Part One.

The following is a comic story in 3 parts that I will publish on my blog.

Col. Noah Van Sciver speaks!

On a wall of building today I saw the words “What is a city, but the people in it?”

Denver is a frozen city this afternoon. I went for a walk after work to get a few things done before night falls and the vampires come out of the dumpsters. I picked up some cardstock at an Officemax, and then headed for the Tattered Cover bookstore to soak up the atmosphere and some coffee. 

I am beginning to dread the “Graphic Novel” section of bookstores.

There isn’t enough of me in it. Jeez, I wonder how that reads to people? I just want to see me in there. I’m interesting, that’s all. I like my comics. I’m full of myself. I guess it doesn’t matter if that sounds bad to you.I respect you too much to lie to you. I prefer to see my comics than most others. Probably more than yours. 

Listen, if you are a comic artist, and you are reading this, don’t try to lie to me. I know that you feel the same way. You’d rather see your comics in the store than mine. It’s okay, man. We are friends. I will buy your comics. And if by some insane luck you see any of mine, you can return the favor and buy mine. 

Okay? 

Okay. 

Deal. 

I don’t know… I wonder if I’ll ever have a book of my comics. I was talking to my buddy about this once. When I first started drawing comics, my goal was to draw a mini-comic. I thought it’d be so cool to have a mini-comic with my name on it. Then, by the time I figured out how to put one together I learned that many people think of  mini-comics as “outdated” or “Slight.” So, I thought “maybe I should have my own comic book series! Everybody has a comic book!” So, I agonized about not having a comic book of my own. I felt like a cartoonist with nothing to show. Then, I figured out how to start a comic series. Now, I see that not many cartoonists draw comic books anymore. They all have their own books in bookstores now. And now my agony comes from not having a book.  

Also, I agonize about this city. I often feel like I’m in a hole with dirt being piled on top of me. Or I feel chained up, bogged down and I feel alone. I don’t want to stay here forever. But, what if I get stuck here with all of these people?

“What is a city, but the people in it?”

“What is a city when you don’t like the people in it?”

What can you do when nothing is appealing? When the one thing that you want to do is being done by people with a better foot-up than you’ve got? People who are professionally trained or have parents that are basically a safety-net. When will a publisher come knockin’ on my door? 

I wonder if Heaven is real.  I wonder if what I was raised to believe as a child really did happen. All of us spirits hanging around on a cloud waiting to be born. An angel comes to me and says “Hey I got just the life for you, kiddo! You’re gonna be Noah Van Sciver! The Van Scivers got more kids than they can afford right now, but we figure what the hell? Let’s give ‘em a couple more!” My fog-like spirit agrees,and as It’s being pushed down the “Life Slide” the angel says to me out of the side of his mouth “say hello to cold poverty and Denver for me! Ha ha ha!” 

I can’t really complain. 

I want to entertain people, and I want people to really like my comics. That’s why I do it. When I was a painter, I was constantly trying to figure out how people would ever find me. With comics I know how to get them to you. I know how to connect with people. That’s something you can’t do enough when you paint pictures. I really, really want the 5 issues of Blammo collected into a book. Even if it’s a cheap paperback with newsprint pages. I’ll take it! Anything to get these things that I’ve done into other people’s lives! 

I don’t know how to approach publishers about it. Maybe I’m just impatient… I guess I’ll finish this post with this: The hardest part about putting things out into the world will be the uncertainty you will feel about if what you are doing is any good at all. When nobody comes to you, you will think of it as a sign that what you are putting out there  is not great work. But,  if this “sign” doesn’t stop you, than from that point on you will be tortured and conflicted over the merit of what you are putting out. 

Shine a light.

I’ve been wondering lately what’s wrong with me. 

I work two jobs and I don’t have a day off anymore. It’s been really hard to get stuff that needs to get done done. I’m sick of everything I like. I don’t want to hear music, I can’t concentrate on reading or drawing, and I’m anxious. 

I feel like I’m going to throw up and I can’t sleep very well. Robin’s band is playing tonight, and the thought of going out and seeing other people make me feel depressed. This has happened before, though. I’ve been to bars where Robin was playing a show, and felt so anxious, and claustrophobic that I just left and walked a long way home in the cold night without telling anyone. 

I know this is stupid, but I can’t figure out the cure to this. It feels different than just being depressed. Like somebody is pulling on my insides. My face feels really heavy.

I always think twice about posting my writing whenever I feel like this. I know it’s stupid to think that anybody would want to read about this. I probably wouldn’t want to. But, I’m doing it anyway.

 

I don’t feel like I have any real reason to feel like this. Things are going good for me. I’m just really heavy. I’m tired.  

My friend Dan is filming a documentary on my other friend John. I appear in the background a few times. He’s posting his clips here.

No escape.

You wake up in a dark world that seems to be on pause.                                                             All around you the pipes in the walls moan and creak, as you stretch your soggy bones. There is no escape from this morning. You have opened your eyes, which means that you have already lost the game.

In the corner is a pile of filthy stitched together fabric in a mound that some might call clothing. You wouldn’t though, because it’s too early to be able to talk. You decide to put it on again. After a wimpy shake to make sure that no cockroaches are laying their eggs.

Now it’s into the bathroom to drag a razor blade across your bed-creased face, as your eye balls burn and try to close up slowly. 

Damn. You cut your face 3 times. Now you will have 3 little scabs on your face all day. And during tomorrow’s wretched morning, you will open those scabs up once more while dragging that dull blade over your face, in what would seem to an alien race to be some form of ritualistic self-mutilation. 

While brushing your teeth, you glance over at the bottle of mouthwash that you bought for yourself to use, with your meager earnings, and realize that your disappointing roommate has decided that he will use it as well. No doubt using the cap as a cup to poor the mouthwash into before placing that little cup on his disgusting, gravy coated lips. This is why you keep everything you buy in your tiny room lately.

He is asleep now. And so are you. And so are all the fortunate people in America. Snug and warm in their beds. Smiles on their happy faces. Health insurance and white tees. And mouthwash without gravy bits floating in it.

You trip over bits of trash, a chair, dirty dishes and obscure DVDs from the 1970s which are always inexplicably in piles all over your living room. “Dear god, just let me find this front door. Why must I walk this gauntlet every morning?” You are a prisoner now. You are a feeble attempt at a man. When people see you they want to walk all over you. They see your eagerness to make them laugh as a weakness. They do what they want and take what they want, completely unafraid. 

This is your life, as you walk into that snow. That cold, dark morning. Every footstep bringing you face to fist with that icy cold air. Your dreams are laughable. Your talents: unsatisfactory and your life’s destination: grim. You are trapped in yourself like a bird in a cage.  There is no escape. No escape. No escape.