A Single Syllable

Episode Two Hundred Thirty Nine: A Single Syllable.
In which all mysteries are just more needles.

1 comment:

  1. Another true-to-form strip, but less satisfying than the previous week. The Soap Strip frame feels stiff, and the overall flow is more disjointed.

    Squid Man speaks 'Pravda Nyet Pravda' - at least I think that's the best Cyrillic translation - which I was led to believe by a high school chum in the 80's was a common Russian saying, an acknowledgement that the official party line ('Pravda' was the Soviet party paper, "Truth") was not reality. Receiving the invective is a squat-floating Little Nemo (McKay) in some sort of steampunk goggles. Why is SM making that statement? I don't recall at this point. Maybe the refutation of the truth is in itself an untruth.

    Soap Strip not embarrassing, per se, but just not solid. (This is often where my lack of talent really causes the form to fall apart.) The hand floats in front of the doorknob, and I'm not sure what the statement is trying to tell me. I mean, I guess in hindsight it's a point of anxiety that I am not listening to what's happening just outside. ...and it's someone trying to get in. (Nice try, whoever you are.)

    Pharm Life. 'Vouchsafe'? Don't remember where that came, either. I'm pretty sure this was about a letter I received from my insurance company telling me that a med I was on was no longer being covered. And it was a med that I was repeatedly asking my pharmacy to stop sending me refills on. This has become a thing, lately. The great benevolent perfect society with which I am blessed (and continually reminded for which I am ungrateful) is, in reality, just flat out broken with bureaucracy. Again, making that statement is heresy.

    The Art frame another Oblique Strategy that, true to its nature, is elusive to me. Art's rendering is upsettingly spotty. What was guy holding? A smartphone being used to record a meeting? Again, this is all faded now, even just a couple weeks' on.

    The title from 'On Some Far Away Beach' from Here Come The Warm Jets, 1973. I was listening to this album while working on the strip, and that line has always eluded me - for years, I thought it was 'a single silver bowl,' an image of some sort of ideal form, or perhaps idolatry (Holy Grail?), that has formed in the mind of the protagonist of the song, who I see as a soldier, perhaps from the Normandy invasion, the tide brushing sand in his eyes.

    Cast up on a plateau
    With only one memory
    A single syllable
    Oh lie low lie low.

    Who knows. Is that last command resonating through his ears as he dies? Or is the syllable another sound? Somehow the idea of one memory resonating is compelling.



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