Simian Uprising by Jer Clarke

Found on an older blog and posted here for historical purposes.

it wasn’t a matter of motivation this time. usually there was a feeling of boredom, lazyness and apathy, like actually caring about this silly thing just wasn’t worth the effort.

but this was different, there was motivation, just not to do this. an urge to write in a journal, to build a journal, to find readers for a journal. to take, look at and publish pictures, to copy the amazing world outside (and inside) the home and give it a chance to be as beautiful-monstrous-ironic and amazing as it truly was. there was even a skewed kind of motivation to work on the sound project, but less.

all this, but it still seemed that the comic must be drawn, that it was the important thing, that people like the comic, people respond to the comic, the comic is popular. the fact that the comic must be maintained untill the t-shirts could be sold ALONE should have been motivation to complete the panels, but the apathy remained. the feeling that very little was left to be said with this format, that its subjectivity had been stolen by overuse, corrupted by the redundancy of time, and had effectively become passive.

the ideas no longer stimulating, it seemed like a waste.

but they still loved it, and asked for more.

and there are comics to be finished.

Found on an older blog and posted here for historical purposes.

they looked up together. the sky seemed bigger now somehow, especially the clouds. especially compared to the hill under them.
he had his arm around her and she felt good against him, but he was looking too far up, and starting to lose his balance.
the sky was full of clouds, the fluffy kind, not the whispy dream ones. the kind of cloud that looks like whatever you want it to. the kind of cloud that you could dance on if you could only jump high enough.
there was one especially, a dark brooding one, that he couldn’t help looking at. it reminded him of a person, it was a grumpy cloud.

eventually it got cold and they walked home, his goose was all aflesh and so was her’s. he offered her his coat but it was thin, and didn’t really protect anything from the world.

when they got home he tried to write her a poem. he wanted to tell her how beautiful it had been on the hill. he wanted to tell her about what it was like to feel her prickled flesh in his hand. he wanted to tell her that she was more beautiful than he ever could have imagined anything to be.
but his poem was all about the cloud. the big one. the grumpy one.