Pfirsich fell in a pool — of course he’s clean.
Who are those people in the last panel? Spirits? Forest godlets? Ghosts? Other selves?
I still don’t know. I just write this stuff down.
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Archive for ‘The Desert Peach #25’
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I don’t know what he’s trying to do to Pfirsich, here, or what the alternative to not drinking the liquid was.
Sometimes the author and the reader are on the same journey.
Don’t stay up too late trying to find it.
You’re stronger than you think. And other creatures are more fragile than you can imagine.
All my life I’ve put imaginary antlers on men. Herne’s always right there.
He’s not even trying to be sexy.
More fun to draw!
No, they probably won’t see THAT boy again.
Does that stag look Scythian to you?
I know their speech sounds poetical, but I was thinking in the German mode when I was writing this. They play with their language(s), and translations can feel more high-flown than the original tongue-in-cheek and ironic intent.
Translating clichés can turn out some beautiful, original-seeming phrases. Kipling did it from Indian vernaculars, Hemingway from Spanish. The problem is, when you translate them back into their mother language — you get the cliché again. It’s not so much a matter of lazy writing as linguistic fascination — or possession.
I don’t know what’s going on here.
I think Pfirsich made this guy up…. he may still be back in the pond.
The first time we come out, it may have to be to ourselves.
Pfirsich doesn’t know who he is yet.
It’s not always easy.
Personally, I don’t believe in the little gender boxes. I only believe you’re who you fall in love with — and that can always change. We’re probably serial monogamists — it’s just that episodes in the series may be longer or shorter.
I was never sure in my mind who this man was, or what he was, or what he was doing or why. It was like writing a dream.
Admittedly, the images are from other tropes and stories, but my brain was trying to say something else to me, using known symbolism. I’m not being precious, here, I just never knew what it meant. I only have three emotions — rage, grief and pity. I’d just lost the cats. I’m in the forest — you can probably see the trees.
At least Erwin’s getting some sleep. You can’t beat the body — sooner or later the overburdened ass will have its due.
I want my dreams back.
When I hit myself in the head with an ax when I was seven, it crashed me onto the Glass Prairie, and I saw things — dragons and harpies and face-horses and little friendly skeletons who like lemonade — any time I wanted to. Really saw them. Obviously, my eye files had gotten mixed up with my imagination files.
I thought everybody saw them. Over the years, my brain has healed, and the dreams have wandered off. Recently, I’ve started seeing things again. I’m kinda hoping the files are leaking again…
That’s Smokey ahead of them on the stairs, there — he died with Kit-Fox. I don’t wanna talk about it.
