flatwood (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} flatwood) wrote,@ 2005-07-18 21:08:00 |
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Words from the Wise
This was taken from Doug Tennapel's website. He is the creative genius behind Earthworm Jim that I got to meet at the Comicon. I stumbled upon his site and read this journal entry.
I think it's one of the most powerful bits I've read in a while, so I wanted to post it here:
"I have only just now degaussed myself from the media overload I experienced this weekend. Surrounded by thousands of people and meeting hundreds of fans is fun but exhausting.
I went down to San Diego last Wednesday, set up my booth and broke it down Sunday night. I'm not a graceful traveler so I have a lot of anxiety while away from home. My senses are heightened, and my more philosophical thoughts kick into high gear.
The main thing that struck me was the sadness of the individuals I met. I shake the hand of a 36 year old man-child who worships my cartoons, he worships my cartoons. The hoards will hear a rumor that Adam West is on the other side of the hall and they will RUN to swarm him. This is the age of mass media.
I couldn't help but notice the thousands of incredible images that float to the surface at these events. We have a larger number of great artists producing a greater number of well-crafted images for a more prosperous consumer that owns more representations of these images in his day to day life...yet it is 'a chasing after the wind' (see Ecclesiastes). Though more impressive images are present, there is less soul than ever. A special effect that would blow me away as a ten year old, makes today's seven year old yawn. Special effects aren't so special any more.
In an almost prophetic sense, Neil Postman warned us of this. We have the Brave New World's presence of ubiquitous stimulating images, and a disconnect from the real, other people, families, love, humanity. As I thought these things, I called home from my hotel room to talk to my 3.5 year old before she went to bed.
FATHER: I sure miss you.
DAUGHTER: I sure miss you, Daddy.
FATHER: I'm smiling right now because I'm talking to you.
DAUGHTER: I know. I'm smiling too. Can you come home tonight?
(I started crying but pretended to be happy when I continued to talk to her. Faking strength is something we dads do whenever possible. There's nothing sadder than a father bleeding all over his child).
FATHER: No, Sweet Pea, I won't be home for another couple of days.
DAUGHTER: I'm smiling right now because I'm talking to you.
I snapped my cellphone shut and could hear screaming coming from the suite next to mine...effing rap-stars came back to their hotel room with hookers again. She's screaming, "That shit hurts! That shit hurts!" I keep thinking, "She is some father's daughter. She came home from Sunday School one day in a pretty pink dress holding her father's hand and now she's being doggie-styled by some guy who doesn't even know her."
They abruptly stopped and she screamed, "That shit broke?! Don't tell me that shit broke!" I could hear her thump against my wall, stumble into the bathroom and slam the toilet seat down. This is sexual revolution my friends, another abortion or fatherless child to repeat the cycle all over...and I'm a prude for judging this as 'evil'.
I'm so depressed I have to leave my room. I try to leave quietly so they don't hear that I could easily hear their racket. Walking down to the elevator I push the button and it takes forever because I'm on the 37th floor. I hear them leave their room and head my way. I act normal when I see them turn the corner and wait for the same elevator. He's got his hat on sideways, covered in sweat, she's Asian and wearing something skimpy, pink, and low-rent...looks just like Brittany Spears on MTV. I couldn't stop thinking about her childhood. Did someone hurt you in your childhood? Didn't your father hold you and tell you that you are beautiful and made in the image of God? Are you going to be alright tonight when you return to the street to turn another trick? God, go with this girl. Should I say something? I can't say anything. I am a coward.
As the elevator dropped, so did my stomach, but my soul was even lower. I felt surrounded by despair. I grabbed a slug of Jack from the bar before taking to the streets of San Diego with one of my cheap Backwoods cigars (I still haven't inhaled since Christmas of last year). On the street, a couple recognizes me from the Comicon, "Aren't you the guy who made Catscratch?" They are excited, and I'm in a dark place. I pretend to be happy and enthusiastic, "Yeah, thanks so much for liking my work!" The moment we part, my face drops again and I shuffle along.
I meet some cartoonist who came to my Catscratch panel and he gives me a business card, "Hey, Catscratching is f#cking genius! Can we get together at a time when I can show you my work? It is just a f#cking honor to shake your hand!" I warmly return the hand-shake, turn the corner and throw his card in the trash.
It's a bad time to want to be alone. The sweet song of Emmylou Harris in my Ipod provides the soundtrack of my life:
I found some love and I found some money
found that blood would drip from the honey
found I had a thirst that I could not quell
lookin'for the water from a deeper well
By the time I get back to the hotel, it's getting late. I meet a man with long gray hair in a pony tail. "How's it going?" he asks. I answer, "I'm beat, but I'm good. What do you do here at the Comicon?"
He knows a friend of mine, a Christian in comics...this is the secret handshake we Christians share in public. If some guy ever quotes James Dobson, you know. If he talks about reading C.S. Lewis, you know. If he wears a cheesy Icthus on a necklace, you know. This guy was a brother, and he instantly started ministering to me. He encouraged me, made me smile, patted me firmly on the back and said, "God bless you my brother."
This stranger showed a random act of dignity that reminded me of my place in the family of God. As I returned to my hotel room, I looked out the window from the 37th floor. The majesty of God's creation before me, man's brilliantly crafted buildings, the cars, the ocean, specks of bloated geeks dressed like Stormtroopers walking the streets below. I lifted my head, and noticed I was smiling as I entered my hotel room."
Doug TenNapel
This was taken from Doug Tennapel's website. He is the creative genius behind Earthworm Jim that I got to meet at the Comicon. I stumbled upon his site and read this journal entry.
I think it's one of the most powerful bits I've read in a while, so I wanted to post it here:
"I have only just now degaussed myself from the media overload I experienced this weekend. Surrounded by thousands of people and meeting hundreds of fans is fun but exhausting.
I went down to San Diego last Wednesday, set up my booth and broke it down Sunday night. I'm not a graceful traveler so I have a lot of anxiety while away from home. My senses are heightened, and my more philosophical thoughts kick into high gear.
The main thing that struck me was the sadness of the individuals I met. I shake the hand of a 36 year old man-child who worships my cartoons, he worships my cartoons. The hoards will hear a rumor that Adam West is on the other side of the hall and they will RUN to swarm him. This is the age of mass media.
I couldn't help but notice the thousands of incredible images that float to the surface at these events. We have a larger number of great artists producing a greater number of well-crafted images for a more prosperous consumer that owns more representations of these images in his day to day life...yet it is 'a chasing after the wind' (see Ecclesiastes). Though more impressive images are present, there is less soul than ever. A special effect that would blow me away as a ten year old, makes today's seven year old yawn. Special effects aren't so special any more.
In an almost prophetic sense, Neil Postman warned us of this. We have the Brave New World's presence of ubiquitous stimulating images, and a disconnect from the real, other people, families, love, humanity. As I thought these things, I called home from my hotel room to talk to my 3.5 year old before she went to bed.
FATHER: I sure miss you.
DAUGHTER: I sure miss you, Daddy.
FATHER: I'm smiling right now because I'm talking to you.
DAUGHTER: I know. I'm smiling too. Can you come home tonight?
(I started crying but pretended to be happy when I continued to talk to her. Faking strength is something we dads do whenever possible. There's nothing sadder than a father bleeding all over his child).
FATHER: No, Sweet Pea, I won't be home for another couple of days.
DAUGHTER: I'm smiling right now because I'm talking to you.
I snapped my cellphone shut and could hear screaming coming from the suite next to mine...effing rap-stars came back to their hotel room with hookers again. She's screaming, "That shit hurts! That shit hurts!" I keep thinking, "She is some father's daughter. She came home from Sunday School one day in a pretty pink dress holding her father's hand and now she's being doggie-styled by some guy who doesn't even know her."
They abruptly stopped and she screamed, "That shit broke?! Don't tell me that shit broke!" I could hear her thump against my wall, stumble into the bathroom and slam the toilet seat down. This is sexual revolution my friends, another abortion or fatherless child to repeat the cycle all over...and I'm a prude for judging this as 'evil'.
I'm so depressed I have to leave my room. I try to leave quietly so they don't hear that I could easily hear their racket. Walking down to the elevator I push the button and it takes forever because I'm on the 37th floor. I hear them leave their room and head my way. I act normal when I see them turn the corner and wait for the same elevator. He's got his hat on sideways, covered in sweat, she's Asian and wearing something skimpy, pink, and low-rent...looks just like Brittany Spears on MTV. I couldn't stop thinking about her childhood. Did someone hurt you in your childhood? Didn't your father hold you and tell you that you are beautiful and made in the image of God? Are you going to be alright tonight when you return to the street to turn another trick? God, go with this girl. Should I say something? I can't say anything. I am a coward.
As the elevator dropped, so did my stomach, but my soul was even lower. I felt surrounded by despair. I grabbed a slug of Jack from the bar before taking to the streets of San Diego with one of my cheap Backwoods cigars (I still haven't inhaled since Christmas of last year). On the street, a couple recognizes me from the Comicon, "Aren't you the guy who made Catscratch?" They are excited, and I'm in a dark place. I pretend to be happy and enthusiastic, "Yeah, thanks so much for liking my work!" The moment we part, my face drops again and I shuffle along.
I meet some cartoonist who came to my Catscratch panel and he gives me a business card, "Hey, Catscratching is f#cking genius! Can we get together at a time when I can show you my work? It is just a f#cking honor to shake your hand!" I warmly return the hand-shake, turn the corner and throw his card in the trash.
It's a bad time to want to be alone. The sweet song of Emmylou Harris in my Ipod provides the soundtrack of my life:
I found some love and I found some money
found that blood would drip from the honey
found I had a thirst that I could not quell
lookin'for the water from a deeper well
By the time I get back to the hotel, it's getting late. I meet a man with long gray hair in a pony tail. "How's it going?" he asks. I answer, "I'm beat, but I'm good. What do you do here at the Comicon?"
He knows a friend of mine, a Christian in comics...this is the secret handshake we Christians share in public. If some guy ever quotes James Dobson, you know. If he talks about reading C.S. Lewis, you know. If he wears a cheesy Icthus on a necklace, you know. This guy was a brother, and he instantly started ministering to me. He encouraged me, made me smile, patted me firmly on the back and said, "God bless you my brother."
This stranger showed a random act of dignity that reminded me of my place in the family of God. As I returned to my hotel room, I looked out the window from the 37th floor. The majesty of God's creation before me, man's brilliantly crafted buildings, the cars, the ocean, specks of bloated geeks dressed like Stormtroopers walking the streets below. I lifted my head, and noticed I was smiling as I entered my hotel room."
Doug TenNapel
