The Desert
Rotchester Kids, by Zach Durst
A digressive on Collaborative Relationships
Collaborations have a way of unraveling once the invincible-steel ego is assaulted to shiny slivers and reworked with large glowing ghost needles into a poorly knit scarf of childish lamentations, after winding you up like a mechanical dinosaur, rolling around on plastic wheels- eyes blinking red, ruthless and full of spite. Creative marriages are like any other relationship. They require the watchful eye and a sympathetic ear. It’s easy to slip and become terrified at the sound of your own voice, shaking at stick at the sky because you refuse to bend and then you watch the two-day flower petals fall down the stem of the long glass bottle and press the tip of your index finger into it, smashing the violet into the brown tiles of the floor.
Impossible to work with,” He says.
“You can’t imagine the silly egotism of this guy.”
“Artists!” he grunts, rolling his eyes.
Men and women are fiercely protective of what they believe to be their stake in the lonesome sand pits, venomous crawling things and all. Those who have agreed with the physical world of sensations are far worse, because they (we) have more to gain and far more to lose. The deserts are not livable environments. We lose ourselves at the limits of the steel wonders of the city and then wake in bitter resentment. Our hope is to populate this wilderness with beautiful, shiny treasures because what else is there? Nothing soothing- only dust and the need for inspiration, heroes and humility. City boys fall wildly in love with the idea. One hopes to become innovative and the companion must appear as the equal if they’re to have a fighting chance at the crossing, the sun beating down on the sad quiet sounds of mediocrity.
It seems that an equal amount of forthcoming judgment and verbal affection is necessary to breed health in the partners who grind their creation gears, multiplying productivity and populating the vast neuro-deserts, located behind the eyes and stretching all the way to our under the sea dreams . I mention the desert because recently I’ve found it to be an unavoidable phenomenon. A train rolls by in the distance, smashing its wheels and harsh metal armors, quickening the gravity of my personal heebie jeebies, widening the arid landscape again and then restless dreams and sleeplessness. I find my hand lacks the necessary coordination. I wake on the floor of a friend’s room. The air comes in off the tracks and the tops of cold, gray office buildings. I think about the economy of my circles, friends missions and high hopes for cool.
“Cool is worthless and you’re the devil for mentioning it,” they whisper.
We were educated on the importance of leadership and reputation. I feel like leading but there are so many false standards that we end stabbing at the air in front of us like wild apes in the dark.
It’s needless to say that a certain amount of vigilance is needed in keeping our cools (there’s that word again) at the time of the great critique. Youth fights hopelessly for place in the jeweled belt of the star-scape. The breakdown starts a lack of communication: distance and a muddled translation from thought to speak. I write this as a love letter to all who’ve decided to take arms with soft-knights and as a petition for resilience and as a means of redemption. I (we) need to keep my claws folded and share the uncommon wealth that may yet to exist, and keep the bastards moving forward to battle the insignificant squabbles from the back of the bar, near the toilet laughing over the sound of the 9 ball cracking against the cue.
Keep yourself Alive! Love, K. Hart.
HEAVINLY BODIES
Bastards of The Infinite part 2 COVER
It’s been given to my attention that massive city machines resembling carnivals at all hours of the haunting night are among the most beautiful human spectacles I’ve witnessed. This previous weekend in Tokyo did nothing but reinforce this concept in shiny, purple spades, fashioned from sea-shells drying on the beaches of Fujisawa.
An authentic smörgåsbord of lights and music tucked into an unusually liveable envelope of 35 million sons and daughters, Tokyo smashes away my last hopes of being content in smaller, harmless cities. It is for the the love of the megalopolis that I offer you this humble update of the future that lies ahead, ours and yours, Matadors, bastards and all the rest.
With Joseph “Romeo” Tenney and “Honeyhole” Sadie Starnes working diligently in the dear ole United States, I myself am finding another sort of footing in progressing ahead with this (toddler sized) body of work. My physical move to the greater Tokyo area in October should lend a new flavor of metallic shave to my food and an affordable carbon monoxide dressing to my drink, but this will do nothing more than propel my sorry tukis towards all the bells and whistles of true variety, and the collective of modern mongrels living Tokyo side including the incredulous photographer Daniel Herbertson, impossibly cinnamon-hot fashion-tramps Nic Nic Lees and Andrea Bernstein, J-film starman Naoki Nakamura and a slew of hungry judokas, boxers, actors and self important dream weavers with varying intentions. It will be a blessing and trial, to be sure.
For your viewing delight, Bastard’s of the Infinite 1 and 2, the tales that started it all, are now free to read online or download. Join the forces of sub-justice in a caffeine-fueled romp through the hot nights of self-loathing, fisticuffs and semi-heroics. Spiraled, one horned mules, overcoming space-time, and plenty of gratuitous nonsense to last you an eternity.
Furthermore, celebrated comic stylist Kris Dyche will be penciling his heart from the confines of friendly Nagoya Shi (the city of sparkling wart-like uniformed pleasure), and is set to slice through the Matador scene next month with his take on the benefits of sexual molestation, substance abuse and importance of leafy greens. Dyche has taunted the hearts of devotees for years with his self produced comic titles and sharp witted comic strip Liquid Kids. Surely, herds of silver blooded Unicorns in heat will set the dandelions afire, grazing the nights away to their candy-sprinkled hearts’ content.
Keep your guard up, K. Hartrum
A Truly Modern Woman
Truly Modern.
I have been playing with this thought grouping for years now. Truly came to me in a day dream, she is a super woman genetically engineered to be perfect. Eyes of a Bagherra, bones of a bird. Claws of Raja! Beautiful blue crown over her temple in contrast to her copper skin. Fresh Henna tone hair. She is a wonder to my mind.
As most men in their mid or early twenties will confess if pressed, yes we fell in love with a imaginary woman, often a two dimensional x-character, for me its been Kitty Pryde and for a while Jim Lee was stroking my lust with his drawings of Psylocke. It’s an admission that we have carried most of our young adult lives. Ive grown out of it now, but still to date I cant pass up certain variant covers. They appeal to my youth and invigorate/assure me of my sexuality. Odd I know.
Yes now, I was flipping thru the pages of JSA at the infamous Ssalefish comics, and suddenly power girl was being thrashed by Truly, clad in a sleek bondage style body sleeve and a bat horror mask, she slashed at the revealing oval on Power Girl’s chest bearing full the cleavage bound beneath the white spandex there. The spandex from that point on has always seemed medical to me. Then Truly came to me again one night at Elliot’s Review, I was sitting there at the bar alone practicing my ‘drunk drawing’ techniques. And beating of woman at the same time. My frustrations with ‘real’ girls grew into drawings of Truly wearing new and exciting leather mask and jackets. Soon I had to make a world for Truly.
I made new characters such as the ‘Lonesome Bitter lover’. Then I was lost for a while, but Truly followed me in my dreams and in my art. I soon discovered some old issues of Lois Lane, and saw my niche for Truly, deciding to redux whole sequences of Lois Lane replacing the DC characters with Truly Modern characters. But then Bastards was being born. Then I decided to make Truly into an explicit content sequential, and the trouble was finding a printer. Truly was writhing in the womb. I could no longer look at comics, Degas, Schiele, pornography or fashion magazines without seeing visions of Truly, snips of Truly. Cloths that Truly might wear. At night I can hear Truly purring on the roof top of some brobdingnagian structure looming in the dark future. *sigh* It is a great relief for me to let Truly finally manifest in sequential form, I have in fact found my printer for this feature. – Jos.Romeo
Truly Modern Composite