:: grounded like a larvae ::

ok, if you read through the other bio and are still interested in this whole thing that i am and we are on this who knows what, then i will try to explain. with a deep breath before the plunge...

my name is daniel elisii. i was born in buck's county, pa, live in bucks county, pa, and may very well die in bucks county pa. not such a bad thing really. that was and is a long time ago and will be a long time to come. the chapters in the book of my life, an omnibus of unbelievably unfantastic unwinding time unspooling into empty, are best left unread by you, for now. trust me. suffice to say that things continue day after day, night after night without much interruption of the regular human flow. i work. i rest. i eat. i sleep.

i read comics. i write comics. i draw comics.

while schooling i learned first hand how the human hands are really just shovels to dig and uproot the wild flowers and how they are conversely used to slap down and flatten the ground over a mound on a soft new grave.

that being said. most of my stories are not about humans. or their hands. i call this place "insect ash" and i write about "bugs" but really i think of the insect as something in between and/or below our reality. under our surface and most of the time out of our eye level. the whole worlds in motion at our elbows or in our air. any creature we think is smaller than our time and not worth our eye. the inconseqential life that is to be looked over and forgotten about. not even worthy of being an invisible friend.

these are the insects who walk among us, life size, human size, as if in dream, not knowing how to act or speak properly. that uppity lower class of creeping crazy with their insides on the ouside. their big black eyes feeling you, making your skinny crawl up the wall. a real hissin', spittin' blood suckin' spiral boned big bodied bugger. maybe the insect ash story will exlain this thought better. /insectash: the story/

i also picked up a lot from and admire the writings of franz kafka. i can't say that i understand all his work or words. but i get this big unconscious kick that really appeals to me. the boom to the brain that wakes you up butleaves you feeling head heavy and ready to fall over. flipping toe to head, down and all around with colors flying by in ribbons and sounds ripping up your ears. and it's a lost, eerie, unworldy feeling of not fitting in the "proper" world of people and their pleasures and their plays.

to me his work captured this middle dreaming that i try to tap into.

middle dreaming. alot of it seems dreamy. whether it's really real or really dreams doesn't matter. it's not about trying to make the two fit together for me. its accepting the dream in the reality and letting it run over you.

so i have gotten around to my stories now. my stories could be called fantasies, i suppose. i prefer to think of them just as more middle dreaming. like the weird ones you have while you are awake. the ones you wish you would wake up from. but these are not my dreams, nor yours. these would be the dreams of the insect.

they are mostly just scenes. not really stories. most don't have a start and most don't have an ending. i think they have fitting conclusions. but not endings.

i think this is all unclear. i don't know why i am trying to explain them really. i don't like to. it's just so many people ask me...

"so what was that about?"

eh, well, it's about a guy who falls apart and is taken away by bugs.

"oh ok. yeah."

that's alright. i honestly don't understand it either. and that's the point. it's not real. it's a drawing of a feeling of a scene inside my mind. i just tune in and accept it. you should try it sometime.

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