Imagine a cartoon character making a decision

with an angel and a devil version of themselves on their shoulder offering them advice

But on the shoulders of the angel and devil

are a tiny little angel and devil of their own

as much more angelic or demonic as the spirit on whose shoulders they perch

as those entities are of the earthly idiot they advise

And perhaps, unseeably small upon their shoulders

sit even tinier angelic and demonic versions of themselves

weighing in on the decision with increasingly finer degrees of self-interest or self-sacrifice

the debates carried out at faster and faster speeds

so that all these arguments can be tested and carried out

quickly enough to still be relevant to the problem faced

by the poor schlub with the weight of this metaphor

lurking ghostly upon their shoulders.

I leave home for dance class. With a book in my bag that needs to go back to the central library. I take a bus to Capitol Hill, where class is. And go directly into the new subway station, where I catch the train seconds before it takes off. Two stops later I’m deep in downtown, two blocks from the library. Book drop’s right by the door. Mission accomplished.

One bathroom break later, I’m on my way back to the subway. I should be back in Capitol Hill right on time to make it to class. It’s only a few blocks from the station, after all.

As I wait for the train, a busker on the platform above the tunnel level fills the place with the haunting theme of “Bolero” on a French horn.

I’m really liking this upgrade to Seattle’s public transit system a lot.

This morning, I got up and pushed the giant stone labeled “Decrypting Rita” another few inches up the mountain. The Sisyphean labor of this book is almost complete. My reward? I get to get back to work on the next one settling into that comfortable rhythm of spending an hour or three on it most days.

And I just find myself asking: why? Why do I do this?

Well, it’s what I do. I draw. I construct frameworks to give my continued drawing meaning, one way or another. Commissions. Image series. Stories. And I collect these drawings in larger chunks, put them into physical form, and spread them throughout the world as far as I can.

Hoping to touch someone. Hoping to be remembered.

Hoping to be an alert on someone’s phone long after I’ve died, reminding them that tomorrow is my birthday, because my work said something important to them.

(Yesterday was George Herriman’s birthday. Tomorrow is Walt Kelly’s.)

Everything seemed meaningless for years after my father died. And now it feels meaningless again, a year after my mother died. Why do I bother going on? Why do I continue to breathe?

And that’s really all I have. I draw. And I try to turn my drawings into something that the world will remember after I’m gone.

Remember me.