My City,

It's valentine's day,  or at least I think it is.  I have felt a little lonely.  Not that I have any desire to have a significant other right now.  I am happy to be on my own.  My first long term serious relationship was just about nine years ago,  and I've only been on my own for a few months.  Which doesn't really count,  I was clearly broken hearted.  So the loneliness is actually quite nice.  I'm that kid that could go any where,  pick up and hit the  road at a moments notice.  Of course I already did that.  Here I am, sitting in a coffee shop in P-town.  My list of friends I could count on my fingers,  half of them are roommates,  The other half work frequently,  or just have enough of their own life that I don't see them that often.  Which is good,  I don't want to party,  I want to draw and write.  In six months I'm sure I will meet and befriend a number of people,  and I will miss this time,  when the city was mine.  I lived here ten years ago for one year.  I have lived here again for a little more then a month.  Of course it is much more some one elses' city then mine.  But when you spend your days o your own.  Ordering a cup of tea being the most you talk outside of the house.  When you feel like the lady selling the homeless newspaper is your friend 'cause she says hello two days in a row.  And when you walk blocks and blocks,  that turn into tens of blocks and then a hundred and some...  well into the night.  When those numerous streets exist both beneath your feet and in the passages of your mind,  then in your singular experience,  it is your city.  There is no one to tell you otherwise.  I should choose my friends carefully,  for I am living in a state of bliss,  if only I could recognize it.  It may be that my synapses cannot adjust very quickly to what my rational mind knows is the best for me.  Eugene was the exact opposite.  It was like living on the set of cheers.  Every moment was an invitation,  "c'mon let's hang out."  Which I am glad I had.  Being a kid who has traveled allot sometimes I thought I would never have good friends I could get stoned and watch TV with,  I felt I would always be an outsider.  My brother always told me success was a lie.  The minute you achieved it you had in essence failed.  I don't know how much I took his words to heart.  He was a philosopher at the age of seven,  and had dedicated himself to writing by eight.  So he started working me over at an early age,  being two years older.  But I don't believe that.  I believe in the purity of motivations.  I think secretly Gabe craves success,  and because of that,  If he achieved it,  it could very well be his down fall.  And he protects himself by sabotaging himself,  and maintaining a state of constant penance,  like a monk afraid of his god.  What does this matter and why have i been distracted from my original theme.  I was just wondering that myself.  Let us conclude by saying,  here in this city I claim as my own,  I believe I may face my success.  It's not in the cards yet,  or in my skills to draw a story,  but it is brewing.  And I believe if you pray to and honor your art form every day,  then you will be respected as an artist,  offered a chance to continue your commitment,  and eventually one day honored yourself.  And then success doesn't even matter,  we've got stories to tell!!       
         Happy valentine's day my love,  I promise to spend more time with you.  More time rendering your characters,  more time plotting your stories,  more time paneling and laying out.  More time with me,  because you are the stories inside of me,  and we will walk this earth together.

                             Yours Truly,  the creator

My Bag

This blog is an ode to my bag.  It is a couriers bag and has always been through it manifestations.  There have been three.  The first I received in high school.  It had been my fathers.  I don't remember it perfectly anymore.  It was a dark navy blue on the flap that opens,  the rest was black with gray inside.  It was made by a company in Boston,  their symbol was Hermes I think walking away naked with a courier bag slung over his shoulder.  I lost that bag on the Williamsburg bridge in 2001,  my bike had blown a tube in the lower east side,  it was late and I was walking it back to Classon street.  I got to the Brooklyn side,  the top of this long ramp that slops down to the street. (it's not there anymore) These two guys beckoned me over,  I shrugged my shoulders and walked over to them.  One of them whipped a knife to my throat. I don't remember being particularly scared I never believed they would hurt me. They wanted my money obviously.  I believe it amounted to about a buck fifty,  it might of been less.  So I don't remember when they got my bag,  but they got it and rode down that ramp with it.  I yelled after them,  because there were people walking up the ramp,  like three or four people.  No one really did or said anything.  And that was that.  My bag was gone.  It was full at the time because I had just dumpstered all this bread.  That was the joke,  that my dumpstered food was good enough to steal.  So I walked home.  Looked for my bag in the alleyways around there the next day,  but nothing.  My bag,  a sketch pad,  some pens and pencils,  a cassette walkman,  and bread.  But the bag itself was hard to get over.  Until my budy Sayre gave me his old courier sack.  It has a yellow water proof coated inside,  and a black canvas on the outside.  The only thing that frustrated me was it didn't have snaps,  It had these straps that you had to loop through a metal clasp and then reloop it back and underneath.  So it slowed you down,  but I love that bag,  I have had it repaired,  and only finally made it my secondary about eight months ago.  It doesn't have a name so I cannot give it a toast,  but I can poor some beer out on the curb for it.  Thanks Sayre.  Now we arrive at the present day.  I bought this bag of f my bud Arrianne.  Now I say bought,  but she sold it to me for about half what she paid for it.  Yeah I know.  And this feline is a high class courier bag.  Black on black in black,  Like night rider.  All I got to do is install the moving red light that talks.  actually the symbol is red,  It's sorta like a hawks profile and a P.
       Now why my bag.  My bag is always with me.  I am part tortoise,  part marsupial.  I have hitchhiked,  moved,  traveled and been all over the country,  and some of the world.  I go out to coffee shops almost every day.  And each and every day there has been one of these three bags slung over my shoulder.  I wear my bag straight across,  wedged over my shoulders.  I wore it the same way in NYC.  that's for walking long distances,  no better way,  'cause there is little weight actually on your shoulders.  Oh yeah  I carry weight,  Sketch pad Twenty odd comic pages I'm working on,  pens,  pencils,  now my computer,  maybe a spare layer and a snack.  Yeah it's heavy,  and I've been miles. But this is my bag,  this is my companion,  been around more then any friend,  more then any lady,  family member.  Been physically attached to me more than anything has or will be in my entire life.  I continue to travel,  and plan to go all over the wold,  and if you ever see me,  chances are I'll have my bag slung over my shoulder,  or someone will have a gun to my head,  'cause a knife ain't gonna be enough next time.

One more reasessment,

   Like my comic book,  I need to step into my shoes,  and get going some place.  One point is thinking and planning my blogs out,  but then once I sit down I have over thought them,  and am swamped with ideas.  There is so much to tell,  and if I don't make a point to do it why would I think that any of the people who don't follow my blog should start following it.  I have always maintained that you have to first produce something that excites you,  and then maybe other people will check it out.  It is exciting.  I have so many decisions to make almost every day.  I am working solely on comic books.  attempting to get three done this month!  I cannot decide weather I should look for work here, consider working a few days in Eugene a week,  just live comics,  go to school,  or move to the huge island of trash in the pacific and start colonizing.  SO MANY POSSIBILITIES.  I don't know any one in this town.  Even though I lived here ten years ago.  Or more accurately every one I used to know seems to have moved,  and the few people I do know are from Eugene.  So I feel like I am building from the foundation as an comic artist.  I wanted to write articles for the Eugene papers about comics and just mentioning it here makes me want to do it again,  but I am also now designing a comic strip.  It's fun,  and sorta easy compared to comics.  Though it does posses it's own challenges.  It has to be SO brief.  I think I might do a comic strip and an adventure strip,  give one to my budy Elliot in Eugene for his publication and solicit the other around town.  My comic is not going to get sold until I get my name out there.  And I see no better way then a weekly strip.  So here I come Portland.  I am not sure of the title yet,  but I think it is pretty funny.  I don't think strips are that good.  I would always read Calvin and Hobbs as a kid,  that was great,  sometimes magnificent.  I have developed a deep appreciation of peanuts,  but other then that,  OK you can't be funny all the time,  but these people make a living at consistently SUCKING.  I repeat SUCKING.  OK I'm better now.  So I just started my strip last week,  but I think it is pretty good.  It makes me chuckle.  It is about a superhero lady,  well not actually a superhero,  I haven't figured out what her power is yet,  something awesome,  like an ability to sow a costume in a matter of minutes,  or moon walk on uneven surfaces,  yeah something awesome.  And I haven't figured out her name yet either,  it will be awesome too.  So she is kinda like Charles Xavier,  she runs a school for gifted people,  but it is more like a closed donut shop where people who want to dress up in costumes take classes from her on Sunday nights.  She also does private lessons,  deals with "superheros" who are out of control, and hangs out with her superhero friend who has the power convince women to do what he tells them,  except his powers don't work on her,  it is unclear weather his powers work on anyone.  She actually thinks he's a douchbag,  but since he's a superhero,  they're tight.  Well I have to ink in the first three strips.  See I knew I had but loads of stuff to write about