"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Heaven's Time-Gate Disclaimer

On the weekend of my twelfth birthday, the fall of 1995, my older nephew and future brother-in-arms brought over to my house a newly released Super Nintendo game bearing the runic “Squaresoft” logo on it. We played (him on controls and I as modest wing-man) through as much of it as we could in a night and a day and even at one point called the infamous 1-900 hotline which Nintendo had originally set up for fools who bore children in the early 1980’s that would grow up to be incorrigibly compelled to finish red herring games like Simon’s Quest. On the day of my birthday celebration, with the monetary rewards of said celebration in hand, I went out and summarily purchased my own copy of Chrono Trigger.

Chrono Trigger is a game that began seeping into my roots when they were at their most tender and porous. I have been playing it since what has now been passed off in a rapidly evolving gaming society as an age of yore, a time for me that is well differentiated from the salient where video games eventually became acknowledged as an acceptable pastime (i.e., monstrously profitable), a stark contrast to the cultural viewpoint which had been typically expressed about them during my youth. However, even with the current state of the Internet, in allowing the recursive spawning of obsessive nostalgia, I’ve never permitted influence on what I will always consider to be the monumental memories of a distinctly singular era by seeking signs of it’s watermark in an anonymous, fanatic-riddled digital culture with the hopes of seeing myself reflected.

Unspoiled, Chrono Trigger is to me, by the nostalgic social ruminations that, though it certainly does for others, could never supplant what it’s artists had originally given me with some manner of vicarious acceptance from any sort of elitist “gaminng OGs.” At it’s very least, the game’s art and story inspired me in my early teenage years to design and write characters for a sequel that I had wished for, retrospectively something I see as a fit of juvenile revelry; at it’s best it did eventually inspire me to continue sketching and writing for their own sake, with it’s music, to this day, recollecting events in the game which can instantly retrieve the most concealed emotions through the bitter depths of my adulthood and place me in the state of mind were black and white, the positive and the negative are more than easily discernible and passion becomes identifiable, with Yasunori Mitsuda’s compositions in general providing possibly my most subconscious inspiration for the pursuing of musicianship. Everyone has an icon like this, aware of it or not, in their lives; their own “Rosebud.”

This is the tribute I proffer to my personal icon and what it has given me, though there is no single being at length I can feel worthy to give back to, save for the consciously constructed identity which I’ve given it since then and the internal respect which it all requires to make these statements have a semblance of truth to me. Trying to push the line from what could be perceived as ill-conceived, low-art fan-fiction towards an honest outlet for my most competent skill in devising a consistently creative dramatization of characters from what has always made the decision of what my “favorite video game” is far easier than it could have been besides, this is my long coming, self-reflective foray into visual art; attempting to take something that has always inspired me and make it my own, the way musicians do; although music, by it’s more ethereal nature allows for a far more natural and convincing camouflage… and something that I am far less acclimated to.

Thus for my sake and your own do I provide this disclaimer: I contend that I have more to express, and thus more to lose, by conceiving this entire project than you do by reading it, and I hold that if one makes it this far in these paragraphs that my claim is true. For the bunched panties that might happen to be wrenching one’s fanboy ‘net-crotch after reading what follows, rest assured, dear fellow, that none of your favorite characters were harmed in the making of these strips; I argue that I will always care for them far more deeply than you ever were able.

From the shore of another world,


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