woe betide the man who dreams,
Woe betide the dreamers,
Nothing good comes from hope,
Its the falsest of all things,
Redemptions a lie,
Accept your fate,
A death you won’t remember,
becalm your quivering spirit
Embrace your damnation,
Woe betide the dreaming man,
The path he walks is hollow,
Woe betide the fools that follow,
Lingering pain is their fortune,
Despair is their only boon.
Heres an interview I made with Juliete Clark
Heres an interview I shot with Marianne Powell
Jon has finished work on the first part of G&I:ATTM . You can find it here:
http://www.jonschwochert.com/comic.html
Needless to say I’m happy with it. I also had a fab meeting with Leah Moore of Electricomics. It was all top secret stuff about where they see the future of the platform and the art form. I’m not at liberty to discuss much more than that but then again I have big mouth. It’s part of the reason I no longer practice law (Client confidentiality and all that).
I think I’m going to move forward with a film project. Please let me know what you think of the comic.
bloody heck
His ears started thumping, blood pumped through his body faster and faster as his heart raced and pulse quickened. His heart could not keep pace and began skipping beats. The palpitations began and he began hyperventilating.
Then the white noise hit his ears, he snorted sharply through his nose, closed his eyes and ordered his brain to order his body to stop acting like he was still a hormonal prepubescent. His hear slowed and his breathing relaxed. The tightness in his chest was released. All that was left was the awful nausea. His stomach felt awful he had, what some moronic half-wit phrase-maker, would call butterflies in his stomach in addition to his light headed feeling.
“What was that?” he thought. Why does it happen every single time. He was so disappointed in himself. That sort of physical reaction to emotional stimuli was, he was certain, not very manly. A manly man’s heart should only race in the midst of battle or some other sort strenuous physical activity like playing football or dance dance revolution.
He shouted into space “It can’t go on like this. I’m miserable. I can’t focus. Oh no, oh no here it comes again”. He dropped to his knees. Nauseous and exhausted he wanted to die.
THE COWARD
His ears started thumping, blood pumped through his body faster and faster as his heart raced and pulse quickened. His heart could not keep pace and began skipping beats. The palpitations began and he began hyperventilating.
Then the white noise hit his ears, he snorted sharply through his nose, closed his eyes and ordered his brain to order his body to stop acting like he was still a hormonal prepubescent. His hear slowed and his breathing relaxed. The tightness in his chest was released. All that was left was the awful nausea. His stomach felt awful he had, what some moronic half-wit phrase-maker, would call butterflies in his stomach in addition to his light headed feeling.
“What was that?” he thought. Why does it happen every single time. He was so disappointed in himself. That sort of physical reaction to emotional stimuli was, he was certain, not very manly. A manly man’s heart should only race in the midst of battle or some other sort strenuous physical activity like playing football or dance dance revolution.
He shouted into space “It can’t go on like this. I’m miserable. I can’t focus. Oh no, oh no here it comes again”. He dropped to his knees. Nauseous and exhausted he wanted to die.
A new notebook.
Walking along other people on these cold streets and seeing their expressions of sadness. This wet winter’s day gave Ryvan no feeling of belonging to anything. Wrapped up in his own displeasure of being out and about in such poor weather he could not see that he shared much in common with those around him. Not that he was alone in feeling alone and cold. No doubt there was not a single person who thought “I’m wet and cold but at least it is not only me at least others are sharing this wonderfully dismal day”.
He made his way walking these streets of the city of Naughtwatte in the cold drizzle. He made his way to the Archives of History.
These are the last two stories in the Red Notebook. Both inspired by real stuff.
It was horrific. A stuffed creature created by some deranged taxidermist. When I was younger we would go together to see Hammer Horror films in the cinema. You know the ones with Peter Cushing. The Kingfisher looked liked something from one those films. It would be one of those sinister objects found in the lounge of a mad scientist or the lair of an evil cult leader. The sort of item that let you know not to trust the person who owned it.
The Kingfisher’s big black eyes were reflective. It raised my hackles as it did it’s long sharp beak. I can hold this dead, stuffed, evil looking bird in my hands. It’s fate in my power. I could smash. I could throw it way. I hold it in my hands and wonder : Why did mum by this?
And the last entry in the Red Notebook
As awkward silences went the one that rested between Smith and Hawkinson was pretty bad. It had reached the point where it was becoming oppressive and putrid. The old friends had long ago exhausted their usual topics of conversation and had done so rather quickly. Seconds passed like kidney stones. It was readily apparent to both parties that each of them was searching for a gambit to get the conversation flowing again. Despite knowing each other for 20 years Smith and Hawkinson did not really know each other that well. They both shared the same set of friends and liked each other well enough. The thing was they never really hung out together. Not just the two of them anyway. There are some friends they both thought that you can share a silence with comfortably where the company of the other was enough. This, was, they both simultaneously concluded not one of those friendships.
Bridgette looks out of the window of her flat. After nearly 20 years she was free to enjoy the view. No more unexplained bruises from unexplainable accidents. She could sit here, look down at her children playing in the park below, and smile. She stares off into the distance, her drawn to Alexandra Palace, memories of her younger years, of summers days spent picnicking, surfaced and were pushed down again.
She sips her cup of tea. The clouds she thought looked grey and menacing. She hopes for a rainbow. Her gaze turns to the city. A place of concrete and glass. It was brutal and ugly like crockery smashed on the floor. All of it built in a different time.
She sips her cup of tea and is suddenly overcome with tiredness. So long the wait to be free and it was all too bloody late. Patting away a tear she pondered.
Another story:
“Hello my darling. I love you.” yelled Frankie as he stood on the banks of the lake. The water rippled and flowed. Frankie was mesmerised by it all. He worshiped this lake, he loved it with all his heart. The cloudy and dark water, it’s deep waters, waters so deep that Frankie felt they could keep any secrets, keep them for years and years. Perhaps forever.
Frankie’s hands and clothes were filthy. He slipped into the lake. Red filth dissipated out from his clothes and skin. The cloudy lake water near him turned an opaque and crimson.
“My darling. I hope you like the gift I gave you” whispered Frankie to the lake. He felt like he was being baptised, he felt he was being purified, he felt warmth and love from the cold water. This place surrounded, no hidden, by trees was secluded and unfound. Birdsong was unknown here. This place he thought was heaven. If any place deserved a sacrifice and flesh and blood it was heaven.