Life Is Most Definitely Very Good Now sounds an awful lot like an indie film or an EP, doesn’t it? Maybe I ought to do something with that in the future… Who knows, really.
To sum up, I’m back, and I’ve got some killer news.
It’s been a good, indiscernible amount of time since I last posted on my blog– really, there’s no way to tell, don’t look at the timecards on these posts, it’s just impossible, don’t bother– but I’m returning in full swing, carrying many glad tidings to dole out. First and most important, I just set up a website for my professional work platform, MODEL TOWN! Check-check-check-check it out!
Now you may be asking, “Why does Rob need a professional website?” Well disembodied rhetorical question device, I’ll tell you why: within the next two weeks, I’m lookng to finally publish the Guardian of the Forest and begin selling it online and at some local San Diego comic shops! I am immensely excited to get this project out, and if you are somewhat intrigued by the things I’ve posted regarding this project before, you absolutely should swing over to my professional website and take a gander at the preview pages I’ve posted!
But that’s not all (as they often say in infomercials). As of three weeks ago I began hosting a weekly ~Write Night~ every Friday at my home. Which means… I’ve got new material to post! Now, mind you, these pieces aren’t completely polished, as so far have been engaging primarily in exercises and not lengthy narrative works. But I hope you’ll all enjoy them the same!
(We took the title of the song–in this case, The Hills by the Weeknd– and set free for 10 minutes I believe)
My name is Roger. I was born in a small town, in an insignificant city, in the greatest kingdom in all of the world. My live just above poverty, while the king and his royal court live in fine splendor. I am told by travelers that I must have committed many good deeds in past life to have been born in the kingdom, where the rivers are lined with gold– but not our river– and fruit grows bountifully on the trees– but not in our forest. Like good fortune, these travelers always leave as soon as they have appeared, eager to deliver their goods to the capital.
All of this is fine with me.
My name is Roger, and in this small town, in an insignificant city, in the greatest kingdom in all of the world, I have the greatest treasure known to any man, nestled at the bottom of… the Hills.
(The prompt her was to write a passage embodying a sensation chosen by one of the other members of the group)
“Just about… I’m just about there.”
“Dick, please sit still. We can figure this out… We have to figure this out… Would you fucking sit still!”
“I’ll fucking sit still when you stop calling me Dick or Dickie or whatever the fuck you called me before. I’m not him, I’m not anyone!”
“I mean, just imagine for just a moment, that you are dead. I know, just imagine. Just imagine that your eyes are closed so tight that they no longer open, that they are just sheets of flawless, unblemished flesh sprawling across your face. Except that you have no face, and no limbs, and–“
“Dick, Dick please, we’ve been through all of this–“
“NO! It’s important! Imagine, imagine that you are just imagination, a primal force that remembers life and love but you have no proof that those things exist or have ever existed and slowly you are even unsure that you are more than some else’s imaginary friend, someone else’s imagination and then FUCK!”
He claps his hands together with a mighty crash and every object in the room shifts two feet.
“And then suddenly you are once again or maybe for the first time flesh and bone and blood and spit and you have to compress all of the infinite, all that you were and all that you WERE into a fucking flesh puppet. Would you be able to fucking sit still!?
Carl “Crabcakes” Hoolihan
(The prompt was supposed to be to write a story about someone you would never write about, so I picked an anthropomorphic, happy, poker playing dog. Go figure.)
Carl “Crabcakes” Hoolihan has never eaten a crab cake. Nor does he look like a crab cake. He is not entirely sure what a crabcake looks like, or even what goes into one. But people call him Crabcakes, and that is alright by him. Also, Crabcakes is a dog.
You’re probably thinking to yourself that it’s peculiar that Crabcakes, being a dog, has a first name, or a “Christian name,” as Crabcakes’ owner Barry would say, and a nickname, but c’est la vie, right? None of his dog friends have nicknames, and his human friends– Janie, who lives next door, and the boys who come over for poker– also largely lacked sobriquets. So all in all, being called Crabcakes made him feel like a very special dog indeed. But then, all of Crabcakes’ friends were special in their own way.
Janie, the aforementioned neighbour, for instance, enjoyed mayonnaise on her hot dog where others might prefer ketchup, or mustard, or even bbq sauce perhaps.
There are more, which but I don’t want to overload my blog all at once (or run out of things to post immediately) but look forward to more over the upcoming weeks! Please, please, please let me know what you think of these short passages!