suffering based on my drive to ascend beyond a simple life? Can the power of belief affect reality to the degree that ridiculous situations craft themselves around me? Is it some magnetic pull over random coincidences?

I can only assume my father's own fantasy impulses have become imprinted on my own psyche, forging a hero's journey for me to follow. I inately understand the structure of stories, and this must be a factor. Having the last name Christenson also ties into this Christ Complex, as well as my father's own tendency to play the role of martyr.

But with this birthday which I always saw as some sort of deadline, Jesus himself only living til 33 and the other signifiicant numerology behind the number, I now find myself at the start of a new journey. I've completed my novel, a self-indulgent introspective creative diary of sorts, and I've gone through the massochistic tendencies that I saw in myself.

I think I'm ready to grow up, to be happy, to build a life for myself and finally achieve the success I've always felt undeserving of. I've forgiven myself. I know what I am to blame for in my past. I truly feel I have always done my best, treated those around me as I wish to be treated, and now I no longer need this story to live within.

I'm prepared to live my life.

Now I Know Why I Don't Blog

I feel like I've said too much. I've opened up at vulnerable moments and immortalized them. I want to delete all of this. I feel like I've screwed something up before it even begins. But maybe I'm just worried because I haven't felt this feeling in a long time.

I'm being vague. Sorry. Now I get it, why people keep stuff to themselves. I open up too much, or need to, so I turn to writing this nonsense down and in turn, it reveals too much of me. I scare people away don't I? I really don't mean to. I worry people, I don't mean to. I just feel things and don't know how to process them sometimes.

I'm good right now. Well, not RIGHT now, as my laptop is suddenly acting up, so now that I finally have solid internet connection, now my browsers are crashing on me every 5 seconds. And it's that feeling of something not working right, something that is just off a bit, or even could be off, that really makes me crazy. Obsessive tendencies aside, I just want things to be good, for them to work.

My comic looks great, Reilly's doing an amazing job on the art. My job is frustrating, mainly because the hours make me feel so isolated, but also because morale is so low there. My kitty comes back to me tomorrow which will be nice. But now PayPal is taking money from my account and giving it to Ebay and Ebay has no record of it.

For every settled piece of my life, there is a broken bit. Oh, yeah, my iPod is busted for good so I don't even have music right now to make the commuting pleasant. Fuck, I want to cry right now, but I'm somewhere between exhausted and numb. I just hope that writing this exorcises something from me and I can sleep for awhile.

Please just let my past be my past and allow me to move on and be happy. That's all I want. Well, that and maybe a working computer.

Thanks.

K

And so it begins.

Not with a bang but a whimper, which is fine by me. I've had enough excitement in the past month, summer, year, to last anyone a lifetime. So as my new life in Sunset Parks begins I welcome the little things.

The couple I'm roommating with, Matt & Rivkah, are amazingly talented cartoonists, and it's so refreshing to just talk 'shop' and be with pretty normal people. We talked on the roof after I got there, watching the sun set, met nice, friendly neighbors, got some dinner at the local diner, and just got to know each other.

Then I went off to work to take care of stuff, despite having the night off, and intended to go out and drink, dance, etc., but instead stayed at work and sat on tumblr all night. It's amazing how refreshing tumblr is, it often feels like home as I reblog and like the posts of those I follow. I've never been much for the internet, but I enjoy the community there.

I stayed at work til the wee hours of the morn, slighlty intimidated by the new 'hood at off hours (which I'm sure will seem silly in a week or so just as it did when I was in Harlem), and to get my favorite breakfast sandwich from the cart on 33rd & 8th. It's just that damn good. The train took awhile to get me back here, but once it did I watched the sun rise and breathed in the air coming off the East River.

Then I went inside, laid down, turned my phone on and read my last post. Who was that person who was in that relationship? What kind of massochist wanted to be with someone who could hurt them so? I feel bad for her, as she has no idea how far from sanity she is, but in an act of self-preservation and perhaps the first act of true self-love, I am done.

So that one last post of nostalgia, and then this one to acknowledge and move on. After all there is nothing but the glorious future lying before me. Comics, writing, Brooklyn friends, maybe somewhere I feel I belong for once.

Now, if these car alarms would stop going off I could probably get some sleep.

K

Hallelujah!

That is my Taking Care of Business merit badge.

So...

No pictures this time, no real fancy talk, just trying to get out some last thoughts.

There's something terrible about truth getting out, feelings getting hurt, secrets revealed. That's what makes writing such a frightening prospect. If you don't write the truth, hack it out, it'll be limp & useless, devoid of passion. If you do, you step on toes, insult, reveal too much. I guess that's why no blog of mine has lasted very long, or indeed why my book is so vague and mysterious. I feel the need to lie for some reason, to protect people?, but I have this undying desire to tell the truth. I love the truth, it always does set me free.

I tried to live honestly. But you never really know what's going on inside another person. There is positively no way to know that what we as individual's experience is shared by any other human being. And once upon a time I thought it was love that transcended that gap. But it doesn't. It feels like it does, and maybe that's why the love affairs that make such an impression are those that enrage us, antagonize us, because when all is revealed, we see there's nothing between us and the other person.

People are damaged. Everyone. Some more than others. I always assume I'm more so than I am. But I was happy for the last few weeks. I felt confident, like I was really figuring something out about myself. Then, after a series of texts tonight, I cried endlessly, I got pissed off and bought into her game of baiting me so I...what, pushed her away? Made the hurt go away because now I was this stupid asshole and not someone she missed? I mean, that makes sense, but I could never do that. I would live with the pain of missing her for the rest of my life if need be. I was prepared to.

I don't know who really reads this, and at this point I really don't care. This is the last entry you'll see here. I tried to make a difference and I guess I failed. I'm still glad I tried though. And that I did what I could. And it really seemed to give some people hope or a moment of inspiration from what I know. Thank you for reading and for embracing my words. It does mean a lot.

I feel like there's so much to say. I just don't know if I should take the time to put it into words here. I think I'll go to the park and make a phone call.

Someone hit the lights on the way out.

Night.

K

Comicbook Rockstar: Summer Vacation

This was from a few weeks ago but I realize it never posted. So here it is. Unedited account of my vacation.

Well, I can't come back to the Jersey Shore now, as I have no intention of paying a $350 ticket for running across the hood of a Corvette. I guess I forgot I wasn't in the East Village for a hot second. Before that I almost convinced a massive guido to take out a smaller guido in order to take his girl. He didn't need much persuading.

Last night I fistpumped on the dance floor, shot the shit with the boys over a late night BBQ, and after a long walk across the wrong bridge, I'm finally here on the beach. Ten minutes later, we're walking back to the house, which is fine by me as that's about as much beach as I can handle.

Now here it is, a day and a half later, I'm in the East Village, I've just made out with an Austrian chick, watched a bouncer beat the shit out of a douchebag in the LES, sang Tenacious D at karaoke, and saw a girl I slept with from years ago when I lived in Jersey. Now it's 6am and I'm at Veselka enjoying a deluxe meat plate. I fucking love pierogis and stuffed cabbage.

I also love this fucking neighborhood. From rats and vagabonds to joggers and cops getting breakfast, all in the span of an hour. It'll never be completely clean despite the American Idol whitewash that's swept clean through the area. That's its beauty, in the persistance of the ugly. I belong here like I've never belonged anywhere in my life ever.

I can go grab a shot and a tall-boy from the sweet tattooed bartenderess at Library on 2nd & A. Swing by karaoke at Pianos on a Monday night and say hi to the ever-lovely Shandi & Rick. This is my home like nowhere else. Weirdos and freaks, this is who I'd rather be rolling with, rather than the rich and fabulous.

Like this poor girl who was sad, sitting outside Pianos, unable to come in for some reason (level of drunk or Austrian credentials?), worried about her brother back at home suddenly in the hospital for a panic attack, and her parents off in Peru on vacation. It's hard for me to sympathize with a girl who runs a hedge fund, but she was sad, hurting. Alone in New York City.

From there we made out in the park on Houston and Christie for an hour or so before she confessed that she was a bad girl and that this would never work out. I made her promise to text me when she got home to make sure she was safe, but she never did. A fake number? Possibly, but really, all for the best. Things are complicated enough.

Now I'm on my way to Greenpoint with a beautiful Russian girl who I met last week at the free Amstel Light Fischerspooner concert. It was bold of me to say something to her, but I made myself do it. She was just too pretty, too drunkenly dancing to the music, too slyly sexy for me to ignore. And the fact that she looks like the two ex's that have hurt me the worst...well, we'll see what that means.

There's too much else to worry about right now, like where to live. The guys I was subletting from up in Harlem are moving out so I have a day or two to bounce. With no real leads and bare minimum cash til next Friday, I'm planning on living between work and sleeping in the park. Not much else for me to do. Should be interesting, I just hope it doesn't rain next week.

Fuck. The date was a bust really, though it was fun it was a friends sort of fun, really no chemistry at all. Now it's 3am and I'm back over at my old bar Botanica by Soho, depressed, fairly sober and beyond my means to handle my mood. I just now reality is crashing down on me and things are going to change again. I don't know where I'm going to live after tomorrow and suddenly it's terrifying me.

No one's around. I'm alone. The idea of staying up nights and sleeping in the park seems ridiculous, I don't know how much money I have, I'm really fucking scared of the next 24 hours. So much so that I'm reaching out to anyone I think may be around, but no one is. The manic side of my personality is crashing and I'm about to lose my shit. I don't even know if I can go home and just go to bed without incident.

I slept all day. Didn't want to face reality. But things happened. I packed, I have a plan, I found some craigslist ads that seem promising. Bushwick. Loft. It's odd but they dig comics and journalism, which is a double in for me. I hope it comes together. I hope I can bounce around for a few days until it does.

It seems as if there has been nothing but dramatic events, one right after another since...I think to January 2009 when I had first my now infamous ex and then left for Paris and Amsterdam. But even before that, for years, since I moved to NYC in 2004, and in a way my Long Island suburban twenties. Has it always been ridiculous, this life of mine?

Every memory proves that my life is an ongoing awkward calamity adventure. I'm sensitive, withdrawn, but so bored that a fiction persona is outside my drawing all this attention to me. Forcing me into situations where I feel challenged. Talk to people, handle responsibility, get your life together.

I just don't know how to get over my ex, or if I even want to. I love her. I always will. She is that chaos I need, and I somehow know her, or want to spend a lifetime trying to. I want her to feel fulfilled. Whole. I'm too much a child myself, I need to grow the fuck up, take charge, present myself to her at some future time as a better version of myself. The man who was supposed to take care of her.

She set me up on a date. With a girl I know through Reilly's comic studio, I've met once or twice. My ex knows her now and has said that she should contact me and we should go out. Well she did contact me, and after I find a place I will go out with her. And I'll be open to something with this girl, but I don't think I'll pursue it like the overeager, overly-idealistic romantic dreamer as I have in the past.

I need to be here in the moment. Not shooting my imagination into the tomorrows of years gone by, but here with people who care about me, people who are thinking about me, praying for me, concerned about me, well, I owe it to them to make sure that I'm able to live my life, and hopefully even better for all that I've made suffer, especially myself, knowing the strength to be a strong and fair man, inspiring others to such greatness.

I want to be king. But not why you think. I actually care and I think I can do some good in this world.

I wrote a blog about this week that I was on vacay...

But I've decided to keep that to myself. Sometimes writing things down tends to offend or hurt others and so I've decided to somewhat censor myself for now (although if you're really cool I'll let you read the uncensored blog).

In the meantime, here's my honest account of life as of right here, right now. I'm a mess. I have a steady job, but I'm still working a lot of things out. I have an unshakable (for the most part) optimistic, romantic idealism that carries me through this all with a shrug and a faint prayer that it'll all work itself out, which it always does.

I was depressed and miserable in my early to mid 20's. Then late twenties and 30 loomed, and so I went crazy when I moved to NYC. I can never stress how hard it was switching from a total suburban loser to city dweller that late in the game, but I took it in stride. Also, I had amazing people show me the way when I first got here.

I'm always still working this out. I never really get the rules of the game, even if other people do or do not. I'm just me, and I've apologized for that as long as I care to. Here I am. I'm living my life. I honestly try to make as many people happy as I possibly can, cheer up those who are down, and inspire those who are teetering on the edge. Just as you've all done for me.

I love you. Seriously. I can not stress how much I feel towards all of you. You've done so much for me that I can't properly express it. Words are too weak, emotions too strong, so I hope you realize how much I want to let you know, I appreciate it. If you've helped me overcome the last year, I can't tell you how much it means and how much it was needed.

But here I am. I'm good. A total mess for sure, but I've come out the other side and survived. I laugh in the face of personal crisis, I look over the dance-floor and survey the scene, I slide into any social situation and charm away. All things I never thought myself capable of at one point or another. But here I am, doing it, living it.

My life was never easy. I was always an atypical male, someone too sensitive for urban living, yet eager to throw himself into the mix. I want a life of adventure, and looking back, I see I've lived nothing but. Every day of this vacation, my first in years, has been spent doing something totally random. This is how I always wanted to spend my life.

Who knows what will happen tomorrow, where I'll be, where I'll be living, but I know it'll work out. The people in my life have taught me that. Roll with the punches as Young MC would say. I am me. I don't know any other way to be. I apologize if something I've written here has hurt anyone. That was never my intention. I am a writer, and I must write.

So from here on out you will read an honest account of my life. And this is fair warning, if you do not want to be mentioned then you must either let me know or decide to not be a part of my life. I accept either decision as I understand how things could be weird, but this is who I am. I'm a writer. And a lot of my neuroses came from not being honest in my writing.

I don't know how many people read this blog, if any, but I promise you nothing but the truth from here on out. I owe it to myself first and foremost, but also to you as fellow human beings. Nothing destroys the creative spirit quite as much as falsehood.

My name is Kurt Christenson. If you've read this, then I love you. If you haven't, then you just haven't gotten to know me yet. And I love you anyways.

K

Please help kitty (& me)

Okay, so this is ridiculous but I need any help I can get and now it's not just for me but this kitten that I just found. I have named him Jack.

He is insane and doesn't want to sit still for a picture, but he is very cute and we've already fallen in love with each other. But I have a problem. This is literally the last night at my sublet, which I thought I would have another week at until the other people began moving out. I suddenly have to find a place to stay until I get paid next Friday on the cheap.

And now I have a kitty. I don't know what to do but I love this little guy already and I think I called him to me as I've been pining for my kitty Boosh who is with my ex.

I've been missing her like crazy as I've never really had my own cat. It's usually with a girlfriend. And now this guy has jumped up on my window in Harlem and bellowed inside until I had to take off my headphones, run out there and grab him. What could I do? I can't think that this cat went out and was killed because I did nothing.

So here I am, soon to not have an apartment and now with a little guy. If anyone can help me out, find a place to crash with him for a few days or if anyone can hold on to him for a few days/weeks til I find another place i'd really appreciate it. Please pass this around or let me know if you know anyone who'd have a place to stay for a bit. I have some money to pay for at least a week.

Thank you for any help you can provide.

Now I gotta get this guy to chill out and lay down.

K

ArghBrain@gmail.com

Kurt Christenson's Precious Little Life

Sitting on line outside the East Village movie theatre, waiting for a sneak preview of Scott Pilgrim, which I'm waiting on Emily and her friends who are helping her move to Astoria before meeting me here. So we'll see if they make it, if I get in and see it.

Things are always up in the air, on a day when my debit card has been canceled due to a $1700 purchase in Italy and then I find my other bank account is overdrawn by $1000 because my ex never deposited the money for our last month of rent in our old apartment. My cousin who I was hoping to get an apartment with is ready to give up and get one by himself. And I still need to pay $200 for the next week in my Harlem sublet.

After next Fri I'll be homeless, hopefully going down to the Jersey Shore for Reilly's birthday, then maybe going up to Massachusetts to visit Boston Scott for a few days, then I have no idea where I'll live. I can barely afford a place and save money for a new more permanent place. I am going to have to rely on friends and travel far to get to work.

But at least I'm starting coloring work on the comic with Reilly. It's amazing to be working on it, seeing it come to life, knowing that my work is going into it like this. Then he'll really make the coloring pop and I'll letter it, then we prep it for comixology to be read on iPods and such. It's pretty insanely exciting to be readying my own comic as I sit here about to see a multimedia comic experience like Scott Pilgrim.

One artist, six volumes of a comic, now a major motion picture, awesome old school video game, big name bands on a soundtrack. There's posters all over the city of a character that was once just a sketch in a notebook, now it's a giant poster in Times Square with a whole cast of actors portraying it on the big screen. That's why I exist. To bring my vision to that kind of fruition.

Even if it's just a comic, that's amazing, but the comic I'm working on with Reilly could easily be a video game, and even more so a cartoon or movie. To think that between us both we have the capability and connections to make that happen is astounding. It makes me feel like all these hardships and the hard work is all worth it. We're creating something. Something awesome and fun.

One day people will know Mac Washington, who has taken on a life of his own in my script, who has developed a personality through Reilly's drawings. He's a goofball, a slacker loser with heart. A simple guy with good intentions. And his supporting cast is just as awesome. I really can't wait for you guys to meet them.

Now to survive in the big city long enough to bring it fully to life. Wish me luck.

If Things Had Gone According to Plan...

I'd be in San Diego right now. I guess that's why I'm overcompensating by blogging everything newsworthy from Comicon on my Write Club Tumblr-blog. I even posted up my assesment of the collection of Thor movie material on the main Write Club blog.

Time to rethink that whole thing. It's much easier for my to scour Tumblr and pull the relevant information and post it there rather than craft a whole post on my other blog. I just want to somehow make money doing what I'm doing, reporting on comic book stories. I know comics better than nearly anyone, having spent 20 years of my life immersed in it.

I'm also trying to create my own. My graphic novel Legend of Liquid Fury has been in limbo for a few years, which I intend to correct this fall as I release a few lettered pages at a time and give my take on Asian film and the crazy kung fu adventures that inspired it. I really just need a stable environment and access to my movies for that.

Once Reilly gets back from San Diego we're going to start up on Power Play, our digital comic which will be coming to iPhones, iPods, and web browsers in the next few months. I can't wait to get into more stories with Mac Washington and the gang (you'll meet them soon) as I feel like Reilly and I have really created a unique cast that resides right here in NYC.

I guess I really can't leave NYC right now. I need to be here, to draw on the power and frustration that this city provides. I just really need to expand my job beyond digital images. It's a pretty dying industry and I really want to write in some shape or form for a living. I'm hoping I can start freelancing, blogging, pitching, get an agent, liscense properties...the dream.

I need to do something. I can't be broke like this anymore. I want a nice apartment. A TV, with cable. Maybe a kitty. I'd like to go on a vacation, even if it's a weekend away upstate. If I keep repeating this perhaps it will somehow come to pass. I'm told that it seems like this is me at my most together. I feel that way, so it's nice to have it confirmed.

Everything's just up in the air. Where will I live past August? Will I have a job at the Daily News for much longer? There's so many possibilities. I guess, it really just depends on what I want now doesn't it? I better figure that out and fast.

K

There's Something About Creative Types

We're a mess, insecure, manic. Well, some of us. We sell ourselves short and keeping forging ahead. We have a feeling we'll never do it, yet we keep striving for some lofty ambition, some unattainable goal.

But there must come a moment where you've done the work, met the people, honed your skill, embraced your talent. Now, you just need to let yourself succeed. That's really the tricky part. I need to re-read things I've written, question the quality, look at my pictures on Facebook to see that, yes, I am cool and awesome, and just revel in that insane life that I've led.

I'm at the point where I know comic professionals, people I was friendly with years ago are now working in the industry. They remember me, and they like me. Some even recognize my skill. I've had rockstar moments where I was drunk in midtown talking with David Mack (one of my favorite writer/artists) and he pulls over Bob Burden (one of the ultimate weirdos from the black & white indie boom of the 80's). That was surreal.

And it might not mean much to regular folk, but it was like hanging out with Gavin Rossdale and him bringing over They Might Be Giants. My best friend draws for Marvel and has for years. He's brought me the Marvel Friends & Family premiere of Spider-Man 3 & Iron Man 2. I sat in the same section as Joe Kelly (a personal friend and longtime supporter), Fred Van Lente, Dan Slott, and Walt Goddamn Simonson.

I'm so close. I can feel the work I'm doing, the work I fit inbetween working an erratic night schedule at the Daily News and having a nervous breakdown from a self-destructing relationship. I have a comic/writing/art blog & podcast, a graphic novel that's waiting for me to finish lettering, a novel that's just about done, and this new blog where I can tell you (and myself) all about who I am and what I'm doing.

Thank you for reading this, I really appreciate the comments and compliments I've received thus far. I promise this is just the beginning. There's so much for me to say and do, and finally having an audience validates that I haven't been wasting the last ten years of my life.

Oh, and I just wanted to touch upon synchronicity. I watched Men Who Stare At Goats, which is based on this actual new age military operation from the early 80's that reinvented the idea of an army. The actual program was called the 1 Earth Battalion and it's run by the original creator Jim Channon.

I was intrigued by his ideas and revolutionary concepts, so I looked him up. Unfortunately he was selling the manual for $15 which is beyond my budget. But I had discussed it with my co-worker Stu one day, and three days later I saw it sitting on his desk. I assumed he found a copy, or knew someone who had it and let him borrow it.

I asked him today and he had no idea who left it there. I hadn't even mentioned it to anyone else.

K

Now the real work begins

Okay, less than $100 for the next 10 days. Roughly $10 a day to eat, but going to need more money for a Metrocard if I don't want to walk 125 blocks every day. But maybe I should, exercise would do me good, and I finally do have good running sneakers.

Speaking of, get your ass to the gym this week. At least take a break tomorrow and go for a short bit. You need to be in shape, anything less than killer abs in unacceptable. But you've also got to somehow get to martial arts classes, but let's worry about that once you're in shape. Show yourself that you deserve to learn to fight.

The good thing is, you've just quit smoking cigarettes. Unless you break down and buy a roll-it-yourself pack, but even that would break the bank as it were. So far it's been one full day plus of no cigarettes, and other than a few twinges here and there, didn't even want one. The summer just makes me so sick, and I think I smoked more than I should've this past weekend.

So cut expenses. Other than the $280 a month to Discover, and whatever the phone bill will be once you work it out with Lauren, those are the only recurring bills, though you will have to contact Capitol One & Bank of America, but those are much lesser amounts. Two paychecks would take care of them altogether.

So other than the $100-200 you have to pay for Aug 1st - Aug 12th, you're pretty minimalized. So just worry about food and getting to work. At $10 a day that'll be $140 every pay period. $27 every week for an Unlimited Metrocard. $30 taken out for the gym.

Get on a phone plan from work, get rid of T-Mobile. If you can afford it, get the EVO from Sprint, or a plain phone and a netbook. Something that can stream Netflix. Oh, I guess cancel Netflix. That's how you know things are bad, but I never watch the stuff so...sigh. oh right and $99 for storage starting September 1st.

So that's:
$240 (Discover)
$99 (Storage)
$108 (27 x 4, Metrocard)
$300 (minimum food)
= $747 plus whatever I need for the phone, so basically just over $800. Ooof.

In the past twenty-four hours I spend $4.50 on a breakfast sandwich & OJ (33rd & 8th, turkey bacon, amazing), ate an apple I had on the way to work, egg roll & chicken noodle soup (gave me a headache) for $3.90, blew 50 cents on two frozen White Castle burgers and 60 cents on a bag of chips, $3.50 on a breakfast sandwich (33rd & 9th, sausage, meh) and just had a quarter of a massive orange.

$12.50 total. Not a good start.

Ugh, this is going to suck. I need to bulk home cook asap, while I still have money left.

No real writing done today, lots of Write Club Tumblr posting, gearing up for posting on the actual blog, and trying to find a moment to get the last chapter of Tower of Brahma written, as well as the pitches for Marvel I want to put together.

I really need to get on the movie script work. Ugh, so much to do and an exhausting day of work is only...8 hours ahead of me. Balls.

Night.

K

From Pimp to Pauper

Paid on a Friday, broke by Monday. I have a restless night of sleep as Discover and T-Mobile kick my bank accounts ass, and I did my own fair share of damage this weekend as well. Just, when you're broke for a week and severely depressed, and SOMEHOW you pull off surviving another week in the city...you want to party.

So after my cataclysmic Wed night and my epic dance-a-thon Thurs, I went out again on Fri night. I met up at Matt's apartment and we hung out on his fire escape drinking green tea & vodka. Then some beers at a bar nearby, then down to the Village for some sushi, the Soho for some more drinks.

I play wingman as he slips in and gets numbers. I know I had a conversation with someone, but other than her age (my own) and where she was from (Jersey), the rest is a haze. From there we do...something? We may've taken a taxi up to Hamachi on 23rd where I met up with LaRaisha & Johnny Speedboat for karaoke.

I woke up the next afternoon, hungover as fuck, late for work, and in Spanish Harlem. I somehow manuevered the area in blazing heat, down to the top of Central Park and nearly pass out as I wait to get a Metrocard. I get to work and want to die. Pale and puffy, sweating through the white shirt and vest I wore the night before.

Eventually the hangover is a dull body ache and a sore throat, but as work draws to a close, I realize I have plans to go out that night as well. The Irish Exit, a new pub on the east side Midtown, basically turns into a dance club. I met up with Reilly & his gf Shauna and tell the girl at the door we're there on Kealan's list, and have some half price drinks.

The place is devastatingly packed. I'm caught somewhere between hangover and anxiety as musclebound bros and fabulous hoes squeeze by every few seconds. Girls jump up on the bar, bubbleguns fired into the air, and even the theme song to Growing Pains gets rocked out to.

I had to open a tab as I had no cash and suddenly after three beers and shots, I'm signing away $40 between girls legs, skirts tossed about my eye line. We skip out of there, walk down to 34th & 3rd, get one last drink at Joshua Tree, singing along with the best of 80's videos.

From there I meet up with LaRaisha and we go to Planet Rose and have a few drinks as well. Only, I didn't realize that my old roommate and his girlfriend were there. I hate them. Immensely. He looks like shit, like something I dragged up from the shower drain when I first moved in with him. I dream of dragging him outside and beating him, or hitting his woman, daring him to man up and try and fight me.

There's an entire book that could be written on how much and why I hate him like I do. But the situation was bound to happen considering that I've been hanging in the East Village a lot lately. From there Larasiha and I hang out on her brother's roof across from Webster Hall. They take turns playing songs on the guitar and it kills me everytime.

I just sit here and press a string of keys as thoughts come to me, vocabulary and grammar just piecing itself together as I do. But to just pick up and instrument, close your eyes, and physically transform into this being that can produce harmonies and notes and move you on a deep level, well, I see why muscians are more regarded, or eagerly appreciated rather.

But so that's that. The party's over (until next payday?) and now it's back to surviving on the mean streets of NYC. This is why I'll appreciate the fame and fortune, because I was here, eating egg rolls & street cart food to survive, sleeping on floors and asking other for help. And one day I will pay it back.

K