comic a day

2010-04-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

2010-04-06T20:16:00.000-07:00

2010-04-05T20:36:00.000-07:00

2010-04-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

ok, here's five of them alltogether....

i didnt have access to blogger thanks to our wonderful WAV internet, but ....hey, god bless Palermo's internet

2010-04-02T00:38:00.000-07:00

2010-03-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

2010-03-29T01:25:00.000-07:00

Feb 19

2010-03-27T11:35:00.000-07:00

feb 18

2010-03-26T19:20:00.001-07:00

feb 17

2010-03-25T01:14:00.000-07:00

feb 15 & 16

2010-03-24T12:26:00.000-07:00

Here we go! 2 for the price of 1 :D:D:D

Feb 14

2010-03-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

feb 13

2010-03-21T00:02:00.000-07:00

Feb 12

2010-03-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

Febtoday 11

2010-03-19T18:49:00.000-07:00

2010-03-18T20:40:00.000-07:00

And the 10th... btw its panos blogging this from the secret Daniel Ash studio in S. California... :D:D:D

FEB 9...I haven't blogged in a while...

2010-03-17T13:49:00.000-07:00

Like three years.

SO.

the story is that I had given my 2001 journal to someone and was waiting (in vain) to get it back before continuing on to 2002 and forward.

I have since then moved from Greece to TheMerica with only 2 suitcases, none of them containing my journals (or my computer files), and so, I will have to start anew with 2010.

In 2000 and ten there was apparently no january for me, but starting on Feb 9th I began a comic-a-day diary. I know it's mid-March, but I don't have a scanner, so I will give my comics to the world wide world of the interwebs in chunks here and there.

So, without further ado... here is my my my Febuary nine nine nine.

2007-11-05T01:18:00.000-08:00

Trilogies. Account of a Ridiculous Panic Attack in 00

2007-11-05T01:11:00.000-08:00

Trilogies.
My eyelids are exploding somehow, I know they are, in little bits, tiny miniscule explosions that dissolve the flesh around my eyes... too much caffeine in a few granules of instant coffee.. far too much. The wall clock at 10:58 3/4 is right there inside my devastatingly cold and loud eyelids and I'm SO PISSED about trilogiesI can't contain it. My stomach is careening towards my knees and my toes feel like childrens fireworks.
Trilogies. Back to the Future, Rocky, Rambo... ok, more than just trilogies, James Bond and Superman, too, then.
Clueless, clueless. Maybe I am, maybe they are.
The Songwriters, I mean, where are the musical trilogies?
Maybe they're out there and I don't know about them. MY GOD I've got to find them. Got to get them, all of them. Same bat characters in new bat stories carried over carried on carion.

Necromancers on Holiday

2007-11-05T00:57:00.000-08:00

Their triangles hang in circles
on chains around their necks
Witches from Sweden
Listening to R.E.M
drinking Coke Light
Their naughty kids
Praising God
for no snow
on the island
exposing their pink thighs
on white plastic beds
sacrificing
to the Sun
Their wizard fathers in Ray Bans
Tom Cruise of Druids.

B-Story 2000: "Free Mushy Peas"

2007-11-05T00:38:00.000-08:00

"Free mushy peas with every order of pork faggots."
She didn't know what pork faggots were. She didn't want to find out. And as appetizing as smucked-up peas might be to these Brits, Britney would have rather choked on grits day in day out than give em a go. What was she doing in the land of fish and chips? She, a girl who'ss ideal of a square meal was a McDonalds hamburger patti (without the bun--just katsup and pickles). And as for comfort--well, she longed for an orange plastic-coated booth where she could curl up to her Seventeen magazine while listening to some Kenny Rogers.
"Can I take your order, love?"
"I don't know. This menu is just so...so complicated."
"Ri-iiight..." and with that, the waitress turned and walked off slowly.
Britney shut her eyes and sighed.
""Mueseli. I just want some fruit mueseli."
The waitress came back and clamly sat down next to Britney in a hard wooden chair. The both seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. What seemed like hours later, both their butts beginning to numb, a bus boy came to theri table and asked if he could take theri order. The waitress didn't hesitate to request a list of the silly-named foods on the menu at the Royal Spoon and Duck. Britney didn't know what to say in the silence that passed, so she sputtered an order for coffee.
"White?"
"No. Brown. With some milk please."
"Riiiiiight" repeated Finnigan several times as he headed for the kitchen. Next to Britney "Flora" (according to her silver-highly-polished name tag), sat completely motionless, staring at the princess Diana porclain plate collection.
"It's a B-story" she told Britney thru mouthfulls of toad in the hole washed down with cold baked beans and pint upon pint of John Smith's.
"Uh...huh?" choked Britney, risking sounding a bit rude, or dumb, or both.
"B-movies, yeah? They were all over the place the year you were born. Well, now it's happening to you, only the resurgance is in B-stories, love, you're not worth the directorial effort of a film. So this is your lot. You're a character in a B-story. It's happened before, it'll happen again. You've heard of the Neil Smith Show?"
"W...well yeah."
"It's nothihng like that. Don't get your hopes up."

Britney dropped 2 fat, squat, meaningless coins down for what was essentially an enormous bol of coffee and left the Royal Bag of Muffins, or whatever it was called. She couldn't keep it straight.

2nd 2000 diary

2007-11-02T05:59:00.000-07:00

Licking his blisters
he insults her again.
The Dead Sea Rotting on her surface
she doesn't feel it--
she knows
he wants her to hate herself
the way he hates himself
so she can love him
the way he loves her.

A Page, May 2000

2007-11-02T05:32:00.000-07:00

theres's not much in my 2000 diary. I was living in Cyprus working as a singer. I wasn't very happy. Most of the diary is just notes on what I'm doing and where I'm going. I did some big paintings back then, but the diary has just got a few doodles or paint spotches from murals I was doing. This is the only page I like enough to upload... actually... I just found a second diary from 2000... it seems I wrote and doodled alot. So, correction, this is the only drawing I liked from ONE of the diaries...

some poem

2007-11-02T05:26:00.000-07:00

my smile is the deadest thing
borrowed from somewhere else
and ripped with insomnia I
sleep all day
a hollow
expression on my lips
if I touch my temple
with fingers like nettles
I can smell your
chest in hollowed
burrows
my hands ball into fists
beating my own face
for not seeing you
I can see the panic
when I shut my eyes
with my nails scraping at the skin
that dies between them
and falls like dust
hot and sweaty in my skull
the greyness stinks of that history
-only the barracks left
-and a blood-stained surgery
cement
some wooden planks
peeling toupe-faded paints
and Lincoln's pillow under glass
remember these tears in joy?
I learn to laugh
and I forget

how much there is to remember.

texting in the naught-ies

2007-11-02T05:04:00.000-07:00

the sex was good, but his badminton was awful,
so she left him, never to return again.
Occasionally, just to remind herself
of him and badminton,
she'd put on his mint-colored bat-costume.
It was surprisingly pleasant,
considering his playing.
Alternately, she would stare lustily at the knobs
on her cupboards and there was really very little
she could do to keep from swinging at them
with her bejewelled raquet.

2007-11-02T05:02:00.000-07:00

You cannot become what you can be

if you stay what you are...

more 2000

2007-11-02T05:00:00.001-07:00

dreaming of anorexia and fame
waiting for the bath to run dry
we
close my mouth with your fingers
inside me
smelling of hazelnuts

your pants on the floor
shirtsleaves wrapped around her pillow
with her magic

feeling sexy today
with those eyes that shine orange in the sun
you like the music you hear

and you can't say no
waiting for your angels
who watch you
so busily

THE YEAR 2000

2007-11-02T04:46:00.000-07:00

the story of inner explosives

she couldn't concentrate with the wind blowing up her nose like that. She felt like a cat sneezing, trying to avoid it. The speaker under her was going into some kind of convulsion, she felt it untying knots in her throat and bursting in her stomach. She thought for a second of how uncomfortable and irritable her mother would be, sitting in the back of a stranger's souped-up jeep, drum-n-bass exploding out of her ass; may she rest in peace with the rest of her family, until another gust of strong air shot straight into the holes in her face, reminding her that she was actually happy to be there.
She had walked ina staight line like a convict avoiding any sudden turns, anything that would echo the chaos inside her tummy.
Nothing in her head, she pushed it all down insider her throat, knotted and bloated like her starving stomach that screamed back and forth insider her, pressing against the walls of her abdomen. She could see a jeep pull up in front of her. Now what? She couldn't turn, couldn't pause, afraid she would completely implode the second her body inched in any direction but forward.
Screens shot up behind her eyelids where she could clearly see the images of her dissected husband that had sacrificed himself for a country they both hated. She focused on his severed head, that head that had been in her arms, cradled like a disembodied baby only months ago. She hadn't opened her eyes after their last kiss, and hadn't seen him since he made that move sweetly coming forward, towards her face, leaning all that wasleft, poking out from under green hat and green collar, so unfamiliar, scratchy, new, belonging to someone else. The blur of his nose and eyes reaching for her, the small piece of flesh that reached between her lips, moist and sticky, nervous and exhaulting.
She heard his footsteps clambering up the back of the jeep, heard his hearbeat mix with hers, felt his legs beneath hers, rocking her, penetrating every inch of her.
He was dead, and as she felt herself flying off the speaker, tires skidding and angels holding her so softly, just as he had all these nights alone, she knew thay would be together again, in pieces, in whole.

more of 99

2007-10-31T05:50:00.000-07:00

the times when I become anti-conversational, it's just because I feel that, if you aren't going to prove that mermaids are real, or tell me stories about magic that I've never imagined myself, then I've probably already had the same conversation or heard the same words that you are saying in some other context and really, I just can't be bothered.

unhappy and unreal in 99

2007-10-31T05:21:00.001-07:00

busy tones have always had an overpowering effect on me.

they make me feel desperately sad and alone,

frustrated and flummoxed. i have no recollection of why this is the case, but it is.

random scribbles in 99

2007-10-30T17:01:00.000-07:00

I guess the two ongoing themes in my drawings are things that can fly or float

september 99

2007-10-30T16:56:00.000-07:00

july 99

2007-10-30T16:36:00.000-07:00

sarah 99

2007-10-29T06:54:00.000-07:00

sarah was a strange child.
words used to get stuck in her throat like fish that swam thru a tunnel that tightened around them as they grew bigger and more desperate.
her eyes would widen in direct relation to the growth in her throat until they finally lost themselves to circumfrence and landed her lashes into a tangled mesh of short and long strands, straight and thick.
she didn't eat, ever, but found a deep satisfaction from thrusting her whole fist deep into the middle of pies and casseroles, letting her fingers squeeze back and forth like children in a park running up the tongue of a slide and slipping back again and again.
sarah dressed soley in aubergine and despite her failure to eat anything, she was frantically fat. the meat surrounding the base of her thumb would wobble like lava if she managed to bounce.
***

since there was no chance that one day sarah might actually have sex, she had no fear of being stabbed, even to death, and was actually quite looking forward to it. It would be, after all, the experience of some sort of penetration.
she dreamed as a young girl that she would be stabbed -- at least once, and so waited for it - each day passed as one page in a novel who's pleasures lie in the last chapter.
how long until this chapter would come? how many minutes, hours, days, years? waiting was aguish, and in frustration she would jab broken popsicle sticks into her bounteous thighs.
***

sarah loved to watch football focus.
she would tape every show and play them continuously, back to back, with no sound on.
she knew every word: the voices of each player and manager and every character who passed thru.
she could do perfect impressions of the world this show created for her, but was lost when it came to even thinking aobut the tv world that existed even a minute before or a minute after "her show". football focus existed soley for her.
she also loved to look at katsup.
***

sarah had broken her arm (when she was seven) in a freak bowling accident. having grown impatient, she had decided to walk over and kick the pins down herself. her brother, feeling that she was cheating, commenced to throw a fourteen pound ball at her. He missed, but she managed to slip and slap her ulma into super-shiny hardwood.
she grew attached to her plaster of paris cast which boasted of the the dullest signatured surface ever to grace gimpdom. she had used the grewying surface to practice signing her own name, identically, again and again. 14 years later, the plaster was still somewhat present on her mystery-arm. Little bits of surgical plaster littered the expanding lakes of aubergine colored fuzzy dresses..
sarah also liked to stick butterfly bodies up her nose.

***

sarah was confounded.

"drat" she belched and spewed forth the remaining gust of wind which had been festering in her loins and risen to each empty pocket within her since giving her german shepard the kiss of life, as she did each morning, three to four minutes after she had woken up.

the results were usual, and the dog would heave himself out of death-like immobility, come to a faint seeing the mound of his masters morning face pressed to -what you might call- his dog lips.

he would then stretch out to watch the ceiling fan, trying to guess its pattern, as he had never seen it still; winter autumn, spring, summer, not once in the four years that he had lived there.

quite a work ethic. or at least that's the way shaw, the st. bernard looked at it.

this particular day he lay there until the street lights came on when he realized that all day, sarah had been doing the same. he turned on his side to watch her watching the ceiling fan. he wondered if she had figured out the biggest mystery in his life. he then saw that her chest, the floor, her whole body was covered with scribbled on party napkins. her eyes were transfixed to the fan as her hands worked uninteligible scribles onto the napkins, invariably piercing daffy duck, or simba, depending on what pack the napkins came from.

"drat" he heard her say over and over again.

he stared at her voluminous mouth wondering what these sounds meant.

he whimpered slowly, trying to copy her angry little bark, but he couldn't get it.

the streetlights outside struggled to keep their living room lit, and while shaw and sarah and the ceiling fan worked to adjust their eyes to the dimming light. the ceiling fan, which, incidentally, had only a pattern of fingerprints in thick dust, noted that both the woman and the dog were really QUITE confounded.

***

sarah thought that she had met somebody that tuesday,

but unfortunately,

it was just an illusion.