I am not credited in my work, but my signature, the shape of the Tycho crater, is hidden somewhere in the art.
Only I know about it. I usually never talk about it. Maybe some day, somebody will come back and find them, or maybe they will reveal themselves, but the signature is always there. It is a circle with a spot in the center. It is the eternal shape. It is the symbol of all things in the universe.
Living life on the run, I’ve realized just how little I need. Food, clothing, good shoes and my art tools. That’s it. No more, no less. Anything else is complication. Money is complication. I need it, but I only use cash. Cash comes with no complications. It has no trail back or forth to anything. Anything else… A bank account… A social security number… Certainly a credit card… All of that leads to somewhere; comes from somewhere. Anchors to somewhere. You see, it is the plan of the unenlightened to tie you to a place. When you are tied to a place, that is where the corruption begins. We’ve just changed our iron shackles to digital shackles.
Since you have probably already concluded that I am insane, or at least abnormal, I will proceed. In these places I hear and see things. I do not hear voices, in the sense that I do not hear words and phrases, but simply what that scientist in the video referred to as ordered information. It is just out there to be assembled any way I happen to assemble it. It is like a cosmic Rorschach. It may or may not have meaning in itself, but its meaning is found in the relationship between the data itself and the being who processes it. I interpret it my way, others, presumably, interpret it their ways. Open data. Different intelligence.
Until recently, I wanted nothing. I did not want fame. I did not want money more than what I needed. I did not even want answers or meaning. I was content with just the data. Then, something happened. The visions came. The visions came so brightly and so profoundly that I realized that they must be important.
They were those things that drive you insane, like the thing that is at the tip of your tongue and you can not remember it, or the puzzle that is nearly solved, or the riddle to which you never heard the answer or the thing left undone or the secret that was only partly shared with you.
I need to know what these images mean. I know they are important. I just don’t know WHY they are important? I do not know WHO the faces are? I do not know WHERE the places are? I don’t know WHEN the images are. Are the in the past or in the future? I just know that they are there. They are a unified truth. And they are important.
I knew where to find the answers. I would find them in the one place where others who see visions like I do, gather. That is why I went to San Diego. That is why I confronted the people there. That’s when I got the answers.
I knew they would try to stop me. They? The NIA. They knew about the portals. They knew about the data. The wanted it for themselves, or maybe they wanted to keep us from having the knowledge. I don’t think they are evil, but I do think they are misguided and I know they are determined.
As I said before, I knew they were after me. That time that Calvin found me on a dusty street in Texas. Or the fan letter that appeared in a ghosted comic which inexplicably started talking about moon craters.
I know they know what I am doing, which leads me to another question. Why don’t they stop me? Why let me go? Maybe I’m just another one of their tools. I’m like a camera or a sensor that’s adding to their knowledge. They watch me. They learn from me. They order the data.
Order the data. I only even understand that concept because of research I did for a comic. Is it just chance or was that comic put in my path so that I would learn about ordered data in service to the NIA or to some other intelligence from some other place.
Where do you even start to figure these things out?!
I’m not even sure what role I play in my own story. What if I’m just a background character in my own story? What if the real characters in my stories are those I draw in service to some distant intelligence? Maybe I’m just a bit player in somebody else’s story made to disappear as soon as my tiny little part is played.
I vanish as quickly as a dream.
Certainly, that is how I appear to the rest of the world. When my parents vanished, I was alone. I missed them, but life went on. I had numerous pseudonyms and fake identities. Still do. I don’t know whether I can escape their watch, but I just have to keep on trying, or at least not submitting to failure.
The engine is simple, ghosting brings money, money pays rent, money brings anonymity. In my nomadic world, cash buys silence. Not because people are corrupt or venal, but because the transaction is complete and satisfactory and thus they want it to go on. The dynamic is successful for them. They do not want the dynamic to change so they do nothing to make it change.
I have a lot of friends. Make them everywhere I go. I don’t let much out about my past. Funny thing is, nobody seems to want to know much. I stick to the truth where I can. But since there are a lot of truths, its not that hard.
The only guy who actually knows my identity in the comics business is dead. He was the artist I originally met.
Everybody else just knows me by reputation. I’m kind of a legend. I report to nobody. Nobody reports to me. I appear when I want to. I vanish when I want to. The only rule is that I have to hit the marks. Hit the deadlines.
Crack the scene.