howdy
Please, take your seats. The show is about to begin.
This is more a museum than active website. I don't have the dedication or attention span to keep my various projects looking unified, so I've created a kind of hub to connect the diaspora. Why the obsessive website making? Well, I wrote a blog post about that back in 2015.
I think that's about it. Welcome.
...
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
...
He frowned, imagining himself frowning. There, that was knotty little core of futility that iced over the machinery each time. Is some claim of worth being made here? Does the document trumpet something secondary? Proud? Torrential concern, ossified care. The fingers were moving of their own accord. He looked surprised, imagining himself looking surprised. Delectably compostable. A kind of conversation then, he thought, thinking the thought thought as the fingers confirmed : the thought thought. This continued for several more minutes. The fingers were not prone to readily making sense. Left to their own devices, tricky tendrils of meaning making would spill out, unbidden, or, something more evocative, like there, the titillating tip of Tonya’s tongue (the fingers adored alliteration) but always fragments, never part of a larger whole, and certainly never words that could evoke. No, that was to province of Authors.
A pause. She slid slowly down the three thick vines (he read as they typed) that had been braided by cold calloused fingers, ten generations hence. Another pause. He sensed keen dramatic timing. A single rope across a single chasm, giving ten thousand lives a chance to escape before breaking. And the gift? That those Lives not be concerned with braiding or securing or tying or trying. Just escape.
The First Track
Finally, this thing has a home. Originally conceived as a possible wrapper for a friend's album, this took the better part of a week and was promptly forgotten. Rise, you abandoned nonsense, be seen!
Scroll right.
