In 2009, I bought a community land trust home with my partner. A local housing nonprofit had moved and renovated two 1920s Craftsman bungalows from a future affordable housing site into a nearby low-income neighborhood.

A few years later, that same nonprofit hired me to carry out a community livability survey in my neighborhood. I went door to door, asking questions about neighbor relationships, transportation access, lighting, safety, and more. Half the doors never opened, but the other half led me into conversations that went far beyond the questionnaire. Those moments became a window into the lives of the people around me. They built empathy, deepened my compassion, and filled my heart in ways I never imagined. Over the next ten years, they hired me two more times to do the survey.

Around 2015, a dear friend, Kriste, invited me into a project she was building: The Big Listen. On selected Saturdays, we picked a different neighborhood in Corvallis, Oregon, and knocked on doors, asking people what they loved about where they lived and what they wished could change, if anything. We told them we’d gather their stories and share them on a website, then handed them a card with the address.

One day, I walked up to a house that desperately needed a paint job, I watched my footing as I navigated a rotting ramp to the door and knocked. An older woman answered. She seemed a little lost at first, but she lit up at the chance to talk. I noticed food on her face and stains on her shirt, but when I asked about her garden, she became more present. The garden was overgrown, but you could tell it had once been tended with love.

She told me her children had moved away. She had a son in Portland who came down sometimes to mow the lawn. She wished she could still work in the garden, but her body didn’t move like it used to. Still, she came alive as she pointed out her favorite plants, naming them and telling me when they blooms would be at their peak.

When she closed the door, I walked away with a deep sadness, knowing she was going to be alone again. I wondered how long it would be before someone knocked again.

Around that same time, I had just started working at the housing nonprofit that made my own homeownership possible. The organization was part of a national network, NeighborWorks America, and we also had an active Habitat for Humanity serving our county.

I began to imagine a project. What if we chose a neighborhood and asked residents to nominate someone who could use a little help? Maybe they were overwhelmed by deferred maintenance. Maybe the house needed paint, the fence needed repair, the garden needed tending.

The housing organizations could team up, fundraise for supplies, recruit volunteers and neighbors could join in too. New connections could form. Small acts of care could ripple outward into something beautiful. One household could get a moment of relief, a reset from the weight of it all and everyone would benefit, seeing the rewards of their efforts as they admired a blooming garden on their neighborhood walks.

I made the pitch and liability concerns stopped it in its tracks.

When I started making comics, I did it because I wanted to tell the stories from my twenty years of community building. I had gotten caught in a conflict, and my silence left space for others to tell stories about me that weren’t mine.

As I discovered illustration as a language, I realized something else: I could draw the projects I still wanted to bring to life, the ones like this - that felt too big, too blocked, too tangled to work some community building magic.

On a perfect-weather day, I packed my bags and I started my three-hour roadtrip from Corvallis to Astoria. Months earlier, a friend and I brainstormed a plan to meet up for Fisher Poets, an annual celebration of the commercial fishing industry in poetry, prose, and song, and we wisely booked our lodging early.

I met my dear friend at the Bowline, a hotel repurposed from a historic 100-year-old industrial fish processing plant and sardine cannery. We dropped off our bags and set off on foot to meet some friends at Fort George Brewery, one of the many venues for Fisher Poets events and home to my favorite beer, Pizza Pals.

The event always occurs during the last weekend in February and begins on Friday. For $20 you get a button, and that button is your all-access pass to Fisher Poets events. I attended this event for the first time in 2024 and it lit up the anthropologist in me. You can transport yourself into fishing culture through music, storytelling, poetry, workshops, and films - all happening throughout the weekend at several cafes, breweries, wine shops, and theaters, and it’s all within walking distance of downtown Astoria.

The website is hard to navigate. But there you’ll find a long list of entertainers.You can view a schedule of who’s performing when and where, but it’s a lot. Many venues are packed too tight and some have a seating limit. I enjoy wandering aimlessly, finding a place with a seat and discovering an unexpected surprise.

On Saturday, after a nap, my friend texted me that she found some seats at Xanadu, a queer-owned bar and grill and prized venue for Fisher Poets events. She said the Skamokawa Swamp Opera was setting up. I rushed over and secured the saved seat next to her. I wasn’t sure what to expect from a Swamp Opera, but I knew I would like whatever it was. The animated four-member eclectic folk band did not disappoint. They announced they were playing a Mary Garvey song “Oystershell Road” that was based on an interview with the son of a woman from Nemah, on Willapa Bay. It was particularly haunting to hear, having just received news of the Iran bombing, a song about World War II, when the town was emptied of men, leaving the women to take over the primary business of the bay - oyster farming. I therapy cried. After the song we all celebrated Mary Garvey, an older woman, sitting in the front row. I therapy cried again. There is something about shining a light on wise women, often hidden by cultural invisibility, that I live for. It feels subversive, it feels needed.

Another song was written by the most animated band member, Wren Hendriks, a fiery piece about her mother, the first female boat captain in Los Angeles Bay. She looked across the room and pointed to her mother in the crowd. And then began singing and you were instantly taken on the water with her and her mother. I therapy cried again.

I laughed so hard during another Mary Garvey song “Cannery Shed” a song about young love, a little naughty and very catchy.

On Saturday they released the rules of the annual Umpteenth Annual On-Site Poetry Contest.

• Write from the perspective of a common piece of commercial fishing equipment at the point it’s about to fail.

• Must be performed in 30 seconds or fewer.

• Needn’t rhyme.

• Must include sensory description, implied or explicit. (sight, smell, hearing, taste, touch)

Just as I did the last time I attended Fisher Poets in 2024, I wrote a poem. But neither time was I able to show up to the late-night contest to deliver it to an audience. This year I turned the poem into a two-track comic mini-zine for my Yearlong Comic Intensive Course with the Sequential Artist Workshop.

Now that I am off the socials, you can find these gems available for free at some of my favorite local places in Corvallis: the Kinetic Bagel Institute, the Naked Crepe or the Interzone Cafe.

Thanks for being my audience this year!

Let’s connect. Tell me about a live performance experience where you were so moved.

Audible to Libro.FM, my first move, was easy. Same price, local impact. I lost access to the books I’d already bought and accepted the hit. Supporting independent bookstores and sticking it to Bezos matters to me. Easy win.

Just say no to Amazon. I never subscribed to Amazon Prime. I’ve never been able to stomach the billionaire super-yacht greed, sitting on piles of massive-unimaginable wealth, while workers fight to survive on crumbs. Yet, I justified benefitting from the supposed “affordable” convenience machine through my sister’s account. I had to face I added my pennies to the pile. I stopped.

Meta Breaks. Last year, I deactivated Instagram and Facebook for a month. At first, my thumbs ached for an escape scroll, but a more mindful self - wisely set up IOS screentime locks to block and wake me up. Over time, the impulse weakened. In the quiet, undistracted by a constant firehose of delights and terrors, I worked. I digitized my watercolor comics into printable mini-zines. I had time and energy to build community face to face and I started this Substack to share the long-form stories behind my art.

But…

I went back because I wanted that bigger audience to see all the new work. Sharing felt good. I connected. I laughed. I cried. I discovered beauty and heartbreak. But honestly - mostly, I disappeared into the scroll. I lost hours and I remember almost none of it. I don’t even remember it, but that tricky algorithm got me to buy shoes from China. The platforms fed my addictive brain and drained the creative fire in my belly. That cost is too high.

And Google- just try and get out. I tried to loosen Google’s grip too. I wasn’t prepared to realize how deep Google had me in there tech-sphere, Drive, Docs, Keep, Photos, Calendar and of course, Gmail. I spent days downloading my photos to an external drive, and slowly deleting them from Google. They don’t want you to exit easily. I turned off automatic backups. I cleaned out my Google Drive, deleted unused accounts, purged emails going back to 2004. I opened a Proton Mail account for privacy and fewer trackers. Still, disentangling isn’t simple. It takes constant effort not to slip back in, but today I am 75% less in than I was a year ago. That feels like a win.

A week ago, I deactivated Instagram and Facebook again and I could feel my creative self have the space to reawaken.

Deactivating your account just hides your account from the Meta-sphere and blocks your account access, until you decide to reactivate. You can still engage with Messenger under deactivation. Deleting removes your account, content, and Messenger access and conversations. It’s gone forever.

Over twenty years, I’ve deleted accounts so frequently that when I start a new one to grow an audience to share art, friends assume I have been hacked. Letting go of that following isn’t easy. But these platforms ration visibility unless you pay to boost, which I won’t. And if I’m honest, chasing hearts bruises my ego more than it feeds my muse.

So I’m stepping away.

My work can be found at wrustynib.com whether that directs you to substack or a site like otherpeoplespixels where radicals make space to host artist pages.

Thank you for the conversations, the encouragement, the shared humanity. I hope I see you in real life, maybe at Helix Training or Squirrels. Or you can catch me virtually, Fridays at the free We Believe In Comics workshops. And if not there, maybe you’ll find one of my zines in a coffee shop somewhere and send me a note. I would love that.

After a pretty rocky ninth year of life, my mom rekindled love with a teenage sweetheart.
He looked just like Chachi Arcola from Happy Days.
He wore polo shirts and jean shorts.
A handsome Italian who talked fast, a little shorter than average, and always quick to say,
“Dynamite comes in small packages.”

I was not thrilled at first.
My main concern was Thursday pizza night at Luigi’s.
That was just for me and my mom.
I was worried that might be forgotten.

I do not remember our very first meeting exactly. I spent a lot of my childhood dissociating.
But I remember Frank entering my life like a lightning strike, suddenly brightening everything around me.

He took us to parks and playgrounds after school.
We played catch.
We watched comedy, and no one ever caught the joke before Frank.
He was a “good-time” scout. He knew where the joy was and got there early.

And yes, pizza still happened.
Frank made chicken pizzas, a keto genius ahead of his time.
Frank loved good food. Actually, if Frank loved anything, you knew it.
He lit up. His enthusiasm was contagious.
Whether it was kielbasa, a weather report, high school sports stats, or a joke from a buddy at the factory, he had to share it.

Not long after, our families moved in together.
It was 1990 in Kutztown, Pennsylvania.
My mom, baby sister, and I squeezed into a two bedroom apartment with Frank and his two boys.

It was the golden age of my childhood.

For the first time, I had a full time father figure who wanted to know me.
He showed me how to play softball.
He complained that my room was too messy.
He laughed at my jokes.
He sprayed me with a water bottle to wake me up for school.
He told me I was smart.
I had never heard that before.

Frank was, above all else, a family man.
A dad.
A baby brother of five.
We never missed a family event. Birthdays, holidays, deck builds…
Something was always being celebrated by the Amato clan, and Frank could not wait to be there.

His loyalty was unwavering.
You always knew he would show up the best he could, no matter what.
That changed me.
It shaped who I wanted to be for the people I love.

Frank was a weatherman at heart.
There was no storm he was not prepared for.
He kept a little battery powered Realistic weather radio in the cabinet with the bills.
As soon as a storm rolled in, he pulled it out and extended the antenna, power outage or not.

It always felt like this might be the big one.
Frank would stand at the window, eyes wide, excited to see the next lightning strike and feel the thunder.
“Oh man, you gotta see this” he would call the kids over.

Living across the country from him was hard.
I could not wait to tell him about my adventures.
He was always amazed.
Summiting a peak. Walking the streets of Seattle.
“No way, Bec,” he would say.
“You have done such incredible things with your life. I am so proud of you.” - “Freaking-A”

When my mom and Frank divorced, I was 23.
We talked a lot on the phone during that time.
One day, he gently interrupted our conversation and said,
“Bec, no matter what happens between me and your mom, you will always be my family.”

Anyone who knew Frank knew that is who he was.
His love did not discriminate.
It was generous and unconditional.
But hearing it out loud brought me to tears then, and it still does.

I could not wait to introduce my children to Frank.
I wanted them to feel his brightness.
And they did.
Frank was the kind of guy who could spend a day touring a crayon factory and still have reckless enthusiasm to race down a ridiculous slide with his grandkids.

One of my favorite memories is a late night on his back porch, just joking about sherbet.
Sounding it out, playing with timing.
Laughing so hard my face hurt.
His smile. His full belly laugh.
It was contagious.
It was pure love.

I have long known that the biggest turning point in my life was the day Frank walked into it.
I was a child who felt like a burden.
My biological father left early on, and I was hungry for love.
Frank leaned in without hesitation.

He was curious.
Even when we disagreed about politics or religion, he wanted to understand where I was coming from.
We almost always found common ground, usually with laughter.

They say you can see how worthy you are by the way someone who loves you looks at you.
Frank showed me my worth from the day I met him until the last time I saw him. It is so powerful to experience - it never leaves you.

When I learned Frank had cancer, I bought a Realistic weather radio.
Three thousand miles away, it was my way of feeling closer to him.

In the early morning of January 16, Frank left this world peacefully, surrounded by love.

We will feel his presence when storms gather.
We will see his joy in every crack of lightning.
And we will carry his loyalty, his laughter, and his love forward.

Substack! It’s been a while. I have so much I want to share here on the Wrusty Nib but I haven’t finished a comic, zine, or piece of creative writing since August. I did however finish an illustration for Ten Rivers Food Web that I am particularly proud of.

See, a little over a year ago, I was dreaming of a career shift, a shift away from the information sector and the lonely, work-from-home endless emailing work.

My dream job? I thought I wanted to be a full-time artist: spending half my time in a pottery studio slapping unusual handles on hand-carved jug mugs, and the other half watercoloring wild and hungry nudes or self-publishing autobiographical zines that elevate and illuminate working-class lives with dignity and absurdist humor.

The problem is that being a full-time artist also means being a salesperson, maintaining a website, spending long hours sitting at art fairs (hopefully) charming people into supporting you. It turns out, the latter part isn't for me, at least not right now.

Early last year, I was balancing emailing and art-making with gym time. I had started taking myself on dates to the gym, putting my favorite jams into an evolving workout playlist and tuning out the world. It was just me, my music, and the weights. It was a happy place. I thought: if I have to financially supplement my creative aspirations, how do I want to spend that time?

Me? I want to be in a gym.

I searched job listings to see if any gyms were hiring desk staff. They weren’t—but Timberhill Athletic Club was looking for personal trainers.

Last January I started studying for a NASM Personal Training Certification, which I completed in June. I followed that with a Corrective Exercise Specialization and a Nutrition Coach Certification. In August, I began teaching strength and conditioning classes at Timberhill Athletic Club, and in September I took a coaching and personal training job with Helix Training, a small functional strength and conditioning gym. I landed on the other side and in the right place. It has taken a lot of work, and my art has been on the back burner - but this is temporary.

What creative energy I have, has been saved for a year-long Comic Certificate Program I’m working through with the Sequential Artist Workshop. I started the program in September, and it has been a full-on comic-immersive experience. I’m learning the foundations of comic-making: history, drawing, character design, lettering, depth, detail, and so much more. Below, I’m sharing a six-panel teaser from a comic about a post-apocalyptic waterworld where AI controls the billionaires, and the billionaires encapsulate the remaining people on land as workers and breeders. Please let me know if you want more of this!

I’m hoping to settle into my coaching routine a bit more and find better balance with my creative work. I will start working on the 2026 Groundhog card this week, and I have a few zine classes scheduled for spring and summer. You should be seeing more comics and musings from me soon.

Thanks, as always, for your encouragement, engagement, and support. Hello 2026. We got each other and that’s a lot.

Gas and dust.

A little over a month ago I decided to commit to an anti-inflammatory diet in order to address chronic pain in my joints. Arthritis at 44. My fingers, toes, knees, and elbow howling to the moon, grieving the “one that got away” — youth. I drown away their sorrows with topical NSAIDs and tuck them into bed. This was not a sustainable option for a condition that was seemingly worsening. Root causes? Why am I so inflamed, exactly?

The anti-inflammatory diet limits food choices to those foods that reduce inflammation. There is no one perfect anti-inflammatory diet for all, but the universal list of major contributors to inflammation includes: Red meat, processed meats (deli meats, salami, bacon), commercially produced baked goods, gluten, deep-fried foods, foods/drinks high in added sugars, trans fats. Many anti-inflammatory diets add soy, eggs, dairy, and coffee to the list, especially during an introductory elimination phase for 21 to 30 days. The idea is you eliminate all inflammatory foods for a period. Your body heals and then you add them back in to find YOUR problem foods. I started the restrictive phase about a month ago and within 7 days I started to feel 60% less inflamed, but I developed a growing sadness in my heart. The loss of my morning coffee ritual left me with headaches and even more painful heartaches.

I stopped the diet prematurely due to a planned backpacking trip. I knew I couldn’t pull it off without my morning elixir, granola, or Mountain House chicken and rice — all top performers in the inflammation ring of fire. I made it through the first backpacking trip in 2 years, 30 miles in the Olympic Peninsula.
I was high on life coming off the trail, but my knees blew up. Swollen, stiff. I could barely get out of the car when we arrived at our cabin. Arthritis at 44. When I got back home I decided to commit to the anti-inflammatory diet and in just a few days, depression hit me like a sneaker wave. I was underwater.

Gas and dust.

I started taking bupropion (Wellbutrin) almost 3 years ago. My professional job was going through a merger, life pulsing through the blades of a global pandemic, and wildfires hit so close to home. It was during the 12-day stretch when the smoke blocked the sun that I found myself choking on darkness and blindly walking to where the sidewalk ends, earth crumbling into space below. I fell off the edge into a swell of hopelessness. Onboarding bupropion felt like I caught a speed train, gripped only by my fingers. It almost killed me.

After three days, when I could hold on no longer, I fell, and to my surprise it was safer ground. It all was still a little ashy but I could get out of bed. I could feel the warmth of a hug.

And for a few years, I was okay with the antidepressant, so okay that at some point early this year (2025) I decided I could tackle this being-alive stuff without the hypomania-producing pharmaceutical assist. And for the last few months, before giving up my dark roast ritual, I was all good. All good.

Gas and dust.

“Hello?”
“Where am I?”
I rub my eyes
“Is that you…DEPRESSION?”

I spun around slowly, my arms rising just enough to feel the familiar weighted veil of melancholy.

RECOIL. I felt my body send an alert message.

RECOIL. I deactivated my Facebook. I deactivated my Instagram. I deleted the apps from my phone and iPad.

RECOIL. I left a political chat group on Signal.

Like a pill bug, lesser known as a “butchy boy,” I transformed from a cellar crawler to a ball. I made a home in a protective exoskeleton and started hanging up photos of the people I love.

A text message from a friend came through: “Did you leave the Signal chat?”

Oh shit, I didn’t know that anyone would see that. I reached out to two good friends on the chat, and I came clean about my “bad brains,” I scheduled walks.

At 44, and with 3 years of medicated okay-ness, I was a little rusty at recognizing the knock on the door. Most people who have survived a life of living with depression have a toolbox, delicately crafted with the help of friends, self-help books, motivational podcasts, late nights deep diving Reddit thread finds.

I told a couple of my closest people. I made a doctor’s appointment. I texted my therapist and asked if I could get back on her schedule.

My sister called me out of the blue. She sensed I needed it.

Gas and dust.

Andrea Gibson died on July 14th, and on July 16th I started talk therapy again. I talked about the depression, about the suicidal ideations. With the most sincere care, my therapist held space for me, and I felt a lightness. I felt relief. I felt safe. I told her how my suicidal ideation used to come in waves so powerful and so constant, but after watching two comedians — Gary Gulman, a king of grammar jokes, open up on stage during his Great Depresh Tour and Frank King joke about depression and chronic suicidal ideations during a recorded TED Talk — my thoughts for the first time evaporated with each big belly laugh. Tears rained down my face. I laughed so hard I watered the quieter parts of me, thirsty for attention. In the therapeutic flood of tears, weight lifted when those two jokesters gave visibility to my dirty secret. The shame washed away. Without shame, my depression and dark thoughts have little to no power. They can exist, like gas and dust, but the shackles lose their form. As I was about to log off, my therapist suggested I look into Andrea Gibson’s writing because she too gives visibility to the darkness. I remembered being delighted by her short videos and made a note to look for books at the library.

That night I received an unexpected text:
“They are telling you blend in, like you’ve never seen how a blender works, like they think you’ve never seen the mess from the blade.” — Andrea Gibson.
A message from a friend, a message from the universe. A message I felt in every fiber of my being. A gentle reminder I am seen and loved.

A week later, a newsletter landed in my inbox from a dear friend and favorite writer, and at the end was a link to a video of Andrea Gibson reading Every Time I Said I Wanted to Die. One click transported me to the most beautiful cry I may have ever had, and I watched it again and again, each wash a little deeper — a shower of the most unexpected care.

Gas and dust.

I started a weekly practice of grinding spices in a mortar and pestle as the sun rises. Cinnamon, cardamom, clove, star anise, coriander, black pepper. An alchemist. On low, I warm a pan and pour in the freshly crushed powders. A self-healer. I make circles with the wooden spoon through the spices. I take in the aroma, like a blast of medicinal love. So light, I lift off the ground for just a second. With ancestral brauchers behind me, I pour the spices into a pot and boil them. The flavored steam dances in the air and around me. I add black tea and steep. Oh, I miss coffee, but not in a hopeless way. I miss it like a favorite song I played out. I don’t need to listen to it anymore, but it’s still my first choice, on high, at a karaoke bar.

Today I stumbled onto the lyrics from a song Andrea Gibson wrote to their wife, and delivered in music by Chris Pureka, in the moments before they passed. Almost too beautiful to read, I was struck by the line: “Every good poem is like heaven and hell fighting.” We are all good poems living out our poetry, holding space for our pieces, and taking shots in the dark.

The chai tea, the therapy sessions, the long walks and talks with friends, the visits from a ghost, Andrea Gibson… I am reminded again that we are strong enough to carry this mix of joy and grief and that we are never carrying it alone. Sure it slows us down from time to time, but it's not a burden. It’s a gateway, a boarding call to connection, observation, and an expansive space adventure.

1. Big Storage grabbing your value, advertising it back to you - as their own.

   On my way to dropping off my car for service, I noticed a U-Haul ad, pasted on a high wall of their storage facility, a picture of friends helping someone move, text over: U-Haul, friends help free.
   
   Uh bruh, those are my friends.

2. The late-stage shuttle for crumbs

   Sitting shotgun on a shuttle ride home, I ask the 50–60-something driver about the paid gig. “So tell me, do you like shuttling for the car service company?” The driver tells me they love it and originally they had 3 shifts, but their co-worker, a college student, needed to pick up more shifts to pay for books. They gave a shift to the coworker temporarily and unfortunately it has proven hard to get back. It’s a bummer because they are a diabetic and pay $800/month for health insurance to cover their life saving medication and they are scared they can’t handle the pinch much longer.

   

3. Mandated Misery

   I could write a book about the life of modern-day factory, logistics, and material handler workers, right here in the United States, behind the walls of the lifeless factories and warehouses that exist where we once had acres and acres of farms.

   I have never had a factory job and honestly, I may have spent my entire life figuring out how to not get caught in one—but whenever I hear a family member give me insight to the dark-twisted, inhumane world—often deep inside warehouses, natural light maybe, questionable aeration—the repetitive line work, the 3rd shift trap, mandatory overtime, points/marks, the automated Human Resources help line… HOW IS THIS REAL???? I honestly thought things changed like 100 years ago???? A family member told me recently that their factory was slammed with work and they were only allowing folks off 1 day every 12 days, as they were legally allowed to mandate.
   

4. Shoe company “selling me” their donation? I got a text ad the other day from a shoe company: use code “1234” and we will donate 10% of your shoe purchase to our designated beneficiary. Hmmm, if you wanna donate—just donate. Don’t pretend that there is some value in it for me.

   Uh, you get the glory, you get the write-off.

The creator, Brit, would like to get to the point where the worst part of making a mistake is just the mistake itself. I would dare to say - making the mistake - could very likely and often is (for me) the best part.

Perfectionism shaped me early on. Those who know me - would be like really? You?
My feral hair, ripped jeans and perma-floordrobe might lead one to think I don’t have any standards at all; and yet - I grew up with my very special own brew of perfectionism. A sort of meticulous torture you keep to yourself, in deep places and shadowed by the dark of the night.

Today as I study for a Personal Training Certification, deep in note card making, I am reminded of a time in college dormitories, late nineties. Kutztown, PA. I was terrified to have actually made it to college, I felt like I accidentally accessed some working-class cheat code, but how the hell was I going to pull it off? How long before the mysterious THEY figure out I don’t belong in college? Through all the self-doubt I managed to feed a fire so strong - to not only get through college - but to excel while doing so. This meant studying every day, and pretty much every night. While my roommate left the dorm with a crew of gal-pals, I cracked open another pack of Office Max notecards.

I made notecards for everything. Things that were probably common knowledge to most, I still made a notecard. And - I would remake any notecard with a slight imperfection. I would say most nights I got into a great groove. A perfect penmanship machine - ripping out notecard after notecard.

And sometimes, late in the night - I would slip up. I would get caught in a downward spiral. And I would look back at finished cards with more critical eyes. NOTHING was good enough. I would start re-making notecards that originally passed the perfection test. It got worse and worse until I was a sloppy puddle on the floor.

One night, in deep desperation, a voice called to me from deep inside. “What if messy notecards were okay?” “What if we intentionally made some messy cards - wouldn’t that be fun?” A part of me, even if a quiet one, knew to speak up to catch the attention of my slowly brewing inner wild rebellion.

I listened, scribbled up some notecards and then scribbled a poem about my new imperfect process before falling asleep.

Perfectionism, it bubbles up from time to time but I fight it like I fight capitalism, the patriarchy and aprons. If I am not paying attention I can get tangled in its grips AND I may never figure out why. I know at my core -I don’t even like the aesthetic of perfection. The smooth and shiny sheen of AI makes me nauseous. I have always preferred crooked wiggly lines, and just love when color bleeds in and out of said lines. I enjoy my music noisy, scratchy and then sweet and clean when you don’t expect it. It wasn’t long ago that I tried (and failed) making oil-stained clothing cool.

Subscribe now

And even considering me — messy me — I change my mind, and my preferences all the damn time. Figuring this — this — LIFE THING — out, perfecting it even? Ha! Not for me, bruh. And mistakes? I am here to make them. Sometimes I learn something new, and sometimes I get skunked. But most of the time - I am enjoying the sloppiness of being perfectly human.

Jill Sobule—a bright star, a supernova—to me. I'm so glad I still hold the light she left with me while she exploded into and through my youth.

I grew up, like many, not feeling like there was a place for me. I didn’t see the world the way others around me did—the way the TV did, or the way my friends and family did. I knew I was different, and if I managed to forget, I was reminded daily with subtle and not-so-subtle comments like, “You

’re weird,” “Well, you’re different,” and lots of “I never thought of it that way,” followed by head scratching.

I gravitated toward weirdness, absurdities, and unusual encounters—because, for a moment, I felt seen. I felt part of something less visible, but still something.

Still not quite settled into my blooming queerness—still questioning—I found Jill Sobule. I’m not sure what came first: her “Supermodel” hit or “I Kissed a Girl.” I didn’t relate to “Supermodel.” Supermodeling wasn’t in the cards for me—even as a joke.

But “I Kissed a Girl” did something for me. I bought her self-titled album and played it so much that my younger sister and I still know all the words to every song, even the deep cuts like “Resistance Song” and “Vrbanja Bridge.” My sister, Kelli, was only eight years old.

A known weirdo and somewhat of a lone wolf, I struggled to find people who wanted to do things with me, so I often I might venture out alone. Like after work, heading to the King Coffee shop to play chess with the retired old dudes. I wasn’t good, and although I got a little better, I think I just liked that, for a moment, it felt like I was being fathered.

One day, the afternoon slipped into evening and a band started setting up. It was a Jill Sobule cover band. They jazzed everything up a bit, but they covered all her songs, word for word. And I was caught in a blissful moment. What a treat—her gas and dust blending through time, space, and cover band to find me. Thank you, friend.

Through the years, there's always a good chance that Jill finds her way into long visits with my sister. So many memories of Kelli and me dancing in bedrooms and kitchens.

“Margaret,” I would belt out.
“She missed the reunion,” Kelli would follow—
As we laughed, danced, cooked, and cleaned together.

About a year ago, I was delightfully surprised to learn that Chumbawamba, popularized by their hit song Tubthumping (I get knocked down, and I get up again) was actually an anarcho-punk band started in the early 80s!?! A friend referenced a line from a Bob Dylan documentary Don’t Look Back (1967) “Give an anarchist a cigarette” he said, which led me to their 1994 album Anarchy. I fell in love and started digging deeper. They sang, sometimes with humor and always with heart, about workplace hierarchy and the class struggle - my people.

Then, just a few weeks ago, right before I deactivated my account on the gram, @fuchsia.corv shared a flyer: Moff Whalley, founding member of Chumbawamba, in Corvallis on a book/music tour. This past Monday, despite being too tired and a little gretsy (~PA dutch equivalent word for hangry) - I went to a favorite local spot for coffee and music, the Interzone, to catch the event.

I could see Boff sitting alone through the sunsetting glare on the windows. He was writing, maybe reading. The Interzone seemed eerily empty at first, until I realized they moved all the chairs to the east side of the cafe for the event. And there were only a few seats left in the front row.

Boff spoke of his book But Life Isnt’ Like That, is IT? and shared a story about finding a box of pinned moths documenting the quick adaptation and evolution of the Creamy Peppered Moth. He shared observations about the violence of pinned moths, and the nature of being unpin-downable.

Growing up Mormon in Burnley, Boff struggled relating to the religious culture around him, and then one day he saw the Welfare State International colorfully celebrating in public around the town. This radical theater troop took performance art out of the theater and into the streets for the working class people.

I don’t know if I ever told you that my most favorite thing in the whole wide world is parading - arts - music - dance - in the streets. In the night, in the rain. Please, give me a second line to hop behind anytime - any day. I LIGHT up. Sometimes the joyfulness of the experience is almost too bright to hold - you have to keep moving, dancing, singing. Hearing about the Welfare State International connected to my deep hunger to freely dance amongst artistic expression celebrated in the streets, in community. Boff shared how it was a moment that changed his life. To him it felt like the anti-church - and he saw himself in their presence.

Then one day - while at home with his father - while watching TV the Sex Pistols were interviewed. He had never seen people dress like that, punks. The next day in school - everyone was talking about it. A few days later hairstyles changed and it became easier to find his people. He reflected on these seeming small moments in life that have such a big impact on the direction your life follows. I became even more hungry for parades.

Then he started playing the Chumbawamba song “I Wish That They’d Sack Me” and some of the crowd sang along. I have always been entranced by old Pete Seeger-y folk tracks - thinking of time so horrible - it brings artists out to the streets and the people singing in resistance together. There is something too big for words about singing with friends, singing with strangers -even.

This past October, Luke Wallace opened for Carsie Blanton at the Rose Theater in Portland. I was unfamiliar with the opener, but he opened strong with sparkly-eyes and a huge open heart. He turned on the most beautiful sound of resistance and like a conductor he got the entire theater howling and singing along with him. “I want it louder” he sang. “Turn it up” we sang back. “We got the power” and “Ain’t the revolution beautiful?” I cried, uncontrollably for a bit. I looked at the dear friend sitting next to me - with tearful eyes. “I guess I just really really really needed this” and I cried more. The tears flowed into the chorus like waves, we were all riding together. I get chills right now thinking about how powerful we are - resisting together.

Boff shared more stories, more songs. He seemed a little surprised by how eager the crowd was to sing along. We sang a few more songs in-between storytelling. He

closed with “Just Our Voices, That’s All” and it was a perfect moment, in a small coffee shop.

In times - when it gets so hard - so terrible… when the incessant squeeze from those with power is so tight that it pushes you to choose something different. When it pushes you to create and share, to connect and sing - you almost can’t sing loud enough. The moment has arrived.

See you in the streets.

First off, I launched a website. A year wresting with Square Space - and I never found a spark. The platform felt vacant, like I was last one left in the corporate office, the overhead lights flickering, AI passive aggressively lurking. Yuck. A good friend and a fave creative community building mind, Christina, turned me on to Other People’s Pixels, a portfolio website service ran by artists for artists. A simple, affordable and user-friendly space, I dove in. Please give wrustynib.com a visit.

As I started to watch my website galleries grow, I felt a internal nudge to close up meta (Facebook, Instagram). I miss the sweet dopamine hits from a “like” but with any addiction there is a price to pay for that - for me it’s the mental health damage of the message I give the non-message, healed only by time lost mindless scrolling. I would rather be strolling on a long walk lost in story-sharing with a cherished friend. Check out this recent Foment podcast Moving Away from Big Tech to hear a great conversation about experiences and resources for shifting tech platforms, banking institutions, etc.

I have just finished a couple of commissions of animal portraits and although I am currently full, I am open to discussing a future project with you. Let’s chat.

After letting go of a heavy story I have carried with me my entire life - I found a sweet place to recharge and it opened a huge wave of creative energy.

Since then,

1. I have been working my way through a 30 day Watercolor Portrait class, I look forward to this class and the new face every morning. Art is a practice, like meditation, like yoga, that I make time for everyday. Some days I show up strong, some days tired - but I practice. Some days I finish what I set out to do, sometimes I only lay out a sketch and play with colors - but I practice.

2. I had my first handing building class at the Benton Center last week. I am building prototype zine display/holders and pinching ground hogs.

3. I recently stumbled into a creative world, new to me, known as Sequential Artist Workshop (SAW) and their Friday Nights Comic classes. When SAW’s recent promotions found me, a reader with new space for more creativity, I made the leap and grabbed the early bird deal for their 6 month Graphic Novel Development Intensive. It officially starts in June, I can’t wait to see what content I can wrangle into a graphic novel.

4. As I prepare for the graphic novel intensive, I continue to create mini- zines. My printer, out of retirement, is working through aches and pains - but IT IS happening. Eight zines have been self-published and tucked into unexpected corners of my community. With a supply of zines, postcard prints and freshly printed stickers - I am getting ready for future community events I don’t yet know about. Tell me about your favorite community building art events. Wanna buy some prints? Zines? Stickers? Message me.

What is your creative obsession these days? What would you make if you had all the time in the world?

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I know I’m not alone—if I’m not paying attention, if I’m not actively working on myself, I can easily feel unlovable. This feeling traces back to my early years.

My childhood caregivers couldn’t always show up for me. They were young—just 16 and 17—still trying to figure out how to care for themselves. Eventually, after fleeing Germany—and my heroin-addicted, abusive father—my mom, my brother, and I moved in with Mammy and Pappy.

I was lucky. At four years old, my grandmother, affectionately and culturally known as Mammy (pronounced Memmy), stepped in. I spent every day with her while my mom scrambled to find jobs that weren’t absolute crap. If I remember right, she worked at a meatpacking plant, a lens factory, even McDonald’s.

Pappy spent his days working in his junk yard and swapping stories with neighbors and life long friends that would pass by. Mammy was always in the kitchen, cooking something up. I’d sit at the kitchen table, coloring, drawing or counting pennies from the wooden barrel. We’d take breaks to watch Days of Our Lives. I’d watch her plate up food and call the cats—and Alfred. Alfred was a troubled, mentally ill veteran Pappy had taken in, letting him stay in an old trailer on the back of the property.

Mammy would scold me, “Mach schnell!” she’d say or “Quit your gretsen.” as she’d brush my stroobly hair. She was firm with her words but so soft to the touch—her chest and arms were like the softest pillow. For my birthday, she gifted me handmade Cabbage Patch doll that a neighbor had made. She was my everything.

Then, around the time I turned six, I started seeing her less and less. She’d come home saying she was working as a nurse at a hospital. She’d bring me packets of hot chocolate and dehydrated soup as little gifts. But I was furious she was out "nursing around" instead of being with me. I was so angry - I opened one of the packets of plastic ware and cut into the doll’s face.

One day, I caught a ride with my mom to visit Mammy at the hospital. That was the last time I saw her. She lay in bed, mid-50s, her head hanging down like a rag doll. She couldn’t speak. The next thing I remember is her funeral. That’s when I learned she wasn’t working at the hospital, she was going there to treat and agressive cancer. I was seven.

The years that followed were tough. I became very small, trying not to be a burden on anyone. That survival instinct carried me through the next decade. But I never unpacked it—never questioned it—until recently, when a deep conflict sent me spiraling into the darkest corners of my existence. And in that darkness, I woke to a faint whisper: You matter.

I may not always believe it. Some days, it’s just a distant echo. But I hear it louder now. And I use my new skill—and drop into the cosmic womb - I meditate and recharge with an endless supply of celestial love.

I started this comic making journey through six panel micro comics, this was by 8.5 × 11 page design. It was the most panels I could carve out of a page. When I first wrote The Big Landing (orginally named “I Ate the Free Food” it was too big for six panels. So I made it a 12 panel comic, but Instagram at the time only allowed 10 images per post. So, I let Instagram, my primary means of getting my stories out into the world, shape how I shared this comic. Now I am more motivated to share my work through a one 8.5 × 11 foldable zine which is 8 panels. I am going through my old comics, digitally reworking them into an 8 panel zine that I print and tuck into the real world. All that being said, I could have easily shared this story as a whole, here on Substack and on my website. I may do that for my website, but as far as Substack, I am taking the wisdom with me for future posts.

In close of Part 1, I have two months to find a job and housing. I thought this would be easy. I had worked my entire legal working life. I got my first job at 14 working my maximum allowed hours at a historic movie theater, the Emmaus Movie Theater. As soon as I turned 16 I accepted a job offer from Burger King, and quit less than two weeks later for the PIzza Hut step-up. I worked there on and off for four years. I juggled multiple jobs at times working a childcare facilities, diners, grocery stores. While attending Kutztown University I was a Resident Assistant for a dormitory and worked in the Careers Services office. My volunteer list - even longer.

Housing, I assumed the right thing would present itself in time. Daily I would make a list of available apartments, roommate situations and start calling. I visited a single dad and his 7 year-old daughter, he had a room for a steal - $200/month. I just had to be his on call childcare provider for at least 20 hours a week! What? Where was I? I visited a cooperative house, in my budget - but the room just got filled. There were no 1BR in my price range - $300 max. And I couldn’t find a roommate situation without indentured servitude.

During the afternoons I would bike around town and drop off my resume to every restaurant job that would take it. I got a job “promise” from a newly opened local vegan restaurant. Vegan at the time, I was super excited to work for an eatery with shared values. I trained with them for two weeks with a verbal promise to be hired and paid upon hiring for my training. I had never heard of such compensation agreements, but I wanted that job so much more than what Pizza Pipeline may or may not have to offer. Two weeks into my training, I was informed the person I was training to replace decided not to leave and that they were sorry. They never paid me. I called and emailed them, but they never responded. I started eating cheese.

The hour class was on its last few grains when I found a situation where I received housing “rent-free” in exchange for providing house presence for a neurodivergent young adult. Specifically, I was asked to help model and encourage a cleanly living arrangement and - it sounded odd at the time and it definitely was - make sure no “bad guys” come around and take advantage of my roommate. At this point - it was free rent and I didn’t have any other options so I took it. I still didn’t have a job and my savings were meager and dwindling - I didn’t feel like it was an option.

Someone told me about the bread bins behind the local bread shop. Bins full of day-old sourdough rounds! For free! Get out of town!! Late one night I biked to the alley lined with bins and I started to make my move. I was scared. What if someone comes out and yells at me. What if someone else is wanting some bread and I am threatening their haul? My heart pounded as swiftly padded my messenger bag with Pan Marino rounds. The local co-op offered a low-income discount card for 5% off and every time I biked to the co-op I got a stamp and those stamps over time turned into a $5 credit. At the time they had a tomato hummus pita for $2 - the most healthy affordable food in town, sure beat the $1 slices from Pizza Pipeline - but I ate those too. When I couldn’t afford a meal, I always knew where I could find one.

This town took care of me when I needed it, hell it stills does. But for some reason I deserve it and some folks don’t? I don’t understand why it is perfectly acceptable for me to come here from somewhere else and make this town my home and it isn’t acceptable for others? “Some people just come to take advantage of the resources..” I hear. I came to take advantage of the resources and I am better for having done so. As it is said “From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs”. Imagine a place where everyone shared what they could and received what they needed. Just imagine.

Ahhh, I just put Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars on the record player. Five Years starts off like an old friend opening their arms for a soft tender hug. I know how I belong in this song. I belong in this song. I have always felt seen by Ziggy Startdust, even the Goblin King saw me.

Ahhhh music. And that music that gets written into your soul and becomes a part of your musical DNA. David Bowie watered my roots. David Bowie was the light they grew towards.

I remember sitting on my parent’s big bed, setting up my tape recorder to be on the ready to catch little snippets of movies I loved to get lost in. I would lay on my belly, hands holding my head - And Jim Henson’s puppets danced me into the most magical world. It was Jareth though, the first bad guy to win me over. Soul Love.

I moved a lot as a child and by the time I hit 5th grade I had already had at three moves under my belt. This school was a little different, everyone was so nice and welcoming. I made friends with another new kid - and she loved David Bowie as much as me. She knew all about Iman and filled me in. We were so jealous. We wrote a zine about the 5th grade teacher we hated and we wrote a zine about the Mamma Papa - Space Invader coming for us.

Then there was the Dancing in the Streets music video - hello. I couldn’t breathe. I slipped into a moonage daydream - freak out. Whatever magic was going on between David Bowie and Mick Jagger’s swinging and swaying - I wanted in.

By the time I ventured into youthful recreation with psychedelics - late night - early morning adventures had barely had me hanging on what I knew of myself. With numb skin, I would start Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars in the CD player and Five Years took my hand, ever so gently.

Even still my go to Karaoke song, usually after Making Love Out of Nothing at All, is Moonage Daydream. It always feels like coming home, to the stardust and to the spiders.

“I am just gonna fool around—man, like just do a thing… you know, whatever. And I’ll just… you know…” is how the extended version of Crimson and Clover starts out. It’s my favorite version of the song. I especially love the choppy, psychedelic, anthem-like ahhs that carry you into the trippy repeats of “Crimson and clover—over and over.”

Tonight, before attending Corvallis Microshelters: a panel and screening of “No Place to Grow Old” - I distributed Yellow Sweater to the public library and other mysterious places, hoping it might bring folks some unexpected joy. I finished zinifying this comic tonight - which was originally posted on Instagram on March 3, 2024.

I’m just fooling around, doing a thing… you know? Have you ever had a lazy earworm overstay its welcome? I kid—it was pure joy making friends with this special earworm. Have any fun places in mind to drop off this little zine? Please share!

Share

Subscribe now

Welcome!

Thanks for finding me—stick around and subscribe!

For the past two years, I’ve poured my art into the digital world, sharing it mostly through Meta. And while I love the likes, hearts, and messages about how my work made you laugh, cry, or remember something long forgotten, nothing beats the real-life moments—bumping into you in the cereal aisle, bumping into each other downtown, or crossing paths at the farmers’ market. Even an unexpected postcard, text or email - those unexpected creative connections? That’s what I live for.

So, I’m shifting. Moving more of my creative energy from digital spaces to real ones—and moving my online home from Meta to Substack. I’m trying new things. Who knows where this will go? Want to find out together?

1. The Inspiration

The Yellow Sweater was the first comic I made! On March 3, 2024 - almost a year ago! It open a creative waterfall of expression -I wasn’t ready for. It gripped me. I felt like I finally found the door to let it all out. I spent the next few months completely consumed in autobiographical comic creation.

2. The Story

In 2021 (was it? these pan years are a blur), I wasn’t just lifting weights—I was on fire. I had qualified for Nationals in Olympic weightlifting, bringing some decent lifting totals to my age and weight class. Training was intense, and I was ready. But then, mid-session, a sharp, searing pain gripped my right hip. The kind of pain even a stubborn, high-tolerance-for-pain lady like me couldn’t ignore. Just weeks before the competition, I knew—I was out. Done-zo. And I was pissed. Sad.

Somehow, in that swirl of frustration, I picked up my dusty knitting needles. I didn’t stop for two weeks. What came of it was an oversized, misshapen white wool sweater—ugly, but mine. And I was damn proud of it.

I figured I’d dye it. Did I research the best method? No. I just threw some turmeric and coffee grounds into a pot of simmering water and dunked it in. Twenty minutes later, I had a bright yellow sweater… with an oil stain smack in the middle - right over my heart. What was I thinking?

Instead of giving it to my dear farmer friend who inherits all my knitting misfits - I leaned in and kept this one. I wore it, not despite its flaws - but because of them. It got packed away now and then, but when life hit hard in 2023-2024, I found myself reaching for it almost daily. One day, a friend called it my armor, and something clicked. That moment sparked the comic—a story about the messy, unexpected ways we lose, heal, and gain something new.

3. A Connection: Tecnu Tip!

After years of wearing my proudly stained yellow sweater, a friend introduced me to Tecnu. Originally invented to remove radioactive fallout during the Cold War (a job it never actually had to do), Tecnu found its true purpose when the inventor’s spouse discovered it could strip away the rash-causing oils of poison oak and ivy. My friend Mara, made even another discovery—it also removes oil stains on clothes.

My life was forever changed.

I treated the sweater, and sure enough, the stain disappeared. Unfortunately, so did the sweater’s size. After already shrinking it twice, this final wash rendered it too small for me—but just right for my grandmother, who now wears it while tending to her vegetable and herb garden. A fitting new chapter for a well-loved, well-worn piece of the story.