I came across a man who could not find his remote. Nor could he approach his own TV in vain he looked under sheets, couches, piles of coats, in vain! in vain looked he.
I don't trust, he said, the laws of science. There's many things it will not see and in refusing to acknowledge blind spots, no vision can be genuine; it's all either waves or particles, depending on whom you ask, and things disappear; commercials are endured; as the TV has no knobs to turn, and the remote is lost, all lost, said he.
As he babbled he was lifting cushions all the while, and I, so wearious of watching his futile rummaging, did make to leave
This November I celebrate 10 years without a drink. In memoriam, here is a comic I drew in 1999 while interning at the Bellevue alcohol clinic. I'd like to dedicate this to my childhood best buddy, Alan Pyle.
If you don't know war comics, this is patterned after DC's "Weird War Tales." And of course, the classic comics of Alcoholics Anonymous. Just click on each page for a larger version!
I want to write about the illusion of control. That is one of my mind’s focuses. We’re trained by loud voices to respond. I’ve got a loud authoritative voice that gets results. I can make words seem true the way I say them - they even sound true to me. My deep voice is like a big set of bellows powering an instrument vast and glorious and God- the devil that He is -- hath given me a tone-deaf ear and inclination towards laziness which prevents and prevented and will prevent me from bothering to examine and master the intricacies of this amazing instrument. I use it as infrequently as possible and it closes up on me in irked reprisal. When I, for example, finally speak during a day off from work, to the cashier at the drug store, my voice comes out as a surprise to us both. Where most voices come and go, like little chirps, my deep voice drops onto the floor with a flat slapping sound, staying there. All words tend to lose their meaning when I speak them. My voice is a needle that scratches each record it plays, morphing the singer’s voice into mine, riddling the once-clean margins with my random notations, my boredom, my longing, my sloth. I spit out the crumpled remains of tapes I’ve played, mixes for long drives back and forth to college upstate, blazing too much lazy herb, lots of b’s: burbbly, bubbly babble until I can’t understand my own voice when I hear it on someone else’s answering machine.