Stories IV

The Inspyder Project was a story that involved a generation gap with the DreamChasers crew and this new crew of genetically modified beings.  It involves a girl who, in her embryonic stages has a spider fused on her back, with incisors tapped into the brain stem (which I believed gave access to the spider's control of the person, if not controlled itself). The only way the spider could be fully controlled is if the girl learned to use her powers free of the medications given to keep the spider 'fogged' or comatose.  The plot involves her being broken out of the labs by an underground faction of genetically altered beings with similarly linked powers; the leader of which knows something about the girl that turns the rescue mission into more of a revenge-vendetta against the child.  Ultimately, her enhancements are key the the undergrounds' plans of destroying the corporations behind these laboratories once and for all (the DreamChasers failed, after all).

Faulty plot-lines and drawings notwithstanding, I had a good thing going that I later realized was only fueled by my internalized hatred and loathing towards my situation, and myself for being too weak to feel effective enough to do something about it. Two things deterred me from my stubbornness in carrying out my goals. 

One: I visited a comic book shop and saw the clerk behind the counter drawing phenomenal stuff. Comic book stuff. He was already on his way to drawing for a label as far as I was concerned. So I asked him how he got to draw so well, and he insisted on: a) doing this since he was a kid and b) not having to take any drawing classes; the talent came naturally. And that's when I knew that my drawings would never be on par with his! No way would Marvel or Vertigo pick up my amateurish stuff. That part made me think about tossing in the towel. 

Two: As soon as I became independent of my father and all the internalized drama that accompanied the family living arrangement, I became...hopeful. I had an immediate renewed sense of purpose: to not be homeless and to graduate high school. Once my thoughts were on survival as an adult and not on how much I hated being in this world under the thumb of my father, the ideas of escape and complexity...vanished. There were things actually worth worrying about that did not require that I write such stuff that stemmed from my depression, hopelessness, despair, resentment, and ultimate anger/hatred. 

I've kept the fragments of stories, but only until recently have I thought about reviving them and improving upon them in a better state of mind than what I was before. 

Yes, stories reflect on things that were dying to get out. About being useful in a team/family unit, about not being seen as a screw-up or failure, about being accepted for who you were regardless of difference and lofty ideas, about perseverance in the face of adversity and seeming despair. I didn't know what these stories were about until after I was out of such a gloom and doom situation and was able to reflect upon what they could possibly lead to. 

I think I will try to start again.

Stories III

"I'll show him..."
I drew characters, but I wrote about them even more. Complex story-lines. Stories about being in high school and escaping genetically created monsters. Or stories about turf-battles between rival groups. Or even stories involving genetically altered beings on the run who ultimately form an underground resistance created to destroy the corporations that created them (after someone gets killed of course). I had it all in my head, and it spilled onto paper.

The first story I called "DreamChasers," written from my freshman to my sophomore years in (two different) high school(s). The action seemed fast paced. My friends and I almost died, but we survived, in part because of each other, or some head-honcho who was in charge of us. One of my friends survived because the monster's blood affected him, causing regeneration of one of his missing limbs. In retrospect, the title made no sense, but had to do with dreams. Dreams ending, dreams beginning. Dreams impossible and scary that needed to be chased down and either addressed or destroyed. No one dreamed in the story, but the action and plot sequences were written as if it could only happen in a dream.  And I wrote them so fast and so small. I tried to type them out. One page = three-five pages single-spaced.

I eventually got to page 63 before I realized this was going nowhere. The story had no end, just more plots. More twists and turns. Not what I felt I wanted to work towards.  So I scrapped it. But not before one of my teachers made copies of the first few pages. I think I still have them somewhere. I don't believe my dad ever caught me writing or drawing this, as I did most of the writing and drawing at the high school, and to much fan fare (well, the fan fare of my small circle of friends who had to be included in the story; I was only too happy to comply).

"Lunartics" was a little harder to conceive, but it had one premise: me running away/disappearing from home into a strange universe/land. Not even my siblings were written in. I was so wrapped up in the anger, hatred and eventual self-loathing that I felt I could only be of use in this world I created. And I did. About two rival groups: one who got their powers from the sun, and the other who got their powers from the moon. I was eventually discovered to be a part of the moon faction the Lunartics, who were up against the Zematics (don't ask). Of course upon discovering that there were powers had in this new world, in the dredges of the abandoned ghettoes of all places, there were other beings with planetary strengths less common on earth, like Jupiter and Saturn. The storyline had to do with getting along with people within the Lunartics (unlikely allies who were foes in the 'real world') or else their faction being in crucial jeopardy against the more powerful and ruthless (yet human) Zematics. Love triangles and hiding around notwithstanding, this was also short-lived.

One more story

Stories II

So I hand-copied the list of comic-book colleges from Wizard magazine, and tucked them away somewhere, always for me to refer back to, you know, to keep my dreams in check. Even though my series of comics I made were trashed, I wasn't defeated yet.

I drew super powered people and conceived characters all the time. Most of them girls/women, most of them fragments of the friends I had (yet never trusted with family issues). All of them had at least one character that resembled me. The rest were predominantly white, if not all white. I guess it was because I lived in places where there were pretty much all white people except a few faces. Classroom make-up also mostly white. I never thought back then to make minorities the majority, but I, or someone in my likeness was almost always the central character.

Then, came a moment of truth. My dad saw me looking at the Wizard magazine again, that same issue. I guess I was obsessed. He made conversation that sounded like he was genuinely interested in my endeavors. "So, what do you want to do when you grow up?" He asked me as a pre-teen.

When I was a kid and people asked me, I always said the usual things: doctor, fireman, things that just came to mind without any real thought.  Eventually this matured to football player (but that's another story/thought for another day), until puberty hit (but it was on my mind until high school at least).

This particular evening though, I had enough information to make up my mind. "I want to be a comic-book artist" I said, sure of my self.  I don't remember verbatim what happened afterward, I just recall the negativity. The spoutings of such a career being impossible to take on, being too competitive, not being representative of the black community, or something that was needed by the black community. It was just pessimism all around about my inability to go this route.

The lack of support added with the stinging insults of these words, without so much as a suggestion as to what my strengths could be contributed towards (I don't think he even knew my strengths), sent me way back into that down-trodden feeling I would later realize was depression (never diagnosed, of course). My dreams were crushed by his lack of consent. Yet I recall still receiving things from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. Those catalogs built my resentment. Gave me hope.

By the time I was in high school, things only got better in one window of time, but otherwise got worse for my psyche and internal well-being. I had to draw and write again. Imagine in efforts to capture some sense of sanity within myself.

To be continued.

Stories

Children I'm sure are encouraged to use their imaginations, come up with their own tales, or learn to re-tell stories told to them with the elements needed to make them worth remembering.

But has anyone ever written stories, used their imaginations to forget? To relieve the constant madness, oppression, or depression that was their childhood or adolescence?

I have.

I remember writing and drawing several storylines. All of them about struggle. Some of them about friendships and alliances, good and evil. And the ones I have written extensively...never seemed to have a conclusion. This frustrated me from time to time. Trying to think of a way to conclude a convoluted story.

I credit my brother for making such awesome drawings and comics when we were younger. He made it seem so easy. And friends at school loved the mess out of them. I also credit the consistent downs that seemed to suppress every fiber of my being, with almost no one to turn to outside of my siblings. I took to writing and creating comics and stories of my own.

Barbie and Mister Bear? A trashed never-ending  third-grade story about Barbie and Mr. Bear constantly battling back and forth over a...dollar? I think that was it. Neither was good, though I think Mr. Bear was the victim first, and I always made Barbie blond, skinny. And evil. And eventually witch-like. Mr. Bear was brown and large, and wore a suit with a hat. Man, I'm kind of glad that story got lost/tossed. There was no end to the evil things they did to eachother; tricked eachother, practically mutilated eachother. Barbie with her seductive charm and wickedness. Mr. Bear with his brute strength and anger. Both were smart, but even then I knew enough about gender differences to know which qualities could be despised.

The adventures of Deseure? A comic-book story that was made from recycled divorce papers while I was in the sixth grade. About me and aliens coming to destroy me, but no one believing me because it happened at night, or in the bathroom, or something else. But the aliens were always thwarted and destroyed, with the master alien sending in more strange looking beings to come after me. I think I was trying to convince people by the sixth issue that I wasn't making stuff up. But by then, in real life, dad made me throw them away! I put them neatly on top of the disgusting garbage in hopes to rescue them later, but when I tried to, it was too late. They were ruined and covered with more disgusting trash. My ability to create and imagine amidst turmoil was thwarted.

Then came the moment that stifled my dreams, yet made me more stubborn than ever. The moment I managed to buy Wizard Magazine's issue on comic-book colleges people should attend. This was in the eighth grade I believe. I remember hand-copying all of the colleges down. Even sending for information for the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. I decided, thanks to this article, that I was going to be a comic book artist when I grew up.

To be continued