October 18, 2011
Dear Reader,
The title of page 30 is, "I Met Hector On Peola Boulevard." Not only is each page of Goatwater a page from a graphic novel/art book and an acrylic painting on cotton rag paper, each page is also a fragment of an ongoing dream within a dream within a dream and I enjoy creating each page almost as much as I enjoy sharing them with you.
Goatwater will eventually be available to you in hardcopy/book form. When will that be? At this point, I don't know. For now, enjoy the journey and please share Goatwater with your friends. There's more than enough to go around. You will find a transcript of this page at the end of this letter. Make sure you Zoom in to see the lettering and/or read the transcript, below. Next Tuesday, I post page 31.
Remember, if you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.
You can now link to the Table of Contents on every page. Click here to start at the beginning of this webcomic. Have a great week and remember that Goatwater is updated every Tuesday. Email any questions or comments to bassacards(at) yahoo.com.
If this is your first time visiting this site, or you are a regular reader, email me at the address above if you want me to add you to my mailing list so that I can send you an email reminder, every Tuesday, when I’ve added the new page. No spam, and I will not share your email with anybody else, just the link to the new page and some update information, if I have any. And feel free to let me know, at any time, if you want to stop receiving the weekly emails. Thank you for your support!
Goatwater - Page 30 - Transcript - I Met Hector On Peola Boulevard
Sister
I met Hector on Peola Boulevard. This was long before he transformed from melancholy man, to bones, to dust of a constellation. He was fascinated by the mysteries of space and I never wanted to leave the ground, or be buried in it. “From man, to bones, to dust,” he’d say, “our existence is merely an aberration, as useless as an old man’s groin and as unnecessary as an old lady’s ass wrinkle.” Hector and I used to hang together at the Peola Club, dancing heavy and hard to soca music, like every carnival night was our first and last, sipping whisky with water because it tasted better and was cheaper. One balmy, starless night while holding me close, he pointed up to the cracked, filthy ceiling and whispered, “Sister, look! Every night we come here we see more and more sky peeking through the cracks!” And, indeed, you could. Never had black or blue seemed more pathetic or beautiful. A light rain fell through those cracks and washed away our sweat until our bodies returned to their natural state of fever and our costumes clung to us as if they were original skin. “Sister, why is your face so red and hideous?” he asked, pushing me away. I thought he was laughing behind his mask. So, grabbing playfully at his horns, I responded, “and why, black bastard, are you such a mad, white, smelly goat.” But Hector stopped dancing and talking. And then he was gone. He came to me the next night while I lay half sleeping. He was covered in mud and panting and speaking in tongues. Like an animal, he mounted me. That goat-man was delivered to God the next day. A jury of imbeciles said I killed him, despite my assurances that I was not partial to killing a beautiful madman I loved nor rabid goat I had milked, though, for that matter, I’d certainly kill a goat over a man if I had to. Still, I swear to you, I didn’t.
Dear Reader,
The title of page 30 is, "I Met Hector On Peola Boulevard." Not only is each page of Goatwater a page from a graphic novel/art book and an acrylic painting on cotton rag paper, each page is also a fragment of an ongoing dream within a dream within a dream and I enjoy creating each page almost as much as I enjoy sharing them with you.
Goatwater will eventually be available to you in hardcopy/book form. When will that be? At this point, I don't know. For now, enjoy the journey and please share Goatwater with your friends. There's more than enough to go around. You will find a transcript of this page at the end of this letter. Make sure you Zoom in to see the lettering and/or read the transcript, below. Next Tuesday, I post page 31.
Remember, if you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.
You can now link to the Table of Contents on every page. Click here to start at the beginning of this webcomic. Have a great week and remember that Goatwater is updated every Tuesday. Email any questions or comments to bassacards(at) yahoo.com.
If this is your first time visiting this site, or you are a regular reader, email me at the address above if you want me to add you to my mailing list so that I can send you an email reminder, every Tuesday, when I’ve added the new page. No spam, and I will not share your email with anybody else, just the link to the new page and some update information, if I have any. And feel free to let me know, at any time, if you want to stop receiving the weekly emails. Thank you for your support!
Goatwater - Page 30 - Transcript - I Met Hector On Peola Boulevard
Sister
I met Hector on Peola Boulevard. This was long before he transformed from melancholy man, to bones, to dust of a constellation. He was fascinated by the mysteries of space and I never wanted to leave the ground, or be buried in it. “From man, to bones, to dust,” he’d say, “our existence is merely an aberration, as useless as an old man’s groin and as unnecessary as an old lady’s ass wrinkle.” Hector and I used to hang together at the Peola Club, dancing heavy and hard to soca music, like every carnival night was our first and last, sipping whisky with water because it tasted better and was cheaper. One balmy, starless night while holding me close, he pointed up to the cracked, filthy ceiling and whispered, “Sister, look! Every night we come here we see more and more sky peeking through the cracks!” And, indeed, you could. Never had black or blue seemed more pathetic or beautiful. A light rain fell through those cracks and washed away our sweat until our bodies returned to their natural state of fever and our costumes clung to us as if they were original skin. “Sister, why is your face so red and hideous?” he asked, pushing me away. I thought he was laughing behind his mask. So, grabbing playfully at his horns, I responded, “and why, black bastard, are you such a mad, white, smelly goat.” But Hector stopped dancing and talking. And then he was gone. He came to me the next night while I lay half sleeping. He was covered in mud and panting and speaking in tongues. Like an animal, he mounted me. That goat-man was delivered to God the next day. A jury of imbeciles said I killed him, despite my assurances that I was not partial to killing a beautiful madman I loved nor rabid goat I had milked, though, for that matter, I’d certainly kill a goat over a man if I had to. Still, I swear to you, I didn’t.
Goatwater
Copyright 2011
words and images by:
Tiffany Osedra Miller
all rights reserved.
Copyright 2011
words and images by:
Tiffany Osedra Miller
all rights reserved.
