THE HYPNO KOMIX EXPERIENCE
(also at WWW.HYPNOKOMIX.COM)
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
DREAM #.062910: "SPRAY-ON GRACE"
In my dream, a special executive officer from someplace comes into my room and tells me I've been promoted. He's been sent to officially forgive me on behalf of the Universe for every nasty or timid thing I've ever done.
He has a flickering, intermittent face and a briefcase full of pure evil.
I don't know what to think. It seems like the sort of favor that can't be verified. He asks me to tell him the worst thing I've ever done. I think about it for a minute, then something especially heinous comes to mind, and I tell him. There's a pause and his face has gone blank, like he's crunching numbers or attending to some digestive process, deep within.
Then he smiles and says "You are forgiven". I almost rankle at his flippancy. The moment in question was a real atrocity, an act some sickly shadow of me is almost proud of, for its unbridled, amoral audacity.
Reflecting on that audacity, I realize it doesn't seem so bad, all of a sudden. I am filled with a deep conviction and confidence that all those effected are strangely better off, in different ways, than they would have been if I'd never done it.
I believe him. I try another sin. And so it goes. He forgives me everything. Officially. All I've ever been is a desiccated agent of destiny, he says. We are but the wriggling nodules of some higher power. My killing hand goes whichever way the dark wind within might blow. I'm just following the fractals, your honor. I am pure as the driven snow.
He forgives me all night long, in several different languages.
The automatic grace is so sweet, I wake up hungry to fill up my accounts with every kind of wickedness. It's such a kick when no one cares anymore.
And yet I almost never leave my office. If I went beyond good and evil, who would notice?
I'm a moral code falling to pieces in the wilderness. Only the Dalai Lama can hear me going straight to hell. Does that smug bastard ever wake up screaming?
I can smell the Holy One and his monkish minions meditating always on my sloughed iniquities, like perverts huffing the burgled panties of a superstar.
We're all just living for kicks, it seems.
But one man's penance is another man's poison.
Even hatred for the flesh is a fetish.
Even the supreme sacrifice, ultimately, is just some sick fucker's idea of fun.
As I have been so efficiently forgiven, the least I can do is forgive all of you.
The account is empty. Fill it up again with darkness. Do this, in sketchy memories of me.
JASON SQUAMATA writes novels, graphic and otherwise. He's been trained and employed as a stage and screen actor (under the name "Orji Walflauer"), a pop songwriter, a podcast novelist, a flesh cartoonist, and a Hypgnostic high priest. But he's made of pages and bubbles and frames. The comics he writes are called HYPNO KOMIX. The titles include TEENAGE LUVKRAFT!, HYPNOZINE, OTHERMAN & THE ORAKULOIDS, AMERIKAN ZER0, and PARLIAMENT OF BABIES. He works with brilliant artists like Sir Richard Wentworth, Andrew Mc Kenzie, Owen Hunter, Kate Fenker, MjK, Matthew Haggett, and Damian Zari. They're making Optical Mythologies for a Future Generation. Squamata is currently composing a bizarre novel-length celebutante fairy tale for a major publisher. He can and will write scripts and prose in any genre (mutating his voice and process as the project at hand sees fit), always alive with that "HYPNO FEELING". New genres can be generated for a client through deft "mash-ups" of memetic DNA. Each title is a world unto itself, aching to be explored and exploited. Make Squamata's methods and his madness work for YOU.
reach him here...
and see more at WWW.HYPNOKOMIX.COM