Al, the handsomest man, looks bewildered and groggy over his first cup of coffee. His mustache is sprung and wild to match his sleep-jagged eyebrows as he peers around the table at us, asking, 'What's this I hear about high jinks on the Mouse Rack with the wheelchair? Eh, dreamlets?'
We all grin dutifully and Elly does her 'Oh, Papa!' routine to disarm him while Mama blearily hands around filled breakfast plates, and drags her kimono sleeves through the butter every time she reaches across the table.
I cut Arty's meat slowly while my chest fills with a yearning that would like to spill out through my eyes and nose. It is, I suppose, the common grief of children at having to protect their parents from reality. It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood.
Can we blame the child for resenting the fantasy of largeness? Big, soft arms and deep voices in the dark saying, ‘Tell Papa, tell Mama, and we’ll make it right.’ The child, screaming for refuge, senses how feeble a shelter the twig hut of grown-up awareness is. They claim strength, these parents, and complete sanctuary. The weeping earth itself knows how desperate is the child’s need for exactly that sanctuary. How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia.
Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our own ferocious appetites.
We need that warm adult stupidity. Even knowing the illusion, we cry and hide in their laps, speaking only of defiled lollipops or lost bears, and getting a lollipop or a toy bear’s worth of comfort. We make do with it rather than face alone the cavernous reaches of our skulls for which there is no remedy, no safety, no comfort at all. We survive until, by sheer stamina, we escape into the dim innocence of our own adulthood and its forgetfulness.
-from Katherine Dunn's "Geek Love", Chapter 9 "how We Fed the Cats"
Every times I read that quote, my spine gets tingly. I must re-read the book. It's been far too long.
What should I do next for an experimental comic? My goal is to take me out of my comfort zone. I've been fiddling with a Dali-esque surrealistic piece, but it's stalled a bit. So far, I've written the following:
a double story
an unreliable narrator
intertwined two storylines simultaneusly
illustrated a poem
Written magical (sur)realism (vava)
written a narrative telling two stories in the same text
written a snapshot scene of a quilt-like possibly bigger "story"
illustrated a friend's written piece
24 hour comic
written on a "snow" theme
short horror story
sketchy emotionally autobio
narrative of charaters describing a non-shown character, and not realizing what they're revealing