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.