The Lost Comic Debacle

This comic book was not going to draw itself so Laurence and I took up the job about ten months ago. It’s a sci-fi story about aliens taking over. 3075 is the year it takes place so maybe it’s an optimistic sci fi then. The planet (and mankind) survived. We call ourselves Mad Monk.

Screen Shot 2016-11-06 at 12.48.11 PM.png

Blood sweat and gel inks have us cross hatched into a hopeful bliss and this fuels us each night to draw more. We’re making something good. Twenty one pages finished means it’s just five more to go. We’ve slaved over the details, keeping it all low tech and high in love. Black and white is as pure as we could make it. Our name together is Mad Monk. This is an art book. We draw together on the couch in the artists’ lofts overlooking the river at the center of town.

I hadn’t even gotten the pages home yet. Kind of priceless really and it’s a safe assumption to say most artists would guard it like gold. It’s not something I own, it’s something I’ve created, with Laurence, we did. I should have been more careful. They fell out of my bag by the river. I’ve traced my steps three times and  a few people told me it hasn’t come their way. Homeless people don’t want to talk to me. They “don’t know nothin’ about no papers,” or another guy gave a swat of the hand and swoosh.. “I’m busy”.

I did, however, get to speak with a few folks. I got the word out that it’s worth ten bucks for anyone who found it. One lady showed me her tits and that was fun. Another guy pulled me aside for something that seemed to be something related to advice. There was alot of bumping of wings. What I call elbows he calls wings. There was a little laughing in the places where I couldn’t understand him and soon after I’d hear words like “That ain’t funny huh.” As long as eye contact is kept guys like this stay manageable.


By the way, a homeless friend, who I met over this, got hit in the head, popped with a 2×4 last night (hospital stapled him up) and before that he spent 3 days in jail over ‘jaywalking’. Truly, what is jaywalking? Reno’s bringin’ down the Nazi hammer on the homeless and I’m not in agreement with this forced ‘relocation’ program of theirs.

Anyhoo, these are two pages that will be redrawn. Much more fortunate would have been to find the drawings at the coffee shop with the cute girl behind the counter.

I’m goin’ into the Fishbowl tomorrow for 40 days. Laurence will be visiting so you’ll have to tune in to see what we’re working on. And bring me some food!
A glimpse of Laurence a year earlier:

“Method To The Madness, Part 2” Goldfield Journal #20


I’m big picture I think.

I’m intimidated reading Tom Robbins. We can tell the story any way we want to. It’s just that his florid associations are out there and they work. That Tom Robbins. “I couldn’t do that”, I’m thinking as I read it. I relax and then I’m happy to keep up. My interest is not lost and unaccounted for when the second hint pops up, sentences later. It tells me that I was right in the image portrayed in my head. He pulls it off, often, Tom Robbins. That’s writing. That’s not a territory I feel familiar with, not enough, but I guess I can fuck around with it here. Details might have to go to hell. I’m big picture I think.

I haven’t been liking the way Aldus Huxley plops research and trade terms in his writing. “Brave New World”, I read half way through last week. This Tom Robbins book is “Skinny Legs And All” and he’s got me following along as the adventure rolls underway. He fleshes out the characters in a deeper way that Huxley would ever need to. They have totally different approaches and the focuses they pursue demand different vision translated in their respective words. Maybe I should have used the word ‘foci’.

I’ve been studying writers lately in my own way. I see how far they let themselves wander.

Today and yesterday, I’ve felt like hiding out. I’m doing pure creative stuff, reading and drawing, (and writing). I think today will play out the same as yesterday. I did a couple very clear drawings, pure drawing. No pictures to go by, no computer, just the eyes and pencils.

I stood out in the dust to draw this tall metal tower that was in a movie. It’s here now and the more I look at it, I see it was not a low budget movie prop. 20 feet tall or so; maybe less. There’s a metal ladder and no rails around the top platform. There’re a couple more pieces of it laying out in the surrounding area.

This shit is pretty detailed, including the bed of nails hooked with tubes and rods and details to make it an obviously sci fi piece of nostalgia. Mark said the nail bed thing they lowered onto a man hung on a pulley and went across a wire away from the tower. A man stood at the top with levers to operate the bodies. Did you ever see Soylent Green? I think it was like that. I don’t know the movie yet, but I’m going to find out. Stay tuned.

It was so cool discovering the nails. I turned the big apparatus over because I noticed it to be human-sized and like a detailed coffin, it shaped a body, allowing for head and shoulder and torso/leg space in proportion. I rolled it over using some muscle and, caplunshh.. in the dust and weeds, underside it was a bed of nails. I showed Mark. He said he didn’t even know about the nails.

I need to place this piece of cinematic propistry, properly. In other words, it’s a nice prop and I want to bring it some glory. What movie was it from?

At any rate, I drew the thing in pencil, clean and minimal. I ended up sitting on a car hood, itself, painted in loops of red and purple with black. I sprayed it a few years back, before I was living here. Mark had added some black paint and a pentagram and plastic frog, little army men, and a ceramic set of blue dolphins. I  drew, sitting atop this hood, till the sun went down. I drank a can of PBR.

After the prop tower drawing, I drew the mountains at the North end of Goldfield.

In the foreground was placed a modest tit shaped mountain that I see every day. A particular one, you know the breast. It’s the kind where the nipple’s areola actually comes out a bit to push the nipple just a bit further from these tiny flesh humps. It’s a nice breast, but among other things, I’m a breast man. A bit more classy in some ways, this tit. It allows the lady to wear a very very low cut dress in lieu of cleavage. Even a senator’s wife with breasts like that could pull it off at cocktail parties.

Anyway, this mining torn mountain is like that tit in shape. At the base of it is the major mining operation here for 100 years. The mountain doesn’t beat you over the head with sultry curves. It’s a simple and elegant strata, pointing, like a tinyMount Fuji. I drew it with a green sky and purple shadows, light on white paper. They were the only two colors I allowed myself for that little outing, sketching. I didn’t include obvious mining scars or radio tower atop.

I guess drawings tell their own story, I’m just not sure quite how. Maybe it’s only questions that they offer. Just like these erect objects, dictated in front of me, they only leave questions. Why’d he draw these? And why this way?

The more I think about it, space itself never tends to offer any solid answers. Storytelling has to, at least, hint at some answers, I would think. But space, how is a story told with space? I wanted to talk about painting a story, using space.


This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: