SCRAPING LIFE OFF MY SHOE.

It's a set-up, a dirty trick, some one's idea of a joke. Right?

I just wrote an agent friend of mine and removed myself from
a show at Gallery Nucleus this fall, themed around H.P. Lovecraft.
The time I was down from the arm injury is strangely enough, the
exact amount of time I would have needed to complete the two things
I was planning to send.
I am shattered. I feel like a rank amateur, green, fresh from the farm.
This sort of thing reaches down into my guts and twists and pulls.
I am taking the day off to examine the whole mess and try to
figure out how and why this happened, then promise myself that it
will NOT happen again.
I suppose that is what an adult would do.
Forgive the whiff of the mercenary, but good lord we could have
used the income also.

Part of the blunt truth is that I broke my own rules on some level.
I didn't follow my first, correct instinct and instead lapsed back into
the "old Michael" way of doing things without even noticing.
Survival mode of the commercial comics artist. Fast and good by friday.
I hate the fuckers. Utterly and absolutely loath the system that makes
people like me into galley slaves dependent on a voucher and a slap
on the back, like a good boy.
They seduce you into believing and then take your beliefs away.
And I have nobody but myself to blame.

"the public gets what the public wants", and I get to spend the rest of my life
trying to tear the roots of disease from my soul.

M.Z.

BORN TO BOOGIE.

PAINTING AGAIN Y'ALL.
HIGH AS IT GETS WITHOUT ANY'A THAT SHIT.
YOU CAN'T LOOSE WITH THE STUFF I USE, MAN.

ok, so it's probably the fumes but i'm allowed my illusions
for a few days. lord knows i've earned a few.

peace 'n things,

M,Z,

MEm OOOORRIEEEES!

Memories are slippery things. Now you see 'em now you don't. Or, if you're lucky

they just seem to twist just ever so slightly into a shape that is unexpected and you can't quite

understand how they got that way. If you've ever been in long term therapy, one gets hit in the psyche pretty early on by this fact: your memories are not what you thought they were.

But, they are yours after all. So, what do you do with them? You can't ignore them as they are a vital part of who and what you are. You also can't quite trust them either. The essential fact is, memories are not in reality, subjective. Which is a real hard ass brain drain believe me.

I've had a bit of time (again, dammit.) on my hands recently and one of the things that's come up both with my doctor, and with a few strangers and newly minted friends, is "has this ,(meaning my drawing arm.) ever happened before. I had to stop and think.

The only answer I could give was a yes and a no.

Back when I was doing the drawing for The Wake, After about three weeks, (this seems to be a recurring time frame with me.) I began to suffer really terribly cramps in both my hand from the death grip I had on my pencil, and the joint in my left shoulder. I'd start the days work basically fine, and within say, two hours or so, this stabbing burning pain would creep up my arm and settle into my shoulder joint that I can only describe as if some malevolent entity had slowly and with exquisite care shoved a red hot piece of iron rebar into my shoulder.

I would literally be in tears after three or four hours, but I would just keep going until I simply couldn't take any more, then break and put ice on it for a few minutes then repeat the whole thing over again until days end.

Remember I was working for a company that wanted work that was both excellent and fast. I still suffer from deadline-itis, the condition where one sits down to work and is overcome with the sensation that you are not working fast enough. Shit. Hate it. The bastards.

pychcomitrist,(sp?) would probably explode if I handed it to them to read.

I remember telling Neil about three quarters of the way through the story arch that I was actually useing a pencil with such a small point for the whole thing. Needless to say even he never understood this salient fact and was rightfuly shocked. he felt really terrible about all the night scenes he's written. Believe me, It took HOURS to get a page that black with a .05m pencil point. Was I nuts? Yeah, probably after a fashion. But the final image meant that much to me that I was willing to put myself through such agony to get it right. With me, it's all the way or nothing.

This much I remember about those days working on the Wake. I also remember the fact I took a pay cut for drawing the thing. Since I wasn't actually inking and since I wasn't actually penciling, the powers that be raised my penciling rate and cut my inking rate so that I got a bit more for the job and less than I would have if it was in finished ink. Fair? How would I know. I just did the job man.

Now I finally get to say something I've always wanted to say about The Wake: NO I do not usually pencil like I did The Wake. Ever. In fact most inkers hate me. I pencil like a painter.

Loose and open for improvisation. It makes them nervous as hell. They also have to work a fuck of a lot harder. Me, well I think I'm doing them a favor by leaving them room to express themselves. Generally the wrong thing to do in comics as self expression is really not high up on the list as far as monthly books are concerned. Just fast and good. Get your check and pretend your an artist.

Ah, memories. You know, I don't really remember what year this took place in? Sometime in the mid to late nineties I think. Do you find that odd? Well you know, as much as I think it was a nice gig, (minus the pain bit.) as much as I'm eternally grateful to Neil for the opportunity, when you work main stream, in the final analysis it is just a job. And then my friend you're off to another on, because there are bills to pay. Sad but true. And don't forget I lost the Eisener Award to another artist that year. Same as it ever was my lovelies.

Like I said, memories. Sometimes they are just what they are for better or worse. True? False? Only I can say for sure and then again...maybe not. But I know one thing, they are mine.

All mine.

Oh, I forgot to tell you: there was a Whole Lot Of Shit going on behind the scenes that are not shareable to anyone outside of my inner circle. This made the whole thing one hell of a lot more difficult to draw than just the constant pain.

Yep, memories. Love 'em or hate 'em it's what we have.

Love to you all.

M.Z.

THE DOPE... IN OTHER WORDS, ME.

Right then, here's the deal.

I have, as my doctor described, a massive case of "tennis elbow".

What!? I've never played tennis in my life, and if I had I seriously doubt I would admit it in public.

Basically it comes down to a very serious repetitive motion injury. In other words, inking like tomorrow the word was going to end and I was the only person who could save us all by my magic art powers. Well, kiss your ass goodbye.

If I don't keep it essentially immobile and NOT work, in a week or so I should be clear to resume

my work at a sane level. So, if you are someone with an outstanding commission, or the owner of a gallery, and if you are reading this you know who you are, PLEASE, PLEASE be patient.

I'm really sorry, but I don't want to play super hero and end up with my left arm in a sling for a month. I doubt I could take the pain anyway. Nobody is more chagrined than I am. Nobody takes this as personally as I do. I have to trade a week of enforced work stoppage over a month of emotionally chewing my face off because my arm is useless.

Beside it hurts like hell. And I am so extremely left handed that right now even typing this right handed is freaking me the fuck out.

Please understand. I am losing face by the second.

Right then, in more ways than one,

Much love to you all,

M.Z.

F&*!@% H&@!!!

...I screwed up my left arm yesterday and I can barely use it.

Up against the wall with deadlines and work and I can not draw.

Oh, on top of it all I think I have a nice flu coming on.

Life is grand, oh yes indeed my lovelies.

From the front,

M.Z.

WARIOR HEART....KIND OF.

A word of advice: don't have hero's. Have people places things you admire. Idolize no one, they will eventually let you down. Realize the difference between what a person does and the person.

very rarely are they the same.

About a month out from a new "working" blog. I hope it is as special as I want it to be, warts and all.

And dear ones, there will be warts. Special warts.

I've come to the conclusion that if I work in three hour shifts and take an hour off in between, I can work a good long day. Odd, at least for me, but it seems to be doing the job and the job is getting done.

Which, is a really good thing.

I have two major commissions and two gallery pieces to do in just over a month. Might even come close.

It all depends on if the world stays off my back long enough. Frankly if I had been one of the band members on board the Titanic, I'd have been looking for a life boat baby. No way this boy could play the clarinet while the damn boat sank. See, they will always let you down.

Always.

Oh, and many of you know, because I have mentioned this before, but I have a very hard time with pen and ink. Well, not so much the pen, just the ink part. I've never considered myself a half way competent ink man. I can fake it pretty well, but not for long and close up. I just keep slogging away at it until the whole damn thing is covered in the stuff. I figure that way, any one looking will be half blind with noodling and not look to close. But recently,(like two days ago.) that if I switched to brown ink, I felt a whole lot more comfortable. It's not ink that's the culprit, rather BLACK ink that screws with my perceptions.

You all probably don't give much of a shit in the long run, but for me, it was huge.

Anything that ups my comfort level while working means a lot more good work in the end.

Hero's. They are to busy, to otherwise engaged, to elevated, to up there, to really pay attention. They will wait until you reach them before acknowledging your presence. I know, that's why I try my best to do this and avoid telling you or trying to remind myself of how "special" I am. Because I am not.

I'd like to think I have a warriors heart, but the truth is most of the time I am either in another world or scared to death of this one.

Sad, innit.

Love to you all.

M.Z.

DISPATCHES FROM THE FRONT.

Shit. What am I doing here?

Everything was fine two hours ago. Really.

Then I had the strangest sensation, not unlike ice-out on a river in March. A creaking groaning sound followed by a percussive popping sound.

Relax it is only a bit of poetic licence, I am entitled to that much in my own home. Last time I looked anyway.

The central question I am asking myself is where in hell did my endurance go? Two lousy hours and I feel utterly whipped. I mean, I could go for hours and hours without stopping even a year ago. Old fucking age?

You have to be kidding me.

I was honestly in the "zone" as the kids say, (oops, yup, old age-ism...Gah!) with the tool of my choice, just tearing up the joint. I mean I have four pieces to finish within the next month.. not likely but close enough for government work. As of yesterday, it looked petty good. One piece will have to be a bit smaller than I'd like, but that's alright if it's really good. It will be. No doubt, just a bit smaller than I would like.

Anyone familiar with my work knows that I put a lot of myself into it, and so it tends to take a bit of time.

That's ok with me and is for the most part, ok with other people.

Am I just expecting to much form myself to soon? Is there an underlying problem physically I am unaware of....some sort of immune failure Shit?

You know, if you ask any real artist they will tell you about that "place", that strange wonderful feeling of bi-location, a kind of being on automatic and looking over your own shoulder in a kind of blank wonder.

Love it. Live for it, almost NEED it, like a drug.

I simply felt it fade away like melting ice.

I have a weird job. Maybe I should give myself a bit more time to get back into the whole thing. You know, be NICE to myself. Or, perhaps I should lock and load and get up there and kick artistic ass.

Something like that.

M.Z.