I read Penny Arcade quite frequently. I write (or in some cases draw) for a living. It most certainly doesn’t show much on this blog but writing is a form of catharsis for me. It seems apparent to me that Jerry has the same view, though he gets paid for it. Go him. Mike, I get. Art is/was a way out from his neurosis. Jerry though, shit the demons that guy carries around.
There is a brutal simplicity to many posts. You can read them as you will but a turn of the word is as good as or better a piece of art that’s on a wall. Both have their places and both have their interpretations, but damn if you don’t recognize quality when you see it. There’s a string inside that just pulls. In my rage, I turn inside and say “fuck it” but to the outside there’s a cadence, a sweetness that is needed to adequately push forward an idea. How can you put forth a feeling into words?
To Jerry’s more recent dilemma involving resolving the image of his father with his actual father, I say welcome to the club. When gods become mortal, you find yourself with way more power than you should have any right to wield. There is the place where you struggle to come to terms with your essence, your pride and your hate and lo and behold, the guy has the gall to do something as crazy as make you think twice about it.
You need not ponder long to realize that parents are as messed up, or in most cases more messed up than you could ever properly have imagined. This from a generation that had been told that feelings are weak, keep your nose down, plow through it. Weakness is wrong and admitting it makes you a failure. Perfection is the only acceptable solution. Fuck that shit. You strive for pride in your parents eyes and when you get it, tell me how you ever want to let that feeling go. To find weakness in that pride? A flaw? That 30 year image I had built, piece by piece is nothing but dust.
Fuck it. I will be weak, I will be strong, I’ll be whoever I need to be and let my kids see me for it. I’ll mess it up, I’ll be perfect, and that giant place inside, that my kids own, will be theirs to do what they want.
Thanks Dad for showing me that your mistakes made you more of a man than your successes. Why did you have to wait so long to tell me?