Posted on by michaelwconrad

Shoes.

“The snow has melted in Austin Texas.” That’s a funny phrase one doesn’t often get to say. Normally it would be bundled with something like “It was nice while it lasted!” but not in this instance. This time it was deadly in some circumstances, and the kind of nut shot we’re all over at this point. Anyway, today it’s 80 degrees, and one would never know just 7 days prior this was a place of icy survival.

I took advantage of the remaining cool temperatures on Monday and took a long walk. This is something I like to do, it allows me to collect my thoughts for stories to be told, or to listen to some of my audiobook while moving my body. I didn’t have a destination, in fact I avoided that thought all together, willfully taking unfamiliar routes. This is a “dérive” as the Situationsts called it, a drifting walk focused on lack of focus in pursuit of the deeper truths offered by the psychogeography of your city. 

Situationist maps are incredible artifacts, resembling a randomly cast pile of spaghetti noodles. They’re influenced only by where one is able to walk freely and the spontaneous moments of interest taken in the secret landscaping of even the familiar areas of our residence. I highly suggest adopting a practice of the dérive to anyone who may (like me) have a lot of weighty issues on their mind. I have always loved a walk. I think my passion began when at a young age I found myself inspired by the book Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. In this, the titular character counts walking among the things that are of greatest value to him. In effort to pursue the Buddha, I came to value this freedom in a way I never had prior. I’m quite lucky to have the ability to ambulate, but rest assured, even without such abilities, the dérive is free for all to explore. A literalist translation of this practice is not what I suggest; I’m sure there is room to drift regardless of one’s circumstance, and I encourage it.

As I wormed along, creating another noodle on the map in my mind I did find myself crisscrossing areas of familiarity. This wasn’t a problem for me, the goal of the exercise was NOT to push against circumstance, but instead to allow it to unfold and to enjoy it as one might a familiar story told by someone unfamiliar with the material. I just kept my legs going and enjoyed the moment, this walking meditation proved again to be big medicine.

I suppose it goes without saying that anything offered by the Situationists, a group of avant garde artists and political revolutionaries, doesn’t involve the Capitalistic tendency to connect the process to consumerism. It’s with some shame that I must report that in this case, it did result in my purchase of new shoes. But I was well past due, and this dreamy stroll had delivered me to a shop (one I was unaware of previously, as I’m normally blind to such things) where I was able to pop in and make a quick decision.

Having made my selection (some very plain black tennis shoes made of plant based material) I found myself, only moments later outside with them bound to my feet, my old pair already in the bin. Just like that I had a new pair of sneakers to see me through the rest of my travels. Abracadabra.

I did pause, only for a moment though. Thoughts of remorse came, memories. I had so quickly disposed of those shoes and I hadn’t taken a moment to reflect, mourn, say goodbye. I never identify as a sentimental sort, even though I am in many ways. Hell, I’ve thrown away more meaningful and valuable items in the past. I’ve let go of entire, hard earned, collections of rare books and comics, photographs, pieces of my personal history, and yet this pair of shoes seems to immediately haunt me as I passed the trash can. I looked in, sadly, briefly, as one might at an open casket funeral and spent the rest of my dérive as a walk. I was no longer drifting, I was headed home in a direct fashion. I spent the time remembering.

I bought those dead shoes in New Hampshire at “The Outlets” in 2019. I had always heard folks talk about going to the Outlets for hot deals, but I never bothered myself with that. On a rare visit home Becky and I made a point to do such things and it was during that trip that I picked them up. I was proud of them, they were blue! 

I wore these shoes for the next year and a half, they were the only pair I owned. These protected me during my long walks, and they wore all the wear and tear one might associate with someone whose mental wellness requires several miles a week. I tried to list some of their virtues mentally, the elements of gratitude I had for them, and the moments connected to them.

-I wore these shoes to the first family Christmas I had been to in well over a decade.

-I’m fairly certain I was wearing them when I was asked to co-write Midnighter and soon thereafter Wonder Woman.

-They were on my feet when I heard of the passing of nearly a dozen friends in the past year. They sat waiting by the door like patient dogs  as I clutched myself in the shower remembering lost friends, wishing I had been a more present person.

-I wore them when Becky and I used to go on walks together frequently, a practice that has been subdued by the state of the world.

-They protected me in early 2020 when I didn’t know what the future held for me as a writer. A period defined by 5 mile walks to the library to write strange short stories I used to post here. This was a hopeless time, and those stories and those walks were critical to my wellness.

-I wore them during our last major trip (to Portland) just before Covid shut travel down. I spent time there with inspiring friends, and tried not to lose sight.

-I believe I was wearing them during an NYC visit, during which I was with both my brothers and several of our closest friends, a memory I’ll forever cherish. I will not cherish the part where I got absolutely destroyed on Dickel Whiskey (solo) and proceeded to weep and basically become a liability for the next 12+ hours. I’m dualistic y’all.

-I wore them as I drew 2, 24 hour comics, and 2 mini comics.

-I wore them to feel serious, official, awake, when Covid created an environment when daytime clothing became something less than necessary, instead- a mark of BUSINESS.

-I wore them in sad times, in happy times, in times of dreaming. Their soles worn through by countless miles, having served me without question.

I left them in the trash.

The new shoes felt like they were made for someone else’s feet entirely. I told myself they hadn’t been trained yet, they were wild mustangs that needed to be broken. I committed to walking enough to get them in shape this week. I committed to making a stronger list of memories for when their time came. How many more pairs are in my future? How many miles are left before I can’t do it anymore? How long until the main function of shoes will be to keep my feet warm, rather than protect them on my journey? How long until the final pair? Do people wear shoes when they’re cremated? I don’t want to think these thoughts, I just want to honor my fucking shoes.

They feel pretty good, a little snug, but I suspect they’ll stretch. They don’t have much tread, but I mostly walk upon paved surfaces. The insole leaves something to be desired, that might be their failing, but as someone who has worn Chucks more than anything else in my life, I think they’re adequate for the time being. I’m thankful for them. I know what they mean, and what they will mean.

These shoes were made in Cambodia. I’m sweating at the mere thought of the unimaginable hardships the workers may have faced. I’m ashamed that I went for a $40 price tag (this was one of those places poor folk shop… as a poor folk I don’t need to field your goddamn questions) over a more expensive “all vegan, human rights” kinda situation. I do what I can… always, I cannot help everyone, and if YOU think you can I welcome you to the internet which has PLENTY of gofundme’s that NEED you to act right now. I dunno, I needed shoes… maybe next time I’ll be more able to make my money talk for me… right now I need to honor the suffering that went into these discount shoes… thanks.

Shoes… I mean, I have t-shirts I’ve worn for a decade plus, but they haven’t done the heavy lifting. They just kind of hang there and cover my amazing body. Shoes really show the passage of time, and literally, where I’ve been. Their value extends beyond the practical, beyond vanity, beyond most things. They end up in the trash, there’s something poetic and sad about that.

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Ernest Hemingway

Posted on by michaelwconrad

Bad Advice.

I have posts coming about Wonder Woman and Midnighter and all the excitement I have about those projects, but I figured it might be a good time to talk about something that has bothered me for years. I’m not going to include names because the players involved are insignificant. I am only able to see this now, because of the confidence afforded through the forward momentum of my writing. There were long stretches of time where stuff like what I’m about to share really bothered me. If anything I’d like to think that the pain that comes from striving has made me only less likely to push that pain along to others.

It was maybe 8 years ago, I was very early in my efforts to self publish comics and had formed a collective called Mystery School Comics Group. The purpose of the group was to create the illusion of legitimacy, to give myself and the others involved a sigil under which to build our resumes, and mostly because it pleased me to do so. Early on it was myself, my brother Winston (who designed much of the imagery still in use), along with our friends Justin McElroy and Jef Overn. We had others jump in and out, but really that was the roster. We all tried our hands at writing and drawing with varied results, but it was our enthusiasm that fueled the whole thing. While sales were never great we weren’t in the practice of keeping count, we were there for the passion of doing it.

Part of the fun, but also part of the struggle was getting accepted into conventions. Most of these charged a lot, but they were also very choosy about who they would allow to table. I remember sending countless applications and only hearing back from a select few. When we would do shows it was always a party. We would get a hotel room and make a whole thing out of it. Nothing nefarious, just a couple dudes trying to sell comics and zines, drinking too much at the hotel bar, and retiring to the hotel room to shared beds and bad reality tv. None of us had interest in much beyond sharing our work, checking out the work of others like us, and spending time doing something that was ultimately quite costly but fun. Between the tables, the room, the tab, and all the comics we would buy we would VERY rarely even break even, most often taking a loss. No one cared. We were happy.

Around this time there was this influential comics creator who was well known for hopping on a soapbox and telling everyone the RIGHT way to do things. He was in our orbit as he had expressed some interest in Justin’s work, and rightfully so, Justin is a beast. This creator in question once again undertook to deliver unsolicited advice on a thread that several of us were participating in on an indie creators group on social media. Someone outside of our group had lamented the high cost of tables at shows and was asking for advice as to how to deal with this. Several from my group chimed in about the value of collective investment in projects, understanding that loss is almost guaranteed, and how we go about feeling ok about what others might see as a something less than successful.

So this established creator pops onto the thread and basically is like “If you can’t make money at a con you shouldn’t do them.” This might seem like sane advice, but we took it a bit like “If you fall off of a skateboard while attempting a new trick, stop skateboarding.” We said as much, without any disrespect, and were met with a really aggressive response from the dude in question.

“Comics aren’t for everyone, if you can’t make money that’s saying something, it’s saying they aren’t any good. Good comics sell, bad ones don’t… this is tough for some people to understand. If you do a convention and can’t make money you might wanna look at doing something else with your time.” I’m not exaggerating, this is almost word for word what he wrote. I remember my brother being like “Yo, fuck that guy.” But we all made excuses for him, and defended his stance by reworking the message to feel less gross. It turns out my brother was just the only one among us who wasn’t starstruck by some passing interest from someone in the industry.

This guy turned out to be a real shit. A couple years later it became public knowledge that he was a fucking creep. While we were losing money at conventions, he was using some of those same places to harass women. While we were drinking budget beers in the budget inn, he was using the perception of authority he carried to manipulate and deceive. This information wouldn’t come out until years later, I wish we had known it at the time, it would have been easier to shrug off his dumb comments.

Anyway, we kept it up, but the damage had been done. We couldn’t shake the nagging self doubt he had inflicted on the group. We didn’t slow down because of what he said, but we weren’t exactly empowered by it either. When you’re striving toward a goal the LAST THING someone should do is suggest that you aren’t growing, and that the struggle isn’t worth it.

This kind of gatekeeping bullshit has been the bane of my creative life. It was like this in music, and to see it in comics as well is incredibly disappointing. Art and storytelling serve a lot of purposes for folks, for me at the time it was giving me a reason to dream. I was working in a very taxing field, I had stopped playing music (unable to find time with the kind of work I was doing) and comics were my escape. I found myself dreaming of some of the things I get to do now, and really that memory is so strong, and so close, I don’t see how anyone can get anywhere in comics and manage to forget the fight. Maybe it’s easier for folks who have an art style that immediately grabs the attention of publishers? Maybe this creator never had the kind of struggle we had? Or maybe he had supportive voices in his life rather than the flat disinterest or discouragement most of us face?

With my achievements sometimes I fantasize about telling off doubters from those times. I daydream of my work being celebrated in the faces of those who didn’t believe in me. I want them to know that I kick ass, and I want them to feel ashamed for missing that. Of course this is the wrong way to engage with growth as an artist, but I’d be lying if I claimed to never have thought such things. 

I temper this egotistical thinking by reminding myself that I’m extremely lucky. I have been granted access that few manage, I have been encouraged by more folks over the past few years than I have deserved, and maybe most of all I’m thankful that I am the kind of person who doesn’t give up easily. I’ve had more dark nights of the soul than I care to admit, and it has really added gas to the tank. In many ways I feel like these are the last days I will be able to work with the vigor required to get where I wanna go and I don’t want to miss my chance. The hardship reminds me that the stuff I get sore about is much closer to my dream than the previous concerns.

This all comes to mind when I see how folks engage online today. Things have become even more aggressive, dismissive, and rude by orders of magnitude. I see people take shots at peers for sport, and grind their heels into those “beneath” them. I see putting on airs of superiority that’s almost laughable, but not entirely, because I know for those on the receiving end it can be a real wound. I’ve been wounded before, and will be wounded again, seeing it happen to others sucks.

So I try to be kind and to share the very little I know. In truth there isn’t a huge gap between the most established folks in the comic industry and those losing money at shows. We’re all just making things and hoping they make others happy. 

Not long ago I offered advice to folks looking to self publish. I had 2 individuals take me up on it. One was not motivated, the other dismissed my advice by saying he “wanted to do it for real.” Two polar opposite ends of the equation, both completely understandable, both as right as they are wrong. The lesson was mine, I can’t show others the path, that’s for them to discover. Their path will be invisible to me, occulted by my own experience. I’ve found all I can do is not stand in anyone’s way, to welcome them to this world with stories of my own, and to hear theirs with unbiased ears.

We need each other, we always have. Maybe when we realize this people will be less concerned about status and more concerned about the responsibilities we often neglect in pursuit of feeling important.

Posted on by michaelwconrad · 2 Comments

An Unnamed-Unknowable Place

I used to have these bad ear infections as a kid. Apparently this was something that had been going on since I had been a baby, but there were a couple standout moments in my early childhood that I can still recall.

Ear infections are tricky to describe, it’s a pain that has no analogous value, if you’ve had one you know. It isn’t exactly a headache, or a sinus issue, it walks the line in a way that generates agony of an exquisite nature that we lack the language to describe. Something interior, hot, a pressure, it isn’t a migraine, but similarly it cannot be escaped, and sensory input can exacerbate it. In my case the afflicted ear would boil with heat, the outer elements would feel swollen, ablaze with radiant torture from deep inside.

I must have been five or six when the last real bad one gripped me. I’ve had them since, but life dulls the intensity of all things. When I was young there were many foods I struggled to eat, things like onions and tomatoes. I’ve read that it’s the acidity that makes kids less likely to enjoy such things. Young, sensitive palates that have not yet beaten into submission by whiskey shots and packs of Pall Mall. I suspect that this is the case with pain as well. Suffering is something we learn to rationalize after years of torment inflicted by virtue of existence and all the nastiness of feeling our bodies slowly become less and less capable. While I can no longer engage in some of the high impact foolishness of my youth, I am well prepared to accept pain and to move through it.

Maybe this was an exceptional infection, it’s hard to say, I just remember my parents showing great concern and preparing hot packs to hold to my ear. Little was expected of me, I was allowed to heal, I was allowed to cry and even to feel sorry for myself. I was given affection, my back was rubbed and I was told that I was a beautiful boy, that this would pass, that I was loved.

The pain that comes later in life is generally more existential. We fear bills and betrayal by our lovers. We start to think more often of death as a cruel eventuality rather than a freak thing that happens to the unfortunate. We start to see the celebrities we admired meet their ends, old school friends pulled away from this life by the kinds of ailments that were surely only dangerous for the few older people we had in our lives. We start to look at our failed dreams and those still lingering as foolish trappings of a time when pepperoni was too spicy. We get cigarettes punched out on our dreams and we’re left with the ashen reality of the situation. The rent is due. You don’t have good ideas anymore. Whiskey shots.

This sadness can’t be properly addressed. Mom can’t rub your back and tell you that you are her little pumpkinhead. The person you love is looking at their own mortality with the same terror you are, your friends are reconciling their orphaned dreams with the same degree of regret and woe. Most importantly, you can’t talk about your pain and fear because it’s too strange to describe.

This last earache kept me up at night. I was allowed to stay on the couch with the TV on, my parents knew that a bit of distraction goes a long way in situations such as these. I don’t recall what was playing, I just remember laying there in the stillness of twilight. The program on the TV was of little comfort- I had this pain I couldn’t figure out, no end in sight, no way to end it, I just had to endure.

So I screamed.

It was from somewhere deep, not from the lungs or the diaphragm, it was from a deeper place, a place beyond my body, somewhere in a distant time before me, a place that will still be there when I am gone. This mysterious place, this unnamed-unknowable place, a place I suspect mothers who have lost their children know. A place the clinically depressed are too familiar with. A place of suicide and loss and grief. An echo shot back in time, a scream that I cannot find today, but I know it’s sound, I’ve just lost the threshold with which to hear it. It’s the sound of the vacuum. It’s the sound of the universe mourning itself. I had stumbled across that tonality through the pain, but was well aware the scream would bring me no comfort… I was just out of options.

My parents came to me, both with great concern. They understood the sound to be their little boy in pain. They just didn’t know that this was the start of the long, hollow, now muted bray that would live inside of me, as it does in you, forever.

I took up meditation very young, several years later. I explored religious thinking, trying to understand this new pain. The ear healed, the details now live on an island in the fog of my memory, the pain was an effigy of the yawning terror of living. I didn’t suffer like that again, I had graduated. The meditation has tamped it down at times, but there is no silencing the bellows. It’s always there for me, my truth.

I started eating onions and swearing and living on less sleep. I started drinking booze and not sharing my fear. I stopped complaining and lived with it; rubbed some dirt in it, walked it off. I took work helping others, ate up all their “sins” and tried to forget what I learned. I changed my worldview, I abandoned hope, I became something other than myself.

Earaches are caused by lifeforms setting up shop in the cave of your tympanic cavity and struggling to live. Theirs is an existence so completely strange I cannot even imagine. They find somewhere suitable to reproduce (in this case your ear hole) and build communities. These communities use resources and produce waste and in time their world will die. I wonder if in those short generations there are ones who peer from the depths of the ear canal? Do the young fungi scream? Do the mature bacteria mourn their squandered time? Do they miss their dead? Does the ear speak to them as it spikes with heat attempting to stem-the-tide of growth and consumption? Do they dream, in their viral incompleteness, for something we understand less than simply living? 

My mother stayed up with me, consoling me, holding the hot compress to the side of my head. A tiny dying Christ tableau in the darkness. Somewhere in her heart she had that scream too. Somewhere we all scream within. The ear of the universe too infected to listen, an atonal plea to be seen. 

I cannot describe this pain.   

Posted on by michaelwconrad

Brave Fools

I spent the last two weeks in the UK with Becky exploring ruins, doing comic related things, and looking for giants in some of the most beautiful areas of Scotland. During that time I had a pitch I was pretty excited about die on the vine and faced the depression that accompanies a project nearing completion. It’s pretty messed up to be bummed while having the opportunity to do something I have long dreamed of doing, with the person I love.

Creativity has a way of making everything else melt away. I’m at my best when I’m chipping away and making headway, and now I am in the uncanny position of figuring out what comes next. 

Bizarre Adventures came out and people seemed really stoked on our Tomb Of Dracula story. I am so happy that my Marvel debut wasn’t a flop, but really, I knew it wouldn’t be with Becky on art, the same can be said for Doom Patrol which comes out in about a week. I know that it’s going to do well, because Becky is almost incapable of doing something that doesn’t connect with a big audience. In two days time a real test stands before me.

Tremor Dose, my 100+ page graphic novel with artist Noah Bailey drops as part of the comiXology Originals line. Noah and I worked on this book for 3 long years. It started as a small zine and just grew and grew and grew. I always knew the story I wanted to tell, but I just plain didn’t think I would be able to convince Noah to put so much time and energy into such a long form endeavor. When Chip Mosher and Ivan Salazar stuck their necks out for us and got us a contract all of that changed.

Our little boutique idea was suddenly so much more. We had a lot to finish and it was scary, and exhilarating, and supremely stressful. Prior to the contract we picked away at it, like most creators do with their passion projects. We found time to knock out a page here and there, and as such we had a lot of room to micromanage and make sure everything was just right. This set the bar incredibly high, so when it became funded we both had a lot of anxiety about being able to maintain that level of quality under deadline. There were intense moments, but we did it and I couldn’t be more pleased with the results.

Now it’s done. We have PR people doing their thing, and we are of course doing what we can to spread the word. We know that we’re nobodies, and that only a small handful of folks will pick up the books on the power of our social reach, and know that this book will live and die by a number of factors well outside of our control. 

It’s fucking terrifying and sad.

The fear is normal, it exists because we care, and we have had our neural pathways written to expect failure. We are absolutely “dark cloud” kind of people, trying desperately to manifest goodness and success through positive thinking, but for guys like us that is abnormal and strange. The sadness comes from uncertainty. When we were working on Tremor Dose we were so incredibly hyped we began to dream. We dreamed of the book making a huge splash, throwing a giant boot right through the doors to our dream house, a place in which we would set up residence. We would chain ourselves to the radiators and keep it up until someone had enough of us and lit the structure ablaze. Even in fantasy sequences it would end, but the fact that there would be a moment of ease where we would be able to explore greenlights and less traffic on our creative path was what kept the cogs of the machine turning.

Now it’s about to happen and the reality of the matter is right there for us to sniff at and check it’s pulse. Reality is a grim prospect when you are done with a project, the dreams don’t last unless you tell someone about them, but that feels like bragging or pandering. So you kind of shut down and realize how hopeless it could really be… we could have done all that work to build a monument to our creative partnership only to have it swallowed up by the ivy of indifference. So you start to look at the next thing and transpose all your goodwill into it.

This is part of why people keep making things, because that sucking void at the end is too much and we have to drop anchor on another safer shore, a more mysterious place that hasn’t been spoiled by reality. 

I’m trying something different this time. I’m sticking around, prepared to go down with the ship. I think she’s sturdy and I think that she’s seaworthy enough to make it through. Tremor Dose is fucking good, it’s great, and I was part of it. Yes, as a freelancer I have to be looking for more work, but so often when something is done I have already taken off sprinting in the other direction to distance myself from whatever praise or critique or worse, indifference is earned. This time it’s different, this book is too much of my soul, I can’t leave.

I’ve done some awesome stuff you’ve never seen. I didn’t bounce out of the back of a turnip truck with comics in hand, I’ve been making things for years. I have made some things that I’ve felt were on par and better than some of your favorite books, I mean that! I have also made absolute shit, that I’m glad to have had avoid your radar. Like I say the Marvel and DC work has been carefully couched in the security of major publishers, multiple editors, and the Cloonan Midas Touch… Tremor Dose is different. Tremor Dose is the product of two men walking out of the wilderness with an offering of some obscure, esoteric origin. This alien thing that I struggle to explain plainly is about as much “me” as anything I have done, and that, dear reader, is the real horror. If this book is so much “me” and I cannot explain it, then who the fuck am I.

Does this post feel like a therapy session? Does any of it ring true to you? Am I the on on the couch or am I the one holding the clipboard? I think the answer is we are all in this thing together. We roam the labyrinth of our comically short lives seeking some validation and when we apply some totemic quality to what we have done it’s both brave and foolish. I have never claimed bravery, but I’m quite comfortable playing the fool.

So let it be written, let it be done.

M.

***Tremor Dose is available on comiXology on October 30 2019.