Surrealist Obituaries

A pumpkin is just a pumpkin

A gourd-like squash of the genus Cucurbita

It’s the fire INSIDE it, man

Which is where the magic comes in

We’re all just fire, you know

And which ‘pumpkin’ we’re in really shouldn’t matter

The pumpkin is just the costume for that light

Lasting but a night

And I remember the Halloween

When I got a long-lasting bear costume

YOU SEE…

I was killed by a falling anvil

Shoved off of the blacksmith’s balcony

By his furious wife

After she found out he cheated on her

My ghost rocketed past her

On its journey upwards

And I gave her an angry look

Because while her grief was justified

Such thoughtless actions as pushing an anvil off a balcony

Are simply inexcusable

Especially on Halloween!

IT COULD HAVE STRUCK A TRICK-OR-TREATER!

So I rose past the blimps and the kites

Was grabbed by the wiry creature in the sky

And flung back down to earth

This time as a grizzly bear

It was fine at first

But killing and eating raw animals quickly grew tiresome

(No candy on a BEAR’S Halloween)

And I wondered every time I slaughtered something

If perhaps it was the reincarnation of my late wife

But eventually I found a cabin in the woods

It was abandoned

But had not been for long

The fridge was full

And certain that a woman as wonderful as my wife

Would not have been returned to earth as yogurt

I ate without fear

But as I heard the front door open

I scrambled

Desperate

Without a plan

Finally standing in a corner

And striking a fearsome pose

As a young couple walked in

Saw me

And took me for a stuffed bear

Just as planned!

And although they were confused

Each unclear as to my origin

They were certain there was some mundane explanation

I maintained this pose for the rest of the day

On into the night

Finally relaxing

When they went to bed

I was planning to leave

But asked myself where I would go

The forest is boring for someone who was a human

Philosophical greatness eluded me in the wilderness

I felt no epiphanies

In my unsentimental bear heart

Henry David Thoreau would be disappointed

But what could I do?

I was never a great American

So I remained in the cabin

Relaxing my pose when they were away

Watching television when it was on

Listening to their conversations when I was bored

Trying to ignore their sounds when they made love

(They were screamers, both, God help me)

Eating their food when they slept

(I framed raccoons)

And all in all living

A satisfactory

If not exactly soaring

Existence

Until the man staggered out of bed ne night

To take a leak

And saw me

Face-deep in the fridge

I turned to look at him

He continued to stare at me

Anything could have happened

We were both on the verge of a heart attack

But I finally took the initiative

And keeping an eye on him all the while

I slowly stepped as lightly as my paws could manage

Back to my corner

Where I reared up

And resumed my pose

He stared in disbelief

He stepped over and waved his hand in front of my eyes

I did not so much as blink

(Though my eyes were getting dry)

And after finally going to the bathroom

He returned to bed

And the next day

He acted as if everything were normal

Did he decide to write the experience off as a dream?

Had he decided to let me be out of some sense of comradery?

Was he simply at a loss as to how to approach this situation?

I didn’t know

But I was relieved

Until two weeks later

He and his wife left the cabin all day

And he came back home alone with a rifle

And shot me in the face

The last thing I hear

Before my ghost leaves through the chimney

Is him calling out to his wife

Telling her she can come in now

So I return to the wiry creature in the sky

Sheepish about seeing him again so soon

(It was barely Winter

I should have just hibernated)

But professional that he is

He simply flings me back to earth

Awhile into the comforting past

As a human once more

A sweet gesture

And as I grow up I am surprised to realize

That I end up a blacksmith

But if a blacksmith I must be

A loyal one I shall be

And will let no anvil rest on a balcony

As I remain dutiful to my wife

(A strangely beautiful, strangely familiar woman)

Regardless of temptation

But, when my career grows ever more profitable

I decide to get the apartment she wants

The one with the balcony

She really does want it

Then one Autumn

At a blacksmith’s convention

Away from her and home

I meet a fetching woman

Also a blacksmith

Who shares blacksmithing interests with me

And as we talk and open up to each other

We realize

She is the reincarnation of my wife from the life before last

I missed her so much

And reasoning that it isn’t really an affair

(If anything, continuing to be with this life’s wife would be an affair)

We resume our love from two lives ago

Well, needless to say

Word gets back to my current wife

Up on her beloved balcony

Just in time for Halloween

And in her rage she shoves my prize anvil off the side

Where it falls

Spares the costumed children

But kills a pedestrian

With my old name

Now, I suppose I could be resentful

To live an existence of such extreme irony

But it’s mostly my fault

And as far as the wiry creature in the sky goes

In regards to his part in this madness

I don’t begrudge him having a bit of fun

And let it never be said

That I can’t take a good joke

As I watch my betrayed wife get taken away

Screaming and crying

For committing the twin crimes

Of manslaughter

And making a perfect circle

I rose out of our bed early

Before you awoke

Sneaking like some spy in a movie

And could only maintain my sense of seriousness

Because nobody was watching

(Sneaking around looks utterly foolish

Which gives an additional reason to succeed at it)

I left without disturbing you

And you never even noticed me pinching our love from its hiding place

I hid it under my jacket

The whole long walk into town

Not wanting strangers or hooligans to see it

Finally I reach the shop

Belonging to the authority

Whose ad I saw in the paper

I took our love and put it on the counter

And asked her to use her talent

And her studied eye

To determine its authenticity

So she unfolded a blanket on the counter

Full of a variety of hammers

Of varying sizes and shapes

Some heavier, some sharper

Some truly ferocious

And each one in turn

Starting with the least threatening

And working her way up to the most menacing

She brought down in powerful strikes upon our love

And though each blow was strong enough to make me fear for the counter

Our love stood strong

And suffered no cracks

So as she reached the end of the tests

She wiped the sweat from her brow

And congratulated me

Proclaiming, for the record, that this was true love

And no mere counterfeit

I thanked her for her services

She thanked me for letting her see such a fine specimen

And, putting it back under my jacket, I brought it back home

Where you were waiting for me

With a cross look on your lovely face

So I stand before you now

And though I apologize for doing all this without asking you first

I swear I’m speaking the truth

And there’s no other reason you woke up alone this morning

And really, after all that our love just went through

Would you put a crack in it now?

Surrealist Obituaries is back in action, but before you settle into the comfortable armchair of easy expectations and prop those slipper-wearing feet of yours on the ottoman of complacency, get this:

Shit ain’t goin’ on like it used to. Noooo, sir/ma’am.

Surrealist Obituaries was made because I just wanted to make comics. Do I still want to make comics? Indeed! But the pace of my previous schedule was making it a grueling endeavor to keep Surrealist Obituaries up alongside other responsibilities and obligations (the Two-Face story arc almost Ruined Christmas) and before the hiatus I was feeling doubt and resentment. The schedule was important, because it forced me to stick with it, to show discipline. And I did! Missed updates, or even delays, were an utmost rarity. Good for me! But as of late, the obligations which were meant to make sure I’d keep doing creative stuff have started feeling like an impediment to doing creative stuff as other creative pursuits had their time dominated by the need for coming up with and making two frequently loooooong comics every week, while ideas for the comics themselves were sometimes compromised by the need to GET ‘EM DONE, GET ‘EM DONE QUICK. Surrealist Obituaries was not designed to ever be something I resented doing (if it seems like most were drawn with me shouting WOOHOOOO, well, most of them more or less WERE, as it should be), but it was at risk of becoming that.

I’ve learned enough about making comics over this first span of SurObit that I felt comfortable committing myself to making a full graphic novel, with the confidence that it would be something truly great and worthwhile. There’s something magical about that, as well as something magical and inspiring in how much support so many folks showed for it. And I thank you.

But I still love the freedom and potential that doing Surrealist Obituaries offers, though I feel that for it to move on right I need to change things up.

Big, beefy ol’ meandering comics along the classics lines will still, in the least, be appearing  every other Tuesday (this more measured pace will allow me to make lengthier, less rushed installments which will aid in telling the grand Eldercash revelations and such I’m approaching with proper panache)…AND, more if the mood strikes, but regardless and even those official Comic Days aside, EVERY Saturday and Tuesday will still see an update of a sort. But I’m looking to spread my wings with other media, most of all (crude) animation , so expect offerings of those, along with youtube videos, audio projects, bits of writing, art, and even attempts at making shorter, get-to-the-point comics. Frankly I don’t understand why anyone would make those concise, three-or-four-panel dealies instead of overly long stream-of-consciousness scrolls of UNFETTERED CREATIVE EXPRESSIOOOOON, but part of growing as an artist is exploring and understanding other approaches, so that you may then smugly sneer and shove them away and be like ‘PSHHH, my way is BETTAH’.

Anyway!

Today, I would like to first of all link to my fledgling youtube channel…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-IanHM6INUc

…as well as show a cover I did for the wonderful Mr. Bryce Wilson’s horror retrospective, ‘Son of Danse Macabre’…

…which you can check out here http://www.amazon.com/Son-Of-Danse-Macabre-ebook/dp/B009K6Q4UU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349194988&sr=8-1&keywords=Son+Of+Danse+Macabre

And as a final note, I spent part of today engaged in the sacred activity of sculpting and baking a lovely statue of the final boss of StarTropics.

Incidentally, did you know StarTropics 1 and 2 are the best NES games ever?

But yes, I’ve decided to delve into the art of polymer clay, and Zoda from StarTropics was an obvious practice project because