"Back In The Saddle"

Got my car back yesterday, good as new. The guys at the body shop were even so kind as to wash and detail it for me, so my car is all shiny and clean and pretty and whole again, and no more rattling from the rear end. Yes, that is good.

Today marks the beginning of a quick little something over at Dim Bulb that I'm going to enjoy thoroughly. I'm running a little series of comics that feature a character of Ping Teo's from The Jaded, a guy named Juno. I did a little fanart comic for Ping a couple of months along similar lines, which was what eventually sparked the idea I'm currently pursuing. Part of me is always thoroughly amused by making fun of boy bands, don't ask me why. Probably because it's so easy, rather like caf jokes.

Shifting gears, I was reading a friend of mine's blog the other day, and in between cringing because of her grammar and her complete disregard for the rules of the English language, I noticed she posed a very interesting question, one which I've in turned been mulling over since reading her thoughts yesterday. What if I died today? I'm not trying to be morbid, just hypothetical. How would I be remembered? By whom would I be remembered? Would folks think of the good things I did, the happiness I (hopefully) brought to the lives of those I've known? Or would they dwell on the stupid things I did? Or perhaps on the things I left undone, such as schoolwork and the like. Would those whom I love dearly know that I love them? I like to think they would, just as I like to think I'd be remembered for the good and joyful things I did, assuming there are any. It's probably conceited of me to say this, but I like to think I'd be well-remembered by everyone I know. Except for maybe a couple of people, and I probably don't give a damn about those people anyway.

I also kinda wonder what would become of my estate, as it were. My personal possessions--what would happen to them? I'm not talking about my movies or CDs or that sort of stuff. I'm thinking about my intellectual property here. What would become of my sketchbooks and notebooks crammed with comics, short stories, story ideas and snippets, poems, songs, thoughts and words and things that only I've ever seen? Would someone ransack my apartment, searching through each book and stack of paper (and there are many of each) looking for things of worth? Would they find any? I have three sketchbooks there, all full of comics. Only about a quarter of them have ever seen the light of day, some because they're not that good, some because I don't know how to draw them in a way I'd be happy with, and some because I have not reached that point in the stories I'm telling yet. Would someone publish my unfinished comics in some posthumous collection, continue putting my stuff on Dim Bulb but drawn by someone else?

All silly questions, I know, but these are some of the things that run through my head. I have little to no control over my thoughts; they occur as they will, and I can sometimes focus on a single thought, but I can't stop the torrent of other thoughts that flood through my cranium on a constant basis. It's like trying to plug a hole the size of your head with your finger. It's not gonna work.

On an unrelated note, I wanted to relate part of a conversation I had with my coworker, Ev, yesterday. I was talking about Clif heading off to France, and how he was probably going to be something of an unholy terror while there. Clif has this way of shaping the world around him to suit his tastes. He can literally make people behave in ways they usually wouldn't. I've seen him do it--he makes the world fit him. It's not that he's a round peg trying to fit into a square hole or anything like that, but rather that he's a round peg forcing the square hole to become a round one. He and the French ought to get along like a house on fire--lots of smoke, screaming, and the chance that there won't be many survivors.

~chaos cricket

Song of the Moment: Newsboys, "Shine"