today i submitted NADJA to kickstarter. it's been a long time. i want to do comics again. i dont know if it'll happen. but i can always try. because then i can either succeed or fail: and I cannot do either if i dont try.
haven;t read this in a long time. i think i needed to be away from it to see it with new ocular lenses...
a long time ago, i wrote this:
Taken down from the windswept drafts of the fallout of Neo-Paris, Nadja began her weekly search for survivor camps and new wreckage to salvage. Usually it was nothing new, occasionally a token from years past, a life past, would rear it's disheveled head from the debris. More often it was residue and tissue and burnt materials from the time before her time.
"Today" Nadja thought "would be a good day." There was electrostatic in the air. Waves would wallow past the sun as it sat there miles above Neo-Paris in an angry blaze and scowling face. Usually, after a wind storm most of the elderly refused to go out, still littered with the memories of fear from the plagues, the fallout of the war that divided humanity.
If nothing else, the sandstorms would at least un-bury the dead so they could once again remind the living of the choices that had come to form the present state of humanity. Despair was a daily occurrence, but it festered under hushed breathes and the listless paranoia of the survivors.
Today Nadja took path away from the small group of life she called home; like a minute pollen sample or penicillin in a petri dish: isolated, secluded, and terrified that another deadly swab would be the end of the colony.
As much as she made it her day to day, going about and sorting those survivors who should continue to survive from those who survived with no purpose. It was exhausting work, futile it seemed, but it gave Nadja purpose that no one else could fulfill. In the world before her time, the world of money-men and weapons, one of her state would have been locked away for the things she did. But in this new world, where there existed no commodity except that which was life, she was as good as any peace officer who could place a bullet on the brain.
So a twinkle was good, a glimmer detracted from the dull pallor of dead flesh or the festering beating of a survivor. A glimmer changed the days events and detracted from the everyday slaughter and sadness of this future world.
A twinkle usually meant an item from a world's past; something manufactured by the hand or the machine built by the hand; Something relevant to advancement. Money burned, status was an oral fixation, nothing from the capitalism of the last world had staying power beyond the blast of a nuclear war.
Only things worked from the earth by hand, only things created from some advancement from the nature of man could make it past a blast and provide some physical evidence that indeed a small percentage of the human race added something to their life.
Occasionally it was jewels: those were frowned upon like murderous weapons from the materialistic connotations that befell the mass majority of mankind. Sometimes they were gears or wheels or buttons from some intricate manifestation of a problem solved by something coined 'technology'.
The wheels of men's mind revealed themselves this day, after the sandstorm over the phosphorescent horizon of Neo-Paris. A day that would soon be hard to be forgotten...
let's see if we can get her off the ground and set her up with a pair of wings