Gotta Lead Somwhere
Gotta Lead Somewhere
By Christopher R. Myers
Every bit of everything I am supposed to be working on is colliding together inside my head like sparking rocks my parents always told me would make my teethe explode.
90S Boomer Parents were F'in weird.
On the podcast the other day I had promised myself I'd have a nice treatment for “The Bat & the Spider issue 1” up by now, but I can't seem to catch it's tail and shake it's sweet innards loose. For the last 3 months nearly I've had a video and it's ensuing script planned out and ready, and mostly notated into a serviceable...something or other. Haven't shot it. Haven't touched the script. Hell, I've barely watched the cartoons I was gonna talk about. That's a lie. I watched those cartoons. Watched the shit out of them, for like 2 weeks. 3 months ago. In my bathrobe. Eating Blue Bell.
The Beginning of Summer is a weird time where I have the pep in my step to get wild ideas and attempt to implement them, but it is also the season in which the outside of my home is a hell swamp that ancient people's told legend of no pale face ever returning from, and for some god forsaken reason centuries later two brothers rolled up on this mosquito infested marsh after getting lost in a bayou, and decided to knock what little protection there was from the sun, and eventually pave over the swampy bits; Everyone apparently thought this was a great idea before air conditioning existed.
It's friggin HOT! Like a SWAMP but without the cover and the sun being magnified and reflected back at you by the ground.
This heat tends to sap my body of any energy it might have had. The Summertime Blues is a form of depression that comes from the lack of an ability to function while the outside wants you dead. A general apathy comes about, but if you're lucky the brain is doing it's best to log and remember that one thousand and one things you keep adding and subtracting to the millions of ideas racing through your fragile skull.
I'm supposed to be writing about how Batman wound up in New York City to train a young Spider-man, which Is something I feel like I could be arrested for saying, but instead I'm rambling about how the weather makes me feel crappy.
This is that stupid perfectionist streak. Can't put it out till it's right and it ain't never right. This exercise exists to force me to break that habit.
It isn't working
it's been three days...
I was a weird kid. It's no wonder I'm such a weird adult.
Could call it maladjusted, but I never made moves to adjust.
That's why I was watching those cartoons for the script I'm avoiding by writing this tripe. Someone asked what are some things, life lessons, you learned from animation, and my mind immediately went to how many of the cartoons of my childhood paid particular attention to the maladjusted adults. I realize now that most of that had to be in some cases animators giving adults a laughable outlet as dumb babies got up to slobbering dumb baby shenanigans, but I also realize that many of the things I took from those cartoons is that sometimes a weird person is just a weird person,and not everything can be reduced to fixable small problems. Too many kids are born to a world that doesn't want them for what they are, and not many of them have the knowledge or capabilities to become acceptable to the outside. Weird kids become weird adults, and lots of us become lost forever because of it.
The ideas are all there I'm just not here for it today.
But Keep you eyes out, and maybe you'll catch something cooler than my strange stream of consciousness pep-talk/self-deprecating ranting. I mean it's gotta lead somewhere right?