Hello,

You probably do not know who I am but I am your son. You may think to yourself “I don’t remember being pregnant” but the truth is that the DNA in our blood accurately indicates that this is so. Twenty years ago you gave birth to me while you were in a drug induced coma at a military facility in Monroe County, Ohio. I did not believe it either when I first learned of or my origins. Apparently you were kidnapped by an obscure sub-section of U.S. military research. No trace of information about it in public or secret record exists.

You were targeted by the organization specifically for your lifestyle as a waitress living in New York City with little or no direct contact with friends or family. As quickly as you were extracted from that life you were then just as easily slipped back in just in time for Thanksgiving. Your rental bills were mysteriously paid and the landlord who pays little attention to his tenants and prays that it would always be so was only concerned that checks are slipped below her door promptly upon the due date. Somehow when you were returned there was no question in your mind about the time or date. You had just quit the job that you had at the diner downtown and were looking for another position somewhere else.

At the age of six months I was left on a doorstep of an orphanage in downtown Detroit. From the accounts I have collected over the years I was wrapped in a partially bloodied sheet and newspapers from the daily post a several months prior to my appearance. Heavily baby powdered. When I was registered with a birth certificate and the clerk asked for a name the headmaster of the orphanage had not thought much about it. On the the clerks desk was a copy of a Caspar the friendly Ghost comic and next to it a small framed portrait of Alexander Hamilton. The headmaster thought of the powdered look I had been presented to him in but favored the publishers name over the character. He also liked the idea that when I would eventually sign my initials that they would be HH and this reminded him of both the look of a castle and a three quarter view of a bed. Both images were comforting to him in view of my unknown origins. Perhaps he also believed that this would provide me with comfort as well.

At the age of five some men in sear sucker suits appeared at the orphanage. They wore mirror sunglasses and and spoke with thick southern accents. As they approached the office of the headmaster one of them broke off from the group and walked towards me where I was sitting. I was browsing through a book. Fuzzy wuzzy wuzza bear. “Hey there sonny” he said as he knelt down before me with his wide smile. I could smell a light touch of aftershave as the air was pressed out of his shirt from the crouching action and see my self in each lens. This kept me entranced to the point where I only regained my hearing at the third try inquiry of “what you reading there boy?” I looked down at the book and then back at him and remained speechless.

Apparently reality is not enough for anyone.

They are not art. Others are free to call them. For me this is deeper, stronger then the mere label. Despite being an object they are not a commodity. Due to many factors in the arch a stack of them exist. Occasionally they are given as gifts to various figures. Their scale places them in a rather intimate setting that is not accommodating to the spectacle.

Sometimes everything is a distraction for them. Other times the act is very focused and stimulating. Like navigating around a tree as it grows over time. It is the layer of the organic within each of us that required investigating. I am not sure what happens with them in the frames. It is a slim space. Plucked.

Multitudes of emotions come out in the act of creation. Or not. Sometimes it folds. These become like chestnuts. Not like evolution though. Those are definitely buds. The rest is time. A pizza clock with the hour hand eating only the pepperoni. One of many interpretations.

www.continent-virtual.org

Corps Urbain at Gare de Congress. Brussels, Belgium. Collaboration decrepticon/Boris Edelstein.

> We were standing on a line for the Israel Film Festival. Even here in Nw
> York on Broadway and 54th Street
> they managed to have a sort of Balagan. What time the ticket boot opens etc.
> Nobody knew. Whatever.
> We all stood on line, all Hebrew speakers, Hungarian/Hebrew speakers, all
> sorts. All fed up.
> One “Californian” woman however, was extremely obnoxious. She was what we
> used to call “amcha”.
> And when a black woman attendant came around trying to explain that the
> ticket booth could not be opened
> yet because the concession people did not get there yet, this woman started
> to say, “well, there she is
> a black like the President elect and this is the way the country will be run
> ……etc …etc.
> Well. Dad took off on her like you know he can.
> I thought there would be violence.
> Whatever this woman uttered, dad would holler: I don’t want to hear talk
> like that!
> It was quite a scene.
> It was beautiful.
> So that’s it.
> I was so proud.
>
> Love,
>
> Mom

Dear All,

The Dutch vinly specialist label Tonefloat has relased the debut album containing the collaborative efforts of Dirk Serries and kptmichigan. The album is pressed on juicy 180g vinyl and comes in a dot varnished gatefold sleeve with beautiful drawings by Ilan Katin.

The music features Serries trademark vintage guitar drones with kptmichigan adding treated harmonium and field recordings. Here is a preview

To order please click on the image below:

Once the limited run of 500 copies is sold out MirrorWorldMusic willl exclusively offer the 320 kbit hi-res download version.

Created during the 24 hour comics marathon, Berlin 2008 edition. Click image to view most of the 22 pages.