Today I finished the last two pages of finished inks for my latest run.  These last three pages were for possible second printings of earlier issues.  I finished the last three pages of issue 13 yesterday.  I'd hoped to get this done earlier this month, but I was so preoccupied with the woman thing that it took almost the whole six months to finish.  Issue # 13 is the final book in the series, "The Consequences of Bringing Light," and I've made the six months deadline I'd set for myself.

I can only think of how my tendency to fixate on individual women has evolved over the years when I think about the time of my life that this series covers.  These past couple of days I've gotten in touch with the idea that a fixation on an individual woman, no matter who it is or how it came about, is a lot like a broken leg or diabetes.  It's something that I just have to take care of and accommodate until it passes.  

It's not enough to just know that one has such an affliction. When one has a broken leg, one can't heal just by knowing that one's leg is broken.  One needs an initial diagnosis, an initial treatment of a cast, and one needs to take care of it over a period of time until it is healed.

It's the same for me when I am afflicted with a fixation on a woman.  I think that I have done very well in the self-care of this problem over these last several years.  I've decided that my tendency to have this happen to me is like a bodily function that I just have to make way for when it comes upon me all of a sudden.  I think I've done pretty good, and I've had some really intractable love interests; ones who were just not gonna budge unless I threw every single skill that I've learned in my journey on these deals at the dilemmas they've wittingly or unwittingly presented.

I've been talking a lot about the Invisible Woman.  I just looked on Facebook to see if I could find my cousin's post that featured that female pop star and my cousin's kid in a photo.  Yep, the timeline goes back.  I scroll down to last Summer.  First celeb I see one of her daughters with: Elvis!  Next celeb down: Kenny Chesney!  The one she posted just before that: Michael Jackson!  And before MJ: There she is. Yep, that's her!  La Mujer Invisible en el carne verdaduro!

Yep, I'm an asshole.  I'm an asshole.  I'm.  An.  Asshole.  Yep.  Weeelll, there's another nail for her coffin.  That might be enough to put her in the ground once and for all this time.  Now all she has to do is start dating Sweeney McSweetie from that new reality show My So-Called Asshole Ugly, and she ain't never comin' back from that.  

I was talking to someone yesterday about a biography of Anais Nin that I'd cracked open.  the author promised a nonjudgemental take on Anais Nin, which made me want to read it.  I don't think that I would want to read four hundred pages of finger wagging at her subject.

This led the conversation to the Keith Richards autobiography.  Keef made the point several times in his book that he and his mates were doing something completely unprecedented and achieving unimaginable heights doing it.  He said several times that there was no rulebook, roadmap, whatever for them to go by, and that they just had to make it up as they went along.  The same could be said for Elvis Presley and John Lennon as well.

Maybe I'm the one person who wrestles with this Richy Vegas stuff much more than any human on Earth, but from where I sit, there was no rulebook for me either.  All those years ago, and yes, here's my foot in that other world; all those years ago, Vernon Hoe and his people just had to wing it, I guess.  Given the fact that I had no idea that any of this stuff was in effect until they wanted me to know what they wanted me to know, and how they wanted me to know it, I'd say they did a pretty good job.

This Invisible Woman was no doubt just doing it the way they told her.  It's just that nowadays, I know enough to challenge stuff, instead of just scratching my head at this, that, or the other.  When I went down in my big fight in 1991-1993, I would see people who would, for example, say funny things as I walked by at a party, "There's something very sweet in here," or a girl from Austin High and UT, a really pretty girl, would walk past me with a blank expression on her face, as if she was just making herself stare straight ahead and walk by, or I would go to Chinese restaurant near SVA and one of the female owners would greet me with, "Hi Tobie!"


All of that stuff really only came together after Gil Wilson talked to me at that party that I mention in "Richy Vegas, the Blind Assassin part 1."  Now, it's quite a different kettle of fish.

If anyone wants to know where I'm at right now, read Hemingway's short story, "A Separate Peace," where the protagonist gets his girlfriend and leaves the fighting of World War I and crosses over into Switzerland.  Hemingway turned "A Separate Peace," into ​A Farewell to Arms and gave it a tragic story arc that ran counter to what he was trying to say in the short story.  I don't have a knocked up girlfriend, so I don't have to worry.  Maybe me and some videos of adult film star Meghan Rain can forge our own separate peace.  

As regular readers of this blog know, I'm a person with a foot in two worlds.  One world is the world we all recognize as reality, and the other world is one I wrestle with.  I'm going to address the world that I wrestle with now.  

Mark Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut's son, wrote a book in the '70s called The Eden Express.  The Eden Express is a vivid, viscerally convincing account of Mark's descent into psychosis and his subsequent diagnosis of schizophrenia.  Someone described to me the effect of Mark Vonnegut's descriptive powers of his illness as similar to Hunter S. Thompson's ability to  describe his massive drug use in Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas.  Whatever devices I use in my comics to convey the experience of psychosis pale in comparison to Mark Vonnegut's ability to describe it with the written word.

One of the things he talks about experiencing when he was sick was when he'd heard the news of a series of earthquakes in California and the destruction they caused.  He believed that he had somehow caused these earthquakes with his mind.  Mark relates how he was very relieved when he finally received treatment and he realized that he did not cause these earthquakes.

In my last blog post, I compare myself to Kenbei Shimada from The Seven Samurai.  In The Seven Samurai a group of beleaguered peasant farmers recruit Shimada to lead samurai and villagers against marauding bandits.  Shimada initially refuses, but farmer Yohei's tears and the entreaties of a lowlife gambler that the farmers are doing their best by offering to feed the Samurai their rice convinces Shimada to take the job.

In earlier posts I allude to some unnamed virtuous cause that, with my foot in that other world, I believe that I am being asked to join in on.   The problem is, I believe that I am more like Mark Vonnegut, who was not responsible for the earthquakes in California, than I am like Kenbei Shimada, who had the power to forsake the farmers and leave them to their fate.  I do not believe that I even have the power to forsake this cause, even if I wanted to.  

This has everything to do with whether I will show up on some date in the near future at a specific place at a specific time.  I have not discussed these things openly with anyone, nor do I  care to.  With my foot in this other world, I had the conviction that at this place, at this time, on this date, the Invisible Woman would materialize.

In earlier posts I talked about how my criticism of the "turn my back on love" experiment consisted of the belief that I did not take it far enough.  I will take it far enough this time, and not show up at this place, at this time, on this date.

When I want to reach out to an artist whose work I admire, I will find out how to contact them via mail, and send them a package.  I always include a cover letter that contains contact information so the artist can write back if they want to.  I always try to bring up in the letter what it was specifically about their work that resonated with me and whether it relates to anything I do in the comics or CDs that I've sent them.  I try not to come off as if I just want them to discover me and help me make it to the big time.

I've had some people write back; Harvey Pekar and Chester Brown wrote me back.  A guy named Justin St. Germaine wrote a book called Son of a Gun, a memoir about how his mother came to be murdered by her fifth husband.  I told Justin how I thought his mother and I both shared rather abject, morbid, pathological afflictions of love addiction.  I included other letters I'd written to other people, ​Richy vegas Comics issue # 4; Anita, You're the Reason I'm Not In Prison, and a copy of my CD, ​Man's Inhumanity to Me.  The CD contains the tracks, "Richy Vegas, the Blind Assassin, parts 1 and 2," which have everything to do with obsession and love addiction.  I got a message on my answering machine a couple of weeks after I sent Justin St. Germaine this package.  I typically include my phone number if these artists want to call me.  I don't know if it was him, but it could have been.  He never called back, whoever it was, so I don't know.

Now, this Invisible Woman: I got a package from Amazon last Spring that contained a bag of coffee and a CD from a prominent female pop star.  That summer, a cousin of mine posted a picture of her daughter with this woman at a popular tourist destination.  The pop star wore a really thick layer of make up.  I had difficulties last fall at a business that I patronize that I connected to this pop star- not sure about that.  I ordered a Badfinger CD from Amazon last December, but the day I received it, it somehow got lost.  I went to Waterloo Records and bought another copy that night. There's this line from Badfinger's "Day After Day:" "I remember finding out about you..."  This pop star's CD was lying around, so I played it again.  I liked it better than the first couple of times that I played it last Spring, and later that night I started making connections.  Whether those connections are erroneous and irrational, I don't know.  But, for a moment, let's just honor this foot in this other world and say there's something to this.

I guess the motive would be to fuck with my head.  Being that I'm a mentally ill person, isn't that nice?  Perhaps she wanted to goose me into thinking up some way to save the world.  Well, that would at least redeem her for doing something so shitty to me.  As far as saving the world, I've got nothing.  Thus, I'm breaking our date.

Let's see, when I send people my art, I include a way to get back to me- several ways, in fact.  I clearly state my purpose, and do all the things I describe above, and go on at length about how I connect with the artist's work.  I guess that I'm not good enough for that same kind of consideration from this person.  Seeing as how I'm a mentally ill piece of trash, fucking with my head is good enough for me.  I think I recognize when I'm dealing with a woman who just wants to do whatever the fuck she wants, instead of trying to make a good impression on me.

Well, that's it for my foot in that other world.  I suspect that myself and this woman will not MFR in either case.

   

I just did an open mike at a bookstore close to my house tonight.   Earlier in the evening I told Jason Craig that it was an open mike for "fucked up people."  Jason thought that was funny, but wanted me to explain what I meant.  I explained that it was an unplugged, open mike put on by VSA Texas.  A state funded arts organization for people with disabilities.  

Most of the people read poetry and read stories and didn't play music.  Yeah, there were some disabled folks there, alright.  I told Lance Farley a while back that I try to keep in mind that my peers aren't Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, or Steve Earle, but rather whomever does these open mikes with me, no matter their skill level or talent level.  Being disabled has been a drag for me in a lot of ways, and I'm reminded on nights like tonight how tough it can be for other people too.

Other places I play have people with a lot higher level of skills and talent.  The other end of the spectrum for me is the Songwriter's Circle at Cheatham St. Warehouse.  Those people mostly play guitar better than I do, a lot of them can sing a lot better, and a lot of them can write good songs.  I just have to go to that one and say, "Fuck it!  I'll lay 'Sara' on 'em"  Then I bust out with the opening line of "Sara:"  "Do you want me to kill that rapist, do you Sara?"

Which brings us to tonight's topic: Super crip.  Those are the guys who push themselves across the country in their wheelchairs and shit like that. I guess that I might be a super crip.  I sure express that possibility in my music and art, such as the story whose images appear at the top of this page.

Last week I talked about how I might have a new Invisible Woman in my life.  Read ​Richy Vegas; a psycho memoir, parts 2 and 3, for the skinny on the first Invisible Woman.  The new one might want me to save the World.  If that's the case, then she makes too much of me.  I'm a man of no special skill, though I've fought in many battles, I suppose.  I've won some.  I've lost some.  Mostly lost.  I am Kenbei Shimada.  I am ronin. No disciples for me.  My evening spent with my fellow cripples brought that home.

If she wants to do like the first Invisible Woman and go around sticking harmonicas in peoples' mouths, I've got no problem with that.  Kid's stuff, compared with saving the World.  All I can ever do is show up.  I hope that there is no Wanda to laugh in my face when I do.

I used to think of a girl I call Monica as the One That Got Away.  That's pretty fucked up, because Monica was a girl I met in Spain, made a clumsy pass at, and never heard from again after I returned from my trip.  The vision that became my Monica first appeared when I was sick in 1992, and in an even stronger form in visions of her in 1995.  I try to document this hallucinatory experience this girl I met in Spain served as a touchstone for in Richy Vegas: a psycho memoir, parts 2 and 3.  The end of part 3 depicts the encounter I had with a couple in a 7-11 on March, 1st, 1995.  I thought the woman was Monica with dyed blond hair and blue contacts.

In April of 1995 I finally got on a new medication that helped with these symptoms.  I took a job at a restaurant that Summer and held it for a year.  The restaurant routinely hired attractive young women as waitstaff and at other positions.  The idea that Monica was the One That Got Away meant that the usual snotnosed, attractive college aged woman that populated this restaurant couldn't compete with her for my attention.

And you know what? I don't think that this hallucinatory fantasy of Monica was at all detrimental in getting with any of these women.  I managed to work there a year without any woman there taking any kind of romantic interest in me, and to this day I could not care less.  

It wasn't just my place of employment either.  I had a reasonably viable social circle back then with a veritable pool of attractive women reasonably close to my age, and I found myself continually getting passed over in favor of other men.  It's not as if I went on at length about how great Monica was.  The only way anyone could even know about her was when I showed people my drawings and talked about my experiences, both real and otherworldly, as they looked over the drawings.

Things turned around greatly when I took another dishwashing job in 1998.  Several woman took something of an interest in me over the year-plus period of my employment there, and my drawings from ...psycho memoir only seemed to enhance my standing in their eyes.

I met a girl named Celeste through that job in the Spring of 1999.  A girl named Julie competed with Celeste for my attention, though.  Richy Vegas Comics issue #4: "Anita, You're the Reason I'm Not In Prison" illustrates the negative consequences of my inability at the time to distinguish between a viable woman with a genuine interest in me and an attractive yet unavailable woman.  

In the years that followed the events of "Anita..." Celeste only served to replace Monica as the One That Got Away.  I would compare woman to Celeste and they would come up way short in those right combinations of looking good, being nice, and also having an interest in me.

It's only been in the past few years that I've forced myself to remove Celeste from this pedestal.  She sure did have rather rigid, orthodox, and puritanical beliefs on the depiction of the female form in Western art from the Renaissance through the Baroque.  I made such a good impression on her in the first place because I countered her arguments that the depiction of the sensual possibilities of the female form by male artists from these periods constituted "objectification" with stuff like, "Fine, then Michelangelo objectified men, if you want to take that tack."  She tried to come back with how she didn't mean "objectification" in a bad way....I countered with the example of Bernini's sculpture of "The Annunciation."  In Bernini's "Annunciation," the Virgin Mary is not demurely, passively knealing, right hand raised in acknowledgment that,yes, she's got it, as the angel tells her she will give birth to the Christ; Bernini depicts her as having an orgasm.  Here's the deal though: she is fully draped, you only really see her head and hands, maybe her feet, I don't know, and that her body is collapsed in ecstasy before the angel as he hovers before her.  She's not nude, her body is generously draped, she's the Virgin Mary, does this count as the objectification of women in Baroque art?

She thought me a genius and all that, but really, how long could I expect to put up with someone that wouldn't even allow  themselves to look at a Robert Williams stripper-hot-rod-Devil-Girl painting; someone whose stated ambition was to teach art history from her tired, flatulent Feminist perspective?  The one teacher I had in college who tried to teach The Canterbury Tales through that kind of a lens came off as a total asshole whom I suspected of trying to do a Feminist Deconstruction of me.

In the first post of this year I talked about this GirlPop Diva that came up for consideration for me for the dumbest fucking reason:  I got a bag of coffee and her CD from Amazon even though I didn't order them.  I live in a pretty affluent neighborhood now, and people get free magazines and other shit all the time, I suspect.

So now it looks as if this GirlPop Diva is this year's Monica.  Boy, it's been a long time since I've had to contend with one of those!  I'd be interested to see if I actually turn down opportunities to get to know reasonably viable women better in some misguided effort to save myself for this woman.  I don't remember one single incident in the years that I fixated on Monica where that kind of thing actually happened.  The first time viable women actually took an interest in me, Monica dissipated like a mist.  Looking back it all seems pretty harmless, and these fantastical thoughts about this one seem pretty harmless too.

The real woman that inspires this vision will most likely, like I said, probably wind up being seen, before too long, with boy band phenom Joey Jerkoff or up and coming leading-man-type Ryan Analwarts at  the hottest places to see and be seen on either coast.  Maybe I'll meet someone before she does?  Yeah right, as if she could keep THAT on ice long enough for that to happen.  

I get out quite a lot these days.  I go to open mikes, go see friends' bands, go see other bands with friends.  I just don't pressure myself at all to meet women when I am out, and I think that helps me to get out a lot more than I used to.

I just looked up the Bernini sculpture.   It's actually The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa and the Angel.  Ain't that a bitch.