purpose

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Been thinking about a piece I read (the link of which I can't find, sorry) on figuring out your purpose, or at least a purpose for a given moment in time, and, while it did include the standard "volunteer" / "shake things up" (done both), one thing it did include that the others didn't was to, paraphrased, explore old hobbies and passions. Can see that I've been doing that for awhile now: drumming, comics and action figure and antique collecting – perhaps this advice and my own exploration of it acts as a means of recognizing where I went off the path and reorienting myself to an unseen map that takes into account all the mileage accrued between then and now?

extra-corporeal perfectionism

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While I've no belief in the concept of god or in an afterlife (if I'm wrong, I'll be the first to admit it – but only at my own end and probably muttering George Carlin's seven dirty words as I trip and stumble into the fire) I have, over the last few weeks, become increasingly paranoid that my dead grandfather is watching everything I do – a paranoia that's become worse since I finished The Emptying and have, for the first time since September, time to process the events of the last four months.

Backlogs suck.

Anyhow, working theory is that this is my brain creating a way to maintain its inherited and oftentimes paranoid perfectionism – as much as I adored that man, more than any other human on the planet, I will fault him (and myself) for instilling said perfectionistic streak, one bordering on pathological – in this new normal. It's my brain's way of holding on to what it knew, the prison it created for me.

Worth noting that this phenomenon didn't happen when my grandmothers (adored) nor my mother (loathed, especially by the end) died – but my bond with my grandfather was something special: as I've written before somewhere, I know I was lucky to know unconditional love for 42 years – many don't get it for 42 seconds – but that doesn't make it easy to navigate its absence. At all. I miss him terribly.

Solution: perhaps working to let go of this extra-corporeal manifestation is the first step towards living my life as it is now – which is what he would have wanted anyhow – and build it into what I've always wanted it to be (whatever that is, TBD). Trick is to figure out how to go about doing that.

It'll come to me, probably.

links/2023w28

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mycelial sarcophagi

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With life having made several attempts on my life over the last few years, I’m always fascinated by new ways that my disused husk can be disposed of responsibly. This is intriguing, though not enough to get me give up cremation / hydro cremation (or my dream of said husk being used as a prop for the wood chipper scene in a dinner theatre rendition of FARGO):

the winnowing, existentially

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*(being a segment from MacroParentheticals0117, continued and expanded…)

In spite of what recent postings and sharings might lead you to believe, I've started a process of winnowing my comics collection, wheat from etc etc: this first phase consists of parting with a lot of the chaff that made up the bulk of my early collecting days – four shortboxes so far, most likely bound bound for a donation to a new LCS to let them do with as they please – while keeping those that appeal based on a.) my perception of the narrative and historical importance; b.) a compelling emotional attachment; and c.) whether or not I like the creators' / creative team's work – similar to how I decide to keep the books on the shelves or donate them to a library or used bookstore.

(The second phase will be selling individual issues, should the desire ever arise – AMAZING SPIDER-MAN 252, 361, off the top of my head, but that’s a ways away – if I ever get to that point.)

Regardless of whether selling actually happens, my goal here is, as with the winnowing, similarly two-fold: one, a move towards trying to get full series – my now-complete O'Neil SHADOW run (I've also got a complete run (and then some) of the Howard Chakyin BLOOD AND JUDGEMENT mini (LOVE) and Andy Helfer / Sienkiewicz / Baker 19 issue ongoing) and O'Neil's similarly heading-towards-completion THE QUESTION (which I also have in Omnibus format – so, so good) – and important (to me) standalones: Ditko Spideys (those being especially emotionally relevant); early Daredevils (yellow suit FTW); Jack Kirby Fourth Worlds (probably not the whole thing, but I do have the doorstop Omnibus and I'm in love with the Kirby unleashed madness that pours off of every panel); Golden Age Dick Tracy; and more, TBD.

And second, probably as a result of having spent too much time (a fast-paced three weeks between death and apartment exodus this time last year) among my mother's things after her fucking off from this mortal coil and realizing that, among the QVC and Christmas decor, there was zilch that I wanted to keep (beyond the antique furniture she didn’t throw out behind my back) or to which I had any emotional attachment, I've become cognizant of what I leave behind: other than my wife and my niece, it's not like I have kids or anyone, really, save a few friends and the progeny of those few friends (and even then that’s just two, one local and another on the other ocean), to whom I can leave The Collection or the rest of my shit – and want to make sure that it’s got a home before something finally kills me: Swedish Death Cleaning is – when you have no children or other heirs (other than your wife, a set of oct-and non- agenarians, and dogchildren), a last name that isn’t your own, and a legacy which consists primarily of the possession of a pretty fucking awesome collection of things (if I do say so myself) and the writing of weird shit that no one reads (which is also fine, grumble grumble) – nothing if not existentially perplexing.

To end on a slightly less morbid and ballooning existential-and-creative-crisis note: everything I share at this tag is a photograph from my own collection – all comics art, everything: The Collection has reached a point where I am my own source of digital fascination for myself (and possibly for you) which is not an unenviable place to be.

That went on a lot longer than I planned so now it’s back to writing more weird shit while being surrounded by a bunch of really cool shit which is what I’ll probably do until I too, like all of us, fuck off this mortal coil: it’s not like any of us get out alive.

to those who

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22 November, always, even more than a decade after my Executive Director tenure ended and almost a decade since I resigned from the board, is an anniversary – a morbid one, certainly, but more packed with personal meaning than Thanksgiving ever could be.

How much of myself did I give to that gig? (too much and not enough) How much did I gain? (I found my way to writing, fully, through it – so there's that – but I also gained one (maybe two) very deep, very profund regret(s), forks in the road etc) How much did I lose? (everything – but not everything I lost was worth keeping, far from it) ...

I suppose I'm thinking of it in more extistential detail this year than normal: we signed our wills yesterday and I realized that, outside of my wife's family and one very important exception, I have no one to pass anything on to. Being the end of the line in which your last name isn't your own is simultaneously rewarding and confusing.

Current solution: live what I've got while I can and let the rest of it fall where it may. I've pretty much got the "staying alive" part down – soon with cybernetic enhancement! – now I have to figure out what living entails. Been trying to figure that one out for years. So far, no luck – but if I do stumble upon my answer, you'll be the first to know.

Also: that partially completed thing to my left was supposed to be a dog but my 4'33" ran out before I could fur it out.

the morning's attendance card, a sketchy me pondering existential things while a partially-drawn dogchild looks on.