Tuesday, April 7, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo7

I'm in my head because of death.  I'm into Gould, because of death.  I'm a morbid person.  I'm into grotesquery, vivid depictions of the severed nerves, the whole shebang.  Not ALL death.  But the Good Shit, the Artful Shit.  True heads know what I mean.  It's all down to the way it's delivered.  Do I have to justify shit?  A lot of people are into horror movies because they're taboo, or weird, or stupid, or funny, or "gross"; a lot of people are into horror shit because they're perverts.  Then there's that percentage that find it cathartic.  You know, the ones who identified with Laura Palmer.  Hi.  My mom collected horror comics, married a violent mad scientist, and moved into the deep woods with him to raise a child.  Nothing happened.

Just some near misses.  Run-ins.  Bad accidents.  Stitches.  Broken bits.  Nights I wake up screaming.  I mean, hey, it's not unique.  These things happen to literally everyone.

"Literally."

I don't use that word casually.

So that's the other thing we haven't been talking about, when talking about Gould:  the amount of just full-on, fuck you, death.  And how literary he was with it.  The punishments were swift, abrupt, sometimes cavalier, but rarely comedic.  Death is a solemn moment.  Sometimes a richly deserved finale got strung out a while--  Flat-Top slipped Tracy The Reaper once, but rare's the hood to ditch 'im twice.  Sometimes death was as abrupt as a bullet's passage thru a forehead; sometimes the round had to pass through a forearm or head to get there; but happy was the villain to simply bite a bullet with Tracy on his heels, because Death dogs Tracy.  If a ne'er-do-well gets away from his guns they're just as liable to be beheaded or slowly impaled by falling shards of glass or drown in the fog with a bag of money around their neck, as they are to escape to crime, crime again.

And I mean look.

Look!  Gould makes death look good.  It's awful stuff.  Absolutely horrid.  Gould lays death out with all the tact & decorum of a coroner.  He doesn't gild the lily about dying.  Gould makes the moral of his criminal capers clear:  dying is the least fun a body can have.

I'm just putting these thoughts down here, on this subject, at this moment, because that's how I'm treating the Gould fixation generally.  As a lens through which to view the preoccupations of the day.

Sometimes the obsessions are sonic.  Sometimes they're contextual.  Frequently it's whatever I'm reading.  And other times...

Sometimes I hear an ex from 30 years ago passed away.  My second boyfriend.  First sweetheart I had after running away.  I loved him.  We read a lot of comix together.  Sunshine had ALL the Sienkiewicz New Mutants...  And I was a bitch to to him.  And I don't know why we broke up.  But we did.

That's all I'm fucking writing today.  Selah.

Monday, April 6, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo6

Traveling, bouncing faster than can be perceived, echoing ahead of itself and backward again, the reflections finding purchase in the present.

The essayist sets his dogeared paperback aside.  The bookmark at the halfway point.  Page 127, the witness under cross-examination discusses printing leaflets with a mimeograph.  "We had a duplicating machine and produced a little news-sheet for distribution to members."  A spirit duplicator...

1968: Per Wahloo publishes 'The Steel Spring', chronicling an unnamed nation in the grips of a self-inflicted crisis, made possible by prohibition.  "Inspector Jensen gave a shake of his head.  He had always thought the plainclothes patrol slipshod & imprecise in its actions."   Was Dick Tracy being syndicated abroad, in Scandanavia, in 1968?  During the space period, was Dick Tracy translated into Swedish?  Why not.  The 1940s strips were being translated into Hungarian in the 90s...

Any influence is possible.  Passible.  Communicable.  If Dick Tracy (1933) contains Batman (1939), and Batman contains James Bond (1953), then Dick Tracy (o.g. G-man) contains James Bond (oo7).  Everything flowing from wartime, crosstime, informing points in a constellation which may only be read from without.  Every influence equal to pastiche.

Now.  Cut to then.

"But Kid," says Sam, frame slipping free from the Sunday page, freckles scintillating around his wry smile.  He pulls himself bodily from the two-dee space by the narrow black bar of ink, hauling up and out, into memory's atmosphere, thin as the moon, and stands there hands on knees, panting, cartoon cig clinging to the corner of his winded grin:  "You can't just draw any old constellation, if ya can't project what the myth is meant to encompass.  The story has to map true."

"True," The child echoes.  Setting his scissors aside.  Studying the fifty year old face he finds reflected in them.  "The story has to encompass the imaginary shape; the myth isn't cut to fit the story."

The essayist in his fourth-dimensional window winks, a glint off steel shears.  "Sure.  But what do you imagine the shape to be?  Forty years of dailies.  Forty years of work.  What kind of silhouette does that provide?  Is it flat?  Flat, hell: is it even opaque?  Can it shade, block, obfuscate?  Or is it only an outline, a profile, a prĂ©cis?"   Eyeballing the diminutive Sam as he cocks his derby back with a derisive sniff.

"What's the topography of our myth," says Sam, giving the tip of the scissors a light kick, setting them spinning.  "Izzat what you're asking?  An implausible ask for an impossible question."

The scissors spin, spin, spin on their axis.  Images old and new flashing.  Forgotten to the child, immemorial to his quinquagenarian self.  Olden anew.

Sunday, April 5, 2026

what if

i shaved all the hair

except the happy trail leading into my bum cleavage

and i called those my "booty pubes"

Saturday, April 4, 2026

the wasp's dying crawl

Twenty-eight-- perhaps twenty-nine, perhaps thirty years ago, I watched Chris Neal make a painting.
 
The fine arts building, late nights.  Spring?  Or was it summer?  The two of us juked on caffeine from The Coffee Banque, just across the street.  One of four, five pieces I watched him make.  A curious, dusty-looking thing, craggy plaster worked into the canvas for texture.  A bit of Arizona map from the floorboard of Neal's car, embedded in the sky.  Charcoal slashes forming the skull of a cow, marking the ground.  Hooker's green and yellow clay and umber red beneath it all.  A bold, squared-off window into road trips forgotten & unmade.  Those were brilliant, exciting nights.  The room thrumming to Pigface, watching Neal dance around the canvas, a happy parody of Pollack.

(A wasp crawling across the surface of the still-wet piece where it lay on the floor.  Neal, in a snit of inspiration, leaving it there to become part of the work.  The next day, daubing black & yellow & white in an abstracted, dotted line across the wasp's dragway until there are enough individual accumulations of dots for the wasp to echo forward & back across the rosy desert horizon, motion captured by life.  "That'll finish it.")

An old mate held onto that untitled work a long time, a prized piece.  Neal by then having given up art.  Then the painting resided in storage a while.  Then he offered it to me, for safekeeping.  I kept it relatively safe.  Somewhere in the moves, the original wasp had fallen away.  In an emergency change of address, had to de-frame the canvas.  Rolled it for storage, moved into a new place.  Soon as I could, had it re-stretched and framed again.

It dominated my kitchen around nine years.  Mute witness to all my worst cooking.  Then covid arrived.  Lost the studio.  The painting went into storage, again.  Into a garage, for about a year, I guess.  Then into another storage unit, for about five or six months.  We downsized the storage, so it moved into a lesser corrugated metal closet space.  Another year living in the dark.  Then it moved with us, here, to Chicago.  Arrived before us, point of fact.  No room to display it, and besides, I'd fallen out with all the old Auburn crew.  So it lived in my closet.  A year and a third again.  

Today it's in the alley, waiting next to the garbage.

I dunno.  You keep signal fires burning for as long as the signal's good, then you let them gutter.

There were people to whom the painting had meaning.  I was definitely one.

classic

Mental health day.

Friday, April 3, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo5

The reflections are something else.

There's the obvious:  Dick Tracy & his orphan partner in crimestopping, Dick Tracy Jr: 1933.  Bruce Wayne & Dick Grayson I940.  Easy parallels.  Deathtraps.  Shared (stolen) villains.  The fetish for grotesquery.  The influence shines clear.  But change the angle of the shears in your hand...

There's a weirder, narrower resemblance:  Dick Tracy & Joe Dredd.  Lawmen who've survived countless deadend hells.  Witnessed the devil's worst, climbed over corpses wracked with torment, had the soles of his feet flayed, been starved, blinded, shot in the head and abandoned down cravasses in desert wastes.  Dick & Joe, refusing promotion in favour of staying On The Prowl, On The Streets, forever in syndication, applying the law to scum.

These likenesses neither begin nor end at the chins.  There's an unholy implacability to these characters, a momentum of moral force, that marks them, now.  It was never there in the beginning.  But fifty years on, the characters carry themselves differently.  They are marked by their villains.  They have shaped themselves against their stone & steel & forgotten future metropoli and become celebrated, for better or for worse, as reflecting Us.  We're the cutouts.  We're paper dolls, dressing ourselves to match... 

I'm trying my city on for size.  D.T. contains Chicago, as Wayne contains Gotham, as Dredd contains Meg-1.  Each its own ironic tweak on the times they inhabited.  Tracy, emerging from the ruins of the white city, through the flames of prohibition into the electric light of our present/future police state--  his own creator a kid raised without indoor plumbing.  Of the three the most winking invention is probably Batman, that mob-busting vigilante-cum-rich kid, whose multi-billion dollar likeness was owned & printed by a mob front publishing outfit, looking to launder money--  here's looking at you, Johnny DC  --with Bob Kane's vainglorious signature stenciled atop art he never saw let alone touched:  I'd say Gotham is New York and Manhattan Island and New Jersey in the bargain.  And then there's Joe's sweet Mega-City One, America's terminal Sprawl, a nubbled & mushrooming coastline, as imagined from the Firth of Tay...

The scissors close.  Reflections fall away.

apropos of sweet f.a. except for it's on topic:

Richard Corben gave the Queen all the best fight scenes.

Sincerely.  Corben's a guy who I read a Fight Comic for.  There's a bloody-minded intensity to the fights he stages for her.  In 'Muvovum' the Queen breaks all the limbs on an old man, bites off his finger, and throws him out a window.  She's terrifying.  But that's small potatoes to the HALF-A-GRAPHIC-NOVEL-WORTH of fights he gives Kil, in 'Children of Fire'.  I'm exaggerating because I always do, but for serious, nearly half the page count in this book was Kil curbstomping a murderously stupid lizard man.

GLORIOUS.

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

"Wuxtry, Boy Commandos!" - March 2o26

Concrete, vols. 4-7 (1994-2004) - written & illustrated by Paul Chadwick

Dick Tracy: The Complete Dailies & Sundays 1933-1935, vol. 2 - written & illustrated by Chester Gould

Den: Neverwhere, Muvovum, & Children of Fire (1978, 1983, & 1989, respectively) - written & illustrated by Richard Corben

Why even have notes, if I'm not gonna make notes on these?

Den's a weird comic.  It first began life as a short film, which I've never seen, before today, but have felt indicated via the text.  Repeatedly.  Which is the first weird thing about Den:  it's nodding to its own origins, outside comix.  The second weird thing is it keeps asking:  what the fuck IS this comic, really?

It's only a weird query, inasmuch as there's No Answer.  The closest we can get is, "Den is Den."  Whether you're talking the series proper, or its own satirical post-script, 'Denz', the series is Corben's instincts, at work & play. 

And here's the weird-er, weird-est part--  Den's a queer text.  It's a queer text by a hetero:  a heterodox doc, if ya like...  And me gusta, certainly.  When the Corben library was announced, and I found out Jose Villarubia was in charge of the restoration, I was dubious.  Because Villarubia, lovely as his work can be, is not the original colourist.  I was suspicious.  But Villarubia's not just maintained the faith, he's improved upon the original printings by presenting the cleanest, least censorious version of the work I've seen.

Sure, the colours.  Everybody talks about Corben's colours.  But I'm here for the full-frontal dudity.  Den, the character, isn't attractive.  Most of Corben's faces & bodies aren't sexually appealing-- to me.  But in terms of actually presenting the body in motion, in action, under the influence of momentum & gravity?  Unless it's Muybridge, you're not liable to see this degree of accuracy on paper.  From tumescence to free-floating flaccidity, the constriction of cremaster muscles are observed, testicles descend & retreat, cocks roll lazily, and buttocks tense.

Hey, kids: comix.  

And most of that doesn't happen during sex scenes.  The sex scenes are relatively chaste, really.  The only actual penetration committed to paper, in the majority of instances, is with either blade or claw.  The biggest cock in the second volume, Muvovum, isn't Den's, it's his arch-enemy, Tarn.  As in his enemy morphs into a giant purple people-eating cock.  Spoilers!

If that scans as less-than-queer to you, then you're definitely not the audience for the third volume, 'Children of Fire', when Den basically disappears from the narrative and all the focus turns back onto The Red Queen, the power-mad & physically intimidating villainess of volume 1--  who had a HELL of a fight scene, in v2, where she breaks all the limbs of an old man, bites off one of his fingers, and kicks him out a window.  Volume 3, which dials the Den Saga back to the year dot, doesn't really go out of its way to cater to the original fans.  Den is a desiccated husk of an old man, and The Queen is re-cast as his caretaker & guardian, a spacefarer going by the name Kil.  'Children of Fire' tracks Kil's evolution into the Queen and suggests something deeply genderbent about everything we've seen heretofore.

None of this is explained elegantly.  This is Corben, after all, and nobody can convincingly argue to me that he's a Writer.  He's an ascended fanboy.  He's one of the o.g. fanboys of my parents' generation, point of fact.  His fan fixations aren't mine--  Corben read all of Robert E. Howard, attempted adaptations of almost every Poe or Lovecraft story you care to name, and he loved the John-Carter-of-Mars series.  Madly.  Corben was chasing his own fixations when he got hired on to colour the Warren reprints of The Spirit, and he rode that pack of fixations like baying hounds--  the same fixations which led him to film 'Neverwhere', over time, led him to be obsessed with the pop androgyny of the 80s, same as all were:  Annie Lennox's buzzcut + Kathy Acker's bodybuilding were as culturally ubiquitous as Patrick Nagel prints.

Which is where I'm at, presently, in my reading:  1989.  Year of the Twin Peaks pilot.  Scene of the crime, as 'twere, for my generation to figure out what the crimes against women exactly were.

And there's still two volumes to go.  Den has only begun to warp.  The Big Story will fold-- like origami produced by some blind seer --into itself, in suggestive shapes, inchoate.  Corben kept returning to Neverwhere and asking, "Well, what was that about?" only to produce another, stranger, more gnomic variant on the initial work.  Not because he was huffing Borges & reading french po-mo homos.  Because the entire time he was handcrafting this art, Corben was bluffing his way to market, making & selling these books through his vanity press imprint, Fantagor.

I cannot underline enough:  these are some strange-ass books.  Especially to emerge from '89.  Because 'Children of Fire' was when Corben was serializing Den as a newsstand comic.  Den!?!  A title most famous for being unafraid to depict the male form, re-formatted with a female (but never effeminate) protagonist who wears clothes, like some beachgoing normie!  Of course it's Corben, so the dimensions & proportions of the fantasy are, as ever, fantastical, and consequently threats of sexualized violence are never far away-- but the threats are never given a chance to land, because Kil, not yet the Queen, is definitely more violent & dangerous than Den had ever been.  

O, my trash friends & friends of trash, there are fight scenes.  These are fight scenes to buy a graphic novel by Richard Corben for.  Action like you like it!

Is Kil likeable?  Not as such.  Den's hardly likeable himself.  He's literally a Masculine Fantasy.  But this revised Queen is interesting, in all the ways Den is not.  She's in tune with, in ownership & in control of her body, her sexuality, & her identity-- in all the ways David Ellis Norman is not.  (Have I mentioned how often our acronymic, titular character is sexually assaulted?  Have I mentioned how many times he's been raped?  Nobody ever seems to.  Perhaps I should.  At least the end of v1, which ends with our novice, blundering hero being both raped- and rescued -by women; v2 gives Den close to the full hentai treatment, whereas the worst thing to happen to a female character--  Muuta, disney princess of v2  --is being swallowed whole by a massive parasitic cock.  (Pause for emphasis.  Throat-clearing sfx.)  I wonder why more peeps don't get into the weeds about this stuff...)  Corben, never the most subtle of creators, works harder than most Accredited, Acclaimed, Award-brandishing Writers of Comix to show us, not tell us, who the Queen is.  What's revealed is Kil: a survivor, a striver, an otherworldly--  chthonic, even  --figure of myth.  Corben doesn't tell us much of any of that with dialogue.  Yes, he typesets a lot of text.  His best characterization is, inevitably, illustrative.

A woman arising from the ocean, powerful and athletic, cradling a body so wizened it's virtually a cadaver.  

That's the cover:  that's the story.

You can quibble with my Big Queer Reading.  Because obviously there's a lot of eggy symbolism, and squicky talk about "genetics" from an implicitly matriarchal, eugenicist, spaceclone race, etc.  Which Kil defies, throughout-- matriarchy isn't her destiny.

Now, conquest, maybe...

Den doesn't exist in 'Children of Fire'.  In his stead there's Mal, a frighteningly skeletal figure who eventually cakes up enough--  courtesy of "radiation" and a Neverwhere diet  --to become Den's ringer, in this sci-fi ancestor to a fantasy t&a, beans'n'frank comic that's essentially inexplicable & scripted by the creator's id.  The plotting is on some Dave Sim shit, in terms of a career arc where a creator is tethered to an Ikonic Comic Character: retroactive justification heaped upon retroactive justification, all for making a Carter of Mars fan film in his youth...  Resulting in some very un-Sim self-examination, perhaps.

It's obvious to me that as time did its work on Corben, and Corben did work on himself--  along the way he became a bodybuilder, his own model for Den  --he discovered the Queen to be more compelling & capable than his naive boy-in-barbarian-drag, and so re-configured the Entire Work to focus on her, and her role in redefining Den.  The books all still have Den's name on them, but taken as a whole, it's not about him.  It's about Neverwhere, and why Neverwhere was never quite where he left it, before he returned.

Because, like his Queen, like Den, Corben always returned.  Always in different skin.

Marvel Super Special #33: Buckaroo Banzai (1984) - scripted / adapted by Bill Mantlo, illustrated by Mark Texeria & Armando Gil

ignore it, it's just another public health emergency

Man it will be nice to not sleep on the living room floor.  Soon!

  • Tracing Gould #s 5 & 6 this week.  Still sussing out what it is, besides evidence of brain damage.
  • Finishing The Ascendant (Hierophant) card.  Sometimes the longest task is finding the right pattern to map onto folded fabric.  Figure I'll do full pencils for this & print up the first set of cards.  Inks on The Imp need to finish.  Overdue!
  • The major arcana of my tarot will form the basis for BRIDGE OF MANIPULATIONS, a 22-page Art Comic.  Because fuck narrative.  Build your own!  I'd like to have BoM in print before the end of the year.  Which means I should get crackin'.  If I can, then theoretically I may complete the whole. damned. deck. within another year...  Anyone wanna lay wagers?  (Don't.)
  • Starting proper pencils on THE KILL HOUSE chapter 1.  Should think about serialization schedule.
  • Starting pencils & thumbnails for opening of DENIZEN this week.  Re-read script enough to determine it's as perfect as it's gonna get.
  • The Burroughs Folio portraits are proceeding apace.  Have Mikey working.  Ian or Kammerer next.  Should finish penciling Barlow.  Probably the most technically demanding of the portrait series, next to Ian, which I'm dragging ass on because it involves rulers.  I hate ruling perspective on projected light.
  • AZURE PANTRY needs a full edit & re-type for final draft.  But the script is done...  Need to get back on thumbnailing pages & character sheets.  Have first chapter roughed out.
  • The PAINLESS minicomic / trailer is thumbnailed.  Also needs penciling to officially Start.  This script could also use a full re-type.  Priorities are plainly muddled.
  • PROMISELAND is on pause.  The script is halfway there.
  • And then there's HERO OF THE FEVER, which is in various states of production & reboot for four years.  When I started this thing I could barely bend the index finger of my drawing hand.  Anyway.  There's a script, there are thumbnails, there's a theory behind a webcomic incarnation.  We'll see.

The work-pile:  contains more black widows than a stack of firewood.

(I like black widows.  They're cute.)