Silent Army Movement

So it's been almost two months, and it' s been a very different, needless to say eventful, period of time. I wouldn't trade them in for anything. I won't be going into details just yet, plenty of opportunities for elaboration later. I have been given three comics over the weekend, three pieces of works done by a friend. Admittedly, I can't say I understood all of the obscurity and hidden messages intended. After all, they were all based on personal experiences and inner thoughts. However, they appealed to me greatly because the emotions and the stories are just so raw and honest. So raw and honest that it hurts even, not unlike reading a Salinger book (and incidentally, the artist is a huge Salinger admirer too). And yes, this is the first time I have ever known an artist, not some wannabe or a self-proclaimed one, but a bona fide one whom I truly respect, be it for the writings or the drawings to the paintings. I wish I could put all the drawings here, but knowing that it would be impossible, I have decided to print the prologue here verbatim, which I have read a few time over. It hurts more each time I read it, funny and bittersweet at the same time, and for this I would compare it to the style of Roald Dahl. Salinger and Dahl both cited, what more can I ask for? And yes, maybe I am in awe too.

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Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up this comic, this 6th in line from the House of Urgh. Thanks to the suggestion of my esteemed friend Mr Adam Ford, I have adopted a new phrase: Pokin fun at...Soon after hearing this I realised that most of my life is spent Pokin fun at everything and anything that crosses my path, from old people to my own reflection from wheelchairs to friends. I feel it a necessity in my journey to mock much of what is reality. It seems to make boredom, poordom and frustration slightly easier to deal with. But at what cost? Will I one day become consumed in my own misty cynicism, so much so that I end up screaming and yelling at people wearing cheesecloth? I soon realised then that the only thing truly holding me back from this madness is my li'l ol' scribblings. However, if I need my art so much then why have I been so half-hearted? I don't hate what I have produced in the past, but I need to respect my work for it to respect me and for you to respect the final product. Nobody will get anywhere by farting about with mindless doodles and rushed work.

In saying this, I now present you with this issue. It is set eleven years ago when I was in Year 8 at high school in the Blue Mountains. It takes place over a couple of days and represents to me a serious turning point of realisations in my young mind. This story is the one I'd been trying to tell ever since I started this whole comic book thing as I believe it heads towards explaining who I am and why I am doing all this today. I know it's quite a self indulgent thing to do as my life is by no means any more remarkable than anyone else's. However, as with most autobiographical work, it is simply my mind trying to answer questions that need not and usually cannot be answered. Namely, what's the bloody point in the end?

So in conclusion, there ain't much 'Fun Pokin' in this issue. It's a little sombre and mellow and I wank around most of the time with my head down, looking angry and/or pathetic. You must remember I was a teenager. At the time this story took place a person at school I can't remember the name of called me "small, but nice". I think this comic is something similar, despite the fact it'a too damn a cute bloody way of describing anything.

K.M.

NB: This comic should be viewed as a symbol of honesty, not 100% truth. If I was to tell the complete thruth (i.e spread it over two years, recall old dialogue and names correctly, etc) I would surely send you into a coma. Artisitc license is usually what makes the art interesting, yes?