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Pity Party for One / She Forgot That She Died

   Oh Rachel. Poor dead and forgotten rain-sodden Rachel.
Didn’t see that one coming, did you? Though even if you had, it wouldn’t have done you any good.

   Flash-forward three weeks —

   Boop. Oh, it’s this moon-faced moron again.

   He sat in the gloom of the early evening, the first rain of autumn hesitantly beginning to spatter on the windowpanes of his temporary bedroom (he was currently technically homeless, and was house-sitting here for Harold and Agnes; an older couple who were, until fairly recently, his neighbours).
   His ex-wife was currently caught in a burning-memory/corporeal-decomposition transitional purgatory between two holes — the physical hole of the grave she had recently took up residence in and the smouldering hole still raw in her ex-husband’s heart: a heart within which she’d spent a goodly amount of time carving out a mush-puddling niche before suddenly (it seemed to him) and violently ejecting herself from the place of suffocation betwixt his metaphorical heart-parts while simultaniously quitting her husband-constructed pedestal-perch. She had done so in a dramatic fashion — for that was her style — by running off with her work colleague Jones, not seven months ago. The first time in her life in which she’d ever shown any true initiative. Also the last time she did so. She had been a late bloomer in that regard.

   Now that moribund Void in his quintessence was being rapidly filled with a small lake’s worth of booze, in addition to around four Mexican soap operas’ worth of overblown blustery melodrama and self pitying monody. He cradled the pistol in his hand. Not long before it had been a cold and hard stranger to him. Now it had been there awhile it was quite warm to the touch.
   His headspace was in far too much turmoil for him to attempt any real self-reflection at this time. However, if he had have been capable of such a process he may have come to the realisation that the crux of his woe was not driven by bereivement for his lost former love. No, the pinion point in his slow descent into bathos was far more self-centred — hurt pride. Her ditching him and his wilted whiskeydick for a younger, sober, and far more virile lover had cut him deeply. Not deeply enough to attempt any real steps towards the long slow process of fixing his many flaws, but nevertheless deep enough to act as a very convenient misery-trigger indeed. Now the malaise had been running rampant in his soul for over half a year it had settled down into a nice slow corrosive gurgling brainwash.
   People like this guy become so accustomed to their own internal woe-wallowings that they completely lose all sense of the possibility that they could be capable of existing for long in any state other than an addled mess. To him the booze and the gloom were intrinsic cacoëthes.

   The poor sad fool.

   This lost-in-a-bottle one-man pity party would go on for some hours yet. Little did he know that tomorrow morning, when he awoke bleary and hungover yet again, the real shit would start to kick into gear. For you see, his late ex-wife wasn’t in her grave, not any more.

   She was with Rachel. And Rachel was terribly, terribly hungry.

Excerpt from my pseudo-novel The Human Condition is a Self-Perpetuating Cesspool of Endless Perdition. Yep, the ex-neighbour couple mentioned here are the very same Harold and Agnes featured the previous excerpt. Harold… just had to get away for awhile.

Oooooh! I wonder what will happen next!

Savage Badger is my spirit animal.

I’ve had a larger version of this pic in my possession for many years. It’s gone from hard drive to hard drive, savaging all the other picture files around it with wanton abandon. Cos Badger, he just don’t GIVE A FUCK.

Beautiful beautiful badger, 
his ancestor made famous by Kafka. 
If you dare piss him off 
he’ll go straight for yo’ crotch, 
his malice-fangs there to attack ya.

It’s only a matter of folding time and space before I become your epidemic.”

In which the Tex-Mex Hobbit and Beanpole the ‘Fro mess about with a speeeewwwky spirit-board and get way more than they bargained for when their entire operation is thus transmogrified into a polycephalous energumen of awesome deleterious destruction.

I adore every component of this tune, but that screaming-kids sample slotted in there at just the right moment is simply divine.

"So like I said to ya before in Chino, I know this totally freaky-ass couple, right, this badass dude who looks like he’d bench 400, easy, and his spooky missus who kinda fuckin’ freaks me out (it’s like, the way she stares at people, like as if she’s starin’ right into your soul, ya know?). 
These are the cats you’ll wanna do business with in this town. If you can get in tight with these two and their crew and earn their respect you’ll be fully set, mang. So I say may as well start tonight. Right now.
Anything ya want, Amsterdam Indica, electric Koolaid, Peruvian dancing dust, Black Russian, Eightballs, Mollies, fuckin’ whatever ya need man. Weapons: guns, tasers, C4… black-market babies, black market organs… Catherine wheels, spirit boards, Lemarchand’s box, oni, onryō, Brazilian Shrieking Cockroaches, fuckin’ *mogwais*… license plates… body disposal… fake papers… like I said man, *whatever ya need*.
Just follow my lead when we get to their place, and I’ll do the talkin’.”

"Oh, and don’t make any sudden movements…"

I have no idea who the artist was who drew this (I’m responsible for the textual atrocity), so if anyone knows please do tell me. Cheers!

Chelsea mightn’t even be consciously aware that she’s pulling a Fred Astaire off the staircase newel post here, but you can rest assured that I was certainly well aware.

This whole pose is some sort of attempt at subtly conveying the notion of how two film-nuts getting married and having kids — kids in the “absorbing everything around them” mode that is part and parcel of the components at play within their formative years — results in their kids absorbing film tropes and such like little biological idea-sponges; an absorption which manifests itself in the most random, and at times seemingly so casual, of ways.

And also, I tend to slip subtle (sometimes not-so-subtle) film-references into my comics from time to time, because I love film and I enjoy infusing my comics with multilayers that might be picked up on by readers, or they might not, or they may be picked up on during subsequent reads, whatever the revelation circumstances may or may not be.
I do this for two main reasons: because it’s fun to do and because it contributes towards giving some sorta reward to those readers who choose to look deeper into my comics.
I appreciate creative works that are comprised of many layers and levels, and so I endeavour to infuse my work with the same approach.

Due to the fact that I don’t tend to get much reader feedback pertaining to this element of my work I sometimes wonder how many readers actually even notice the things that dwell below the surface of my comics and such. Though as long as I derive enjoyment from this practice I shall continue to engage in it here and there as the fancy takes me, as I have done since I started this whole “making comics” malarkey.

Either that or this post’s whole point was just me attempting to sow subtle seeds of suggestion within your minds, so when the inevitable Chelsea & Millie print books come out you’ll equate their recommended retail price with C&M books being a highly crafted quality read rather it being due to me swindling everyone via jacking up the book’s retail worth by an extra 25¢: not for avaricious reasons, but because I dunno, I can’t deny my urges to commit the lamest white collar crimes ever any more than you could resist the allure of that last dessert you ate.

Miss Machine lyrics — Metaghosts

Lyrics & Music: Clover Lunamarie Gish
© 1998 SconeFarm (ASCAP)

The Living hunger for the sweet release of Death.
But the Dead know that the Void is a place bereft
of all that made them whole.
The sweet release from desire and want and need
is itself a fallacy.

fades away with intangibility.
drain away into obscurity.
The life-state of slavery to temptation is rendered inane
when compared to the cravings of those who’ve gone beyond the grave.

Life muddies and besmirches the purity of the soul.
Its trials and tribulations take their bitter toll.
But the empty caress of post-death Nothingness
is a far worse state of ruination and unrest.
Hungering for the security of the flesh.

Divorced from the corporeal-clogged form.
Disembodied discombobulation. Ripped and torn.

When the shackles of life are cast away
a divarication of sardonic fates await:
Eternally encircled by malevolent black-eyed seraphim.
Violently torn asunder by serpentiform entities.
Or condemned to roam this accursed world as revenants.
You’re screwed by your Gets but you’re fucked by your Wants.

Another cheerful death-obsessed ditty from Chelsea and Millie’s mother Clover’s old band Miss Machine.
Yeeeeaaah, I’ve noticed that now that I’ve finished writing/drawing AotE and am spending vast chunks of my time on Chelsea & Millie (a comic that doesn’t gleefully dance into the dark heart of viciousness like AotE sometimes did) the darker aspects of my creative drive appear to be manifesting themselves within the Miss Machine lyrics. 

I can live with that.

Musically, I imagine this tune to have a similar sort of vibe to this anti-Capitalistic diatribe in song form.

All lyrics IRL © bitter little me, myself, and I.

Dammitall, I keep forgetting to post clips on Monday for this “Music Monday” thing I’ve got going on here, so the heck with it, I’ve decided to just post clips up whenever the fancy strikes me.

So here’s “Razorblade Sky” from the sonic repository of English noiseniks Queen Adreena (aka Queenadreena): a shimmering fractured lullaby from a murky lower level of the Id. One can never have too many of those in one’s music collection.

Katie-Jane’s Garside’s vocals in this song almost feel as though she’s crawling up into one’s ear canal and making a nest in there; creating a space in which to croon her twisted little melodies, melodies that are the musical equivalent of a pleasant yet ultimately deleterious infection. You’d best keep an eye on that, or before you know it she’ll have cloistered a bunch of cats up in there too. I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if I found out she comes from a long line of crazy cat ladies.

But to my ears Razorblade Sky is simply a damn fine, passionate song. And to me that’s a very welcome antidote to the typical dribble that tends to seep out of the sewers of “indie rock”.
This particular ditty is representative of the dreamier and less abrasive side of this band’s sound (as opposed to the rickety raucousness of my favourite Queen Adreena song [also one of my top twenty favourite songs — “Siamese Almeida” — which can be found here. It features the sort of lung-busting, harrowing screammongery that wouldn’t be out of place in EYEWTKAS-era Daryl Palumbo’s best nightmares.).

Queen Adreena’s physical and creative core consisted of dainty waif incarnate vocalist Katie-Jane Garside and human-alien hybrid guitarist Crispin Gray (seriously, do a google image search for him. You can’t tell me he’s not an experimental alien/scarecrow hybrid gone-awry that was purposefully incubated in the womb of some poor unsuspecting malnourished woman. Even his surname is Gray, for fuck’s sake).

I was first exposed to QA via a redheaded goth-lite lady around 2004, and I’ve enjoyed their unique form of spiky and wired rock ever since.

Perhaps you will too.

Miss Machine lyrics — Molochdaughters

Lyrics for “Molochdaughters”; a song from Miss Machine’s (Chelsea and Millie’s mother Clover’s old band) penultimate studio album Drizzlegirls. As with all the lyrics for Miss Machine songs, these lyrics were written by me.

Lyrics & Music: Clover Lunamarie Gish
© 1998 SconeFarm (ASCAP)

Sacrifice your children to ríg-íodal h-Eireann.
Crom Cruach.
Cromm Crúaich.
Propitiation paid
in a flood of blood and torrents of raging flames.
Immolation down through veins of Moloch.

In the end we’re all just cinders
from a fire not of our design.
We are perma-liminal, bound by ritual
to violent nature.
To the eternal cravings of graven deities.

Ba’al Hammon smiles at the mounting body-piles.
Humanity so easily ensorcelled
by the seduction of destruction.
Congenital blood-debts.
They lurk in the shadows of atoms.
They dwell in the shadows of all our souls.

This violent demise, our legacy.
Parturient ruin.
Primeval evil,
malignant supernatural predators.
The ancient Agents of Ruination.
You can hear them as sinister whispers in the hypnagogia.
They’ll call for you
to feed their neverending need for atrocity.

In the end we’re all just embers
in a fire not of our design.
We are perma-liminal, turned against ourselves
by violent nature.
Slake the salaciousness of ancient deities.

Molochdaughters is about how humanity has allowed itself to be subjugated by various malevolent Entities down through the ages, and the ease in which these Entities were able to ensorcell humankind via a combination of fearmongery, the use of human hubris against itself, awe-inducement, and being adept at tapping into the primeval Lethal Ape bloodlust still hard-coded into our very genetic make-up, and which is something that is not difficult to get roused up and set loose within us, especially in a mob situation.
These Entities have been actively preying on sentient corporeal beings for an unfathomably long time, and they are very good at their job.
They are consummate professionals, one could say.

I’m rather fascinated with the concept of human sacrifice (purely from
an objective, academic standpoint I hasten to add, eh-heeheehee) and
how it has been a constant throughout our history. Boy howdy do we
ever love killing each other, be it via such things as war, various
forms of xenophobia-based persecution, subjugation, along with
allowing pernicious dark-minded deities to carve a bloody swathe as
wide as the world through us. It’s not enough that we harbour an
insatiable desire to destroy each other, we also have to conjure up
supernatural beings to destroy each other for. Deary, deary me.
Out of all the deities that were propitiated with human blood, Crom
Cruach is definitely my favourite. But Moloch gets to be in this song’s title because it just sounds better that way.

More Miss Machine lyric previews coming soon.

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