Hourly Comic Day 2010!

If you weren't around me over the course of February 1st, you may not be privy to the glorious holiday that is Hourly Comic Day. If you're too lazy to follow the link and look around the website at the other end of it, here's HCD in a nutshell: every January, the very talented John Campbell of Pictures for Sad Children spends the entire month making a two-panel comic, every waking hour, about what happened in his life that hour. That is many hours and many comics, so on February 1st, in solidarity with John's cause (whatever the hell that is), a bunch of people (cartoonists, artists, and even laypeople like me) join in by making a measly day of hourly comics. I have wanted to do HCD for a couple years now, but only this year have I gotten my act together in time to actually do it. I did a few practice comics (they're hilarious; maybe I'll post them sometime), marked the day in my planner, and set to it. Of course, I was an idiot and missed the first hour, but I think I made up for it a little.

And so, without further ado, my poorly-drawn, not-so-funny hourly comics (click on any to enlarge, btw):

You'll Be Given Love, But You'll Have to Trust It.

Joss Whedon just got a whole lot more awesome in my eyes. I found this via Sociological Images and Feministing (best logo ever), which give women and men reason after depressing reason to join Joss and others in the fight for equality.

This hits on something I've felt over the past three years, and especially in the last couple months: It's only by shithouse luck (if you'll excuse the expression) that, from the beginning of my college experience, I've fallen in among friends and family whose attitudes are progressive, inclusive, and inherently loving and empowering. It goes beyond just having heroes that represent the unrepresented. It's the implantation of an entire culture that thinks I'm important, not just another pair of tits stuck to a vagina. I shudder to think what might have become of me if I had not stumbled upon these treasures: people who were willing to be patient with me as I groped and faltered my way through the darkness; people who trusted me with their true selves, whether gay, bisexual, transgender, cisgender, or straight; people who will stand with me against the flood of hate.

Whether they know it or not, these people have given me a power that I have never had before.

An enormous part of that power is the comfort of knowing. For instance, I know I will never have to spend my life silently hating the men around me for the unequal way they treat me. I know I will never have to worry how my husband will react if our child turns out to be gay or transgendered. I know I know that the people around me act only to bring more good into the world. These are good things to know.

Another part of that power is getting to have a richer range of experiences as a human being. Unlike generations of women before me (and even, unfortunately, many of the women of my own generation), I will have the pleasure of washing dishes, doing laundry, visiting Planned Parenthood, vacuuming, making decisions, and living alongside my husband, not for him. I hope to be there when Sara and Aly welcome their baby into the world with all the love, pride, and happiness that anyone would on such a momentous occasion. Someday I hope to watch as my transman friend walks down the aisle with his beautiful bride and my dear gays join each other at the altar. Some of it is sad: I will never see the media the same way, and I will spend hours questioning the equality or inequality of each part of Ian's and my wedding ceremony. But let me tell you: I'd rather spend my time loving and being loved than hating, fearing, and discouraging love.

Mom, Dad, I've got something important to tell you...

Well the cat's out of the bag now. It wasn't much of a cat, and it wasn't much of a bag after all, really. But when you're twenty and looking at telling your parents that you've found the man you want to marry, the cat is a tiger and the bag is a bank vault. Or insert Scheodinger's cat joke of choice here, because instead of reacting with any kind of surprise or excitement, my entire family (one by one and completely independent of each other, I might add) gave me a sort of "No, really? Go on! Who knew?" reaction. My little sister and dad even openly laughed. Talk about anticlimactic. Am I really that predictable? Lol. What a whole lot of fuss over nothing.

iTunes runs my life for real.

One of those many, many memes that circulates. This one came from Alasdair. You know who he is. I only skipped when French came up the second time, which I thought was fair. If my life were a movie:

Opening Credits:
Sairi del Ande - Wayanay Inka
(a laid-back panpipe tune; appropriate)

Your mom finds out she's pregnant with you:
405 - Death Cab for Cutie
(must've been unexpected - this is about a drunken trip down a western WA freeway)

Slideshow of her pregnancy:
Brain Damage - Pink Floyd
(explains a lot, really)

While she's delivering you:
Okay - The Metasciences
(a slow, slightly atonal guitar-and-female-singer piece that would be good for a low-key, depressing montage)

Your first birthday:
Exciter Lamp - Matmos
(first time I've listened to this - it's an abstract electrono piece, so who knows? this is definitely shaping up to be an indie film...)

You growing up:
Something - The Beatles
(apparently someone is in love with me/stalking me throughout my childhood. Or the viewer is supposed to fall in love with me?)

Your first day of school:
Message in a Bottle - The Police
(So true.)

Meeting your first friend:
The Wind Beneath My Wings - Roger Whitaker
(I laughed out loud. The irony is too much)

Your first day of middle school:
Two Franks - Count Basie
(a very fast-paced, sax-heavy jazz piece. probably appropriate)

Meeting your first crush:
New York, New York - Frank Sinatra
(hmmm. not the best Frank song I could think of for the occasion, but it'll do?)

Your first kiss:
Steal My Sunshine - Len
(I love this song so much. You could get any meaning you want from the lyrics, but it fits particularly well in that it mentions laying in the grass)

Fighting with your parents:
Everything That You Need - Adam Richman
(this says everything: "I'm not grown up, I'm still writing songs, and I'm dealing with you still every day")

Fighting with your friends:
When We Refuse to Suffer - Jonathan Richman
(gist: when we refuse to suffer and feel, that's when life starts to suck, and the artificial things win. This would have to be a pretty specific fight for the lyrics to fit, but the music itself fits.)

Breaking up:
Christmas in Jail, Aint' that a Pain - Leroy Carr
(Blues. Perfect.)

Your first day of high school:
White Cloud, Big Sky - guess who?
(whistling loneliness, an insistent string... excellent fit)

Your sweet sixteen:
Songs for Ghosts to Haunt to - Maps and Atlases
(manic, unclear, awesome)

Your 18th birthday:
This Charming Man - The Smiths
(somehow perfect - it's very much a growing up song: "Will nature make a man of me yet?")

Your graduation ceremony:
'Cause You Can - Birdmonster
(this song gives a feeling of running, which fits well)

Your first day of college:
Blue Ridge Laughing - Carbon Leaf
(a healthy dose of homesickness, nostalgia, and anticipation)

Your first college party:
Pablo Picasso - Jonathan Richman
("Girls would turn the color of an avocado as he would drive down the street in his El Dorado, so Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole" - perhaps I meet an asshole or am one?)

Meeting your true love:
Yellow - Coldplay
(a sweet song with the proper sense of early love's euphoria)

Getting married:
Start Choppin' - Dinosaur Jr
(another I had never heard - a breakup song)

Finding out you/your spouse is pregnant:
Fake Frowns - Death Cab for Cutie
(not the most auspicious song for a pregnancy)

Having your first child:
Revenge of the Nerds - KJ-52
(exactly how it sounds. also, very auspicious!)

Getting old:
Radio Song - R.E.M.
("The world is collapsing around our ears; I turned off the radio" - the correct way to get old, I think)

Your spouse gets sick:
Lesson 30 - Living Language (French)
(LOL - I have no idea what this would mean. A breakdown of communication due to the sickness? "ça depends")

They die:
Hello, Goodbye - The Beatles
(upbeat and tragic when applied to this, but it fits sadly well)

At their funeral:
Blue Christmas - Bright Eyes
(extremely well-planned)

You end up in the hospital:
Light Up Ahead - Further Seems Forever
(a song that suggests that one is very accepting of one's fate)

Your death:
Action Adventure (live) - Andrew Bird
("You're not invited to my action adventure, my action adventure dream" - I love it)

Your funeral:
Autumn Leaves - Eva Cassidy
(my favorite ballad ever, I think. Well-chosen, iTunes!)

Can YOU paint with all the colors of the wind?

I'm tired, I had to get up early, it's snowing, and I have a million things to do, but things are wonderful. Why? Because:

1) It finally looks like winter (the bright white kind, not the dreary gray kind), so I got to wear my beloved snow boots into the winter today.

2) As I left my class and stepped into the wild white world this morning, there was a guy singing "Paint with All the Colors of the Wind" and "Let it Snow" (loudly and very well, I might add) into a cell phone. His friends were laughing at him, but he just stepped outside the doors and kept singing into the phone.

3) My bonded pair of gays is incredibly adorable.

4) My African American Lit professor gives extensions.

5) I may have time to go get my haircut fix this weekend - it's something haircut junkies get excited about - and it will be just in time for me to...

6) Get to go see my older sister in a couple weeks!

I don't make this up, folks.

The world is so surreal when you don't know what's going on.

Outside my window, on the opposite hill about fifty yards away, there are three men. One is lying on the ground with a pack next to him, an apparent transient. The other two (not in uniforms of any kind, not Carroll personnel) appear to be performing medicine on him. Actually, the way it has been most of this time is that one has gloves on and is kneeling by the transient and doing indeterminate things to him while the other is standing and holding a clipboard. They do the normal "talk to one another as if the patient is not there" thing that medical personnel seem to think helps people.

A minute ago the poor transient was moaning (were they setting a broken bone? giving him a shot? I don't know), then one of the other men started putting this orange thing against the transient's arm. By this time, they have been here with the transient for at least half an hour, and I'm pretty sure the transient has been here for at least an hour and a half. I'm not sure why they haven't taken him to the hospital yet. The two men seem to be pretty damn calm about the fact that there's a hurt man at their feet. They stand and seem to be asking him questions. It looks like this will take a while. Perhaps I should call an ambulance?



Update: So about 5 minutes after I wrote that first part, I wandered across the hall to see if Ashley could provide any insight into what was going on. She and my friend Briana cleared things up. It was part of a live-action wilderness survival training course. I think I've had my drug trip for the day!

Out of my mind.

This is mostly intentionally punctuation-light. I think I'll call it poetry. Feel free to put in line breaks and punctuation how you imagine one would. We could call it creative essay, perhaps. This is what listening to Tegan and Sara does to you. I'd listen to this song while reading in order to get the full effect. Boy, do those girls have a way with things.


I want you close to me like the music like when you turn up the volume louder and louder until it almost hurts and you’re cringing but that’s not enough so you press the headphones deeper into your ears until it almost hurts but this time not because it’s too loud but because it’s still not enough because you just want it inside you, inside your head, inside your heart in your belly in your hands in your feet Oh God, I can’t get close enough I can’t I can’t I can’t

But you go and I know you must, so I put my music on repeat and turn up my headphones.

I want to see you like when you read a book all about someone’s life and how they seemed to know just what to do at every turn or they didn’t but it doesn’t matter because isn’t it wonderful that somebody had a life and that they lived it, and if it’s gone now it doesn’t matter it’s just that they lived they loved and I want that I want to know that it all turns out okay that we hold hands peacefully when the sun explodes and I try to remember the future but can’t.

But you go and I know you must, so I plot out the rest of our days with a little room for secret plans.

I want to feel you like a painting when you look at the lines and the woman’s face and the colors how they mix and blur and you can’t touch it because the sign says and because you can’t; it was another time another place and maybe the artist made love with the model every afternoon, but he was bothered because he couldn’t paint the little lines in her eyes just right I’ve tried to draw you, your eyes your eyes, but I just couldn’t get it right and nobody would understand and I don’t think I do either

But you’re tired and want to sleep so I stare at your eyelids.

I present as evidence Figure 1.

Figure 1: I don't care who you are, this is adorable and awesome. I hope is wasn't staged. Just look at the dads' smiles in the last panel!


Figure 2: OMG so true. Villains! All of us! Pinko commies! Nazi fascists! ... with... common ground?



A few weeks back, I discovered the tabs at the top of the famous I Can Has Cheezburger page. These tabs, when I activated the clicking control device over them, took me to magical places, places where they entertain me with celebrity lolz, graph lolz, and sometimes political lolz (when they weren't blatantly bashing conservativism). I highly recommend each of them, because it is important to get your daily dosage of lolz and other opinions.

The cake is a lie. The cake is a lie. The cake is... mmm, tasty!

Two birthdays in one week! Happy birthday Ian and Ashley! Okay, so it's a little late, but you have to forgive me for wanting to wait on getting the film developed:


Randi made not one, but TWO beautiful cakes in one week. The second first: Ian's delicious chocolate rum cake with the CERN logo on top. I think he just about flipped his lid when he saw it!


And Ashley's fabulous Dante's Cove cake. Yay for gay soap operas!

What is there to write about when stuck at athletics events for hours at a time?

The teams we play continue to consternate me. Last night we played (in addition to the Tech "Diggers") the University of Regina.

That would be all well and fine if it were "Reh-gee-nah." But apparently Canooks (I never mean "Canook" derogatorily; I just like the word) don't use some of the same words we Americans do, because they pronounce it "Reh-jye-nah," which, in case you were wondering, sounds exactly like "vah-jye-nah" in a crowded gym.

It's all well and good to try to preserve the old ways of saying things. But you really don't serve to make people more serious about your men's basketball team when you have the announcer attributes your shots to Vagina, announces fouls on Vagina, or even numbers each Vagina on the court (5, apparently). It doesn't do much for my whiplash, either.



I guess it's safe to admit, though, that we're all from someone's Regina, originally. Maybe I should cheer for them next time?

Ice is nice – and will suffice.

I'm moving to warmer climates. I foresee that the warm ocean around Florida, California, Texas... these will do quite nicely. Why?

I've seen the Apocalypse, my friends, and it's full of broken furnaces and cold showers.

Back by popular demand.

Since all three of my readers have officially made me feel guilty about not writing anything for so long, I suppose I can make myself write a post or two.

But I have (or, as it were, had) so many good excuses for utterly forsaking this little patch of cyberspace. My computer's long-lobbied mutiny against me (I ask you, little iMac, was it all the cephalopod porn? Was it the blogging? The presence of Windows Office? Was I jamming your keyboard too hard? WHY OH WHY??!) was rather crippling. And I've been busy, I guess, though I'll often find myself alone in my room doing nothing in the middle of the day, which, as you know, is the perfect environment for hatching a blog post (note post time).

One factor is that I haven't had any homework from which to procrastinate. Believe you me, homework spurs a great many blog posts in this world. If I had to guess, I'd say that the imminent threat of actual work prompts about, oh, 98% of all clutter in the blagosphere. Livejournal, Blogger, Wordpress... all of these have been found under microscopic examination to be comprised almost entirely of a digitalized compound of laziness and fear of doing real things. Just look at the pixels on the page of any blog. You can see that they ooze with loathing for actual work. However, since I have had very little actual work that involved me sitting at a computer this summer, I have not been able to generate enough laziness and fear to excrete a blog.

See? Completely not my fault, and in a simple, explainable, concise form.




Frankly, I can't believe that, either. Really I've spent most of this summer, and really probably most of this year, being utterly terrified. It hasn't kept me up at night or anything, but I can't help but feel overwhelmed with my choice of college major. I love reading; literature gives me a jolt like few things can. I love writing; there is no joy quite like creating something that you know is good. The problem is where these two joys and my perfectionism intersect. I read great fiction by people such as Joey Comeau and Megan McCarron and wonder to myself how the hell I would EVER be able to come up with something witty, creative, and moving enough to even lick the shoes of a story like "Where Are You Off To Now?" or "The Flying Woman" or even projects such as 55 Words. My creative writing class ended with my miserable failure at creating a cohesive short story (for me, a favorite medium), and I find myself afraid now to even try - and, well, that doesn't leave a blog based mostly on writing in any kind of a good place, does it?

Maybe I'll buck up and get over it. Surely I'm not going to change my major based on this. I've let similar bouts of perfectionist paralysis mess up my schooling far too many times. So for now, my three dear readers, I shall do my best to overcome this. Bear with me, but don't be afraid to push me, either. And, over all, thanks for everything.

no c'est la vie.

A girl from my town died in a car accident a few days ago. She and her cousin, 18 and 13 respectively, were pronounced dead at the scene. The photo I saw of the car (curse my google skills) was horrific, not because it was especially mangled, but more because it was so fucking intact. There inside that hulk of metal, a thirteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old had died. Lies, graft, and corruption.

When I read the PDF of the Colfax Bulletin article my parents sent, I began to cry. I don't know exactly why. I knew her, but not well. The clearest memory I have of her is from probably five years ago when we took our cats in to get shots or something. She was at the vet, helping out; she was neighbors with the vet and loved animals. I was jealous. I loved animals. Did I get to help the vet? No. Nonetheless, I tried to be polite. I spent the entire time trying to remember her name. She was nice, I knew that, and not from the best family. I seemed to remember or sense that she had a hard life, and I wanted to be extra nice to her. Getting a grasp of her name just before we left, I awkwardly mispronounced it as I headed out the door. I always did feel bad about the whole episode. I hadn't even remembered it; I had heard the vet say it. I wish I could get it right.




Rest in peace, Chantel.

Now we see the violence inherent in the system.

And I wish I could mean that jokingly. This is what happens when I read BBC News. BBC will mess your shit up. They got me all excited about awesome German restaurants, then told me that women in India and Bangladesh get acid thrown on them for being independent. That pretty much takes care of the little bit of hope for the world I had with the Miss Landmine pageant. I can hear it fly out the window. There it goes.

Goddamn people.


In happier news, I get to wear a hate word on my shirt tomorrow. It won't be bad (just "Mick"), but it's representative of my heritage, and I have no doubt that many an ancestor of mine faced N.I.N.A. ("No Irish Need Apply," also on my shirt) signs. My dear Jewish friend is wearing the k-word, and mi Roma amiga is to wear one that says "Pikey".

What's more startling/interesting than the language is what language people find offensive/non-offensive. One friend (okay, it was the Jew) did not think the c-word to be offensive: "It's just like 'bitch,'" she says. Another said that it was "anatomical." I disagree - this is the MOST offensive word for a woman, and it's never used in the anatomical sense. Some other people thought the word "Jew" to be offensive - a sentiment to which, well, The Jew took offense. What else does she call herself? Like "gay" and "queer," "Jew" has undergone a reclamation in the past generation. The only case we could think of "Jew" being offensive is in its use as a verb - clearly quite inflammatory and unacceptable.

Hmmm.



As long as I'm being a blogger, I might as well tell about other "cool and exciting" things: Design by Hümans is sending my shirt, surely set to arrive posthaste. MAIL! MAIL CONTAINING CLOTH! I LIKE CLOTH!


As if that wasn't arbitrary enough, here's a picture I took of Jonathan Richman, the saddest upbeat little old Jewish man ever:

Human, kind.

There are some days in which you smile. I could not help it when I stumbled upon BBC's article announcing an upcoming beauty pageant. The candidates, who represent different parts of the war-torn country of Angola, will compete on April 2.

Did I mention that they're all missing limbs?

These beautiful ladies will be competing for much more than the chance to wear a crown or a sash. No, the Miss Landmine contest is an event more difficult to win, for even in Angola, where BBC reports that the limbless are seen in every village, stigmas and struggles still reign for those who have been injured by the millions of mines that plague the country. Go, ladies, go.

Art school inconsequential.

I’ve written about this previously, but sometimes things need reiteration. I have a fair number of pet peeves, and like the pet peeves of all people, they have little foundation in any sort of realistic expectations of how things should be. However, that does not stop me from selfishly wanting things to work the way I want them to. It’s in my nature, and I believe that these unrealistic wants in fact stem directly from one characteristic of my personality. I constantly evaluate my actions and myself – how I affect me, how I affect other people, how I view others who do this, how others may interpret this action – and regulate myself accordingly. Where I have a problem (and start to become exceptionally frustrated and annoyed) is where people refuse to look at themselves and their own behavior.

My last example was of people who are unable to deal with their own lack of proficiency enough to recognize it – or, if they even recognize it, to do something about it, whether it’s making up for their deficiency or by thanking me for helping them. Today, it’s a teenager who refuses to believe that she’s tone-deaf and not an art-school-quality artist of any kind. These people hurt themselves (and, often, others) by not paying attention to themselves and their relationships with the world around them. They rebuff the idea of regulating themselves, turn down every chance to be their best selves, and clash raucously with the reality that they can’t bear to face. Therein is the source of probably everything that annoys me. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that people be aware of themselves, is it?

Love is a sad song.

She tossed something in the trashcan and stepped out of the bathroom just as he walked in the front door – late. She smoothed her shirt and fixed a quavering smile on him. He darted a glance at her, then swung open the door to the hall closet between them.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, his voice muffled by the closet full of coats.

She smiled and leaned against the wall, thrusting out her hip and staring at the closet door. “Nothing special,” she chirped. He impatiently exhaled the closet’s mothball-scented air and shut the door.

“Sounds exciting,” he dryly drawled.

She frowned and pressed herself flat against the wall. “We can make it exciting. Candles, a tablecloth, real napkins – I promise I’ll make it exciting. I’ll even open that bottle of…” She stopped as if rethinking her next words. Ignoring this, he mumbled, “Did you clean up your puke mess from this morning?” She pushed herself off the wall and into his arms, startling him.

“I love you,” she breathed. He looked down at her awkwardly.

“I can’t do this, Louise,” he said, shoving her away. “I have some papers you need to read and sign.”

At mile 33.

I pull abruptly to the edge of the highway, get out of the car, and slam the door before I realize that I have no idea why I stopped or why I shut the door so hard. It occurs to me just now that I have been asleep during the long drive and have only just awoken. I turn from the highway and begin climbing the rocky hill there, weaving among tiny evergreen saplings. I can smell the ocean, that is for sure; the smell of death and freedom is unmistakable.

I turn and look back at my little Volvo. It sits there, small, abandoned, and lonely, as trucks scream by. I can see the dent in the rear fender from here, and I am surprised; that day, with its miserly heat, maddening traffic, and flaring tempers, seems so far away that it seems impossible it ever existed. Maybe it didn’t. Like trees in forests, maybe melancholy in suburban cul-de-sacs doesn’t happen if nobody pays it any attention.

I reach the top of the hill, and, with my arms stretched insanely above my head, I wave at the huge expanse of blue stretched out before me like an endless embrace.

The walnut tree of Elm Street.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, too sultrily sun-warm for people to be outside, but Bellona is being a jaguar in the walnut tree on the corner. She drapes herself on her branch, trying to lie in just the same way as the big cats from this month’s National Geographic. Wide-mouthed and showing all the gaps in her tiny teeth, she imitates a predator’s jaded yawn, but her eyes give her away. It’s not too long before her little potbelly, the kind exhibited only by those ferocious beasts who feast on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, makes her squirm a little on her perch. She tries to maintain her feline posture, but it is soon apparent that she’s uncomfortable; her joints just don’t bend the right way.

Bellona becomes distracted from her discomfort, though, when the mailman comes into sight down the block. She watches him from above, a silent killer hidden in the cool, leafy recesses of her Elm Street jungle. Trying to mold her soprano voice to a throaty growl, her roar comes out more like a hum, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She stealthily arrays herself for battle as the mailman makes his way towards the patch of sidewalk below; her fingers curl like claws, gripping the branch as she gathers her legs beneath her. Her green eyes but sharp, fierce slits, she wiggles her haunches and waits.

Recorded for your viewing pleasure.

There was a puppet show at the gas station the other night.
Bundled figures waiting for their fill of molten motion
jerked awkwardly up and down like solitary, clumsy marionettes
on the blue-cold stage, puffing fog in involuntary rhythm
with some 80s one-hit wonder as they tried just to feel again
the sensation lost from their pink hands. Under the hypothermic
fluorescent spotlights, I think the puppets almost saw in each other
a hint of the intimate absurdity of the situation

we all are in. You should have seen it, because I know you
would have laughed with your eyes
squeezed shut like twin, snapping apertures,
and I would have wordlessly watched you
as your shutter-like reflex, your need
to capture existence, took you away from me
for that split second while you processed what you saw.

And later you would have developed the image
of the cold, tragic forms in the dark-
room, locking yourself away from the light
until the sketchy shapes of white and black solidifed,
finally, just the way your pictures always turn out:
a little dark, a little hazy, never glossy.

And in the shadows of some drizzly dawn,
you would have dredged the memory
from a musty album in your mind,
perhaps the thick volume marked “Loneliness,”
and projected it briefly from your grainy grey eyes
as you laughed yourself away in the rain.


(From the series of Creative Writing class assignments.)