…because it will just flow out.

…because it will just flow out. Like water, like liquid, like the ink from squid did. Signs of fear, signs of response, posture of repose, squeeze open, the bellows. Scene the say, and sign the second sentiment of succor. Sicken, search, sigh, and stake.

I’m like Jimmy da Lips, and his favorite lips loosener, Moon River.

Ok, study group back in session. We have been stalling out a bit. And that’s cool. The recent days have been filled with nothing, and it is deafening.

What sense of the five would you choose to lose? I vote, Bob.

Meandering, meager, merger, metastasize. The big C, the leaf fallen from the tree, the pee, the waste of our generation. Mickey’s a mouse, and I’m a louse, and I have bugs beneath my skin. But my cat has it worse. Poor bubba.

Second sight, up all night, can’t see the sun for morning. Left it a while, a while back, found head full of beetles boring. Boring beetles, boring beetles, boring beetles, boring beetles, eating their way to the back of the skull. Everything starts at the eyes and ears, sinks in, burning through like potent acid. We burn away in the face the of the world. The endless bouncing, reflecting particles of electromagnetic waves, cooking us, battering us, baring us to the bright death of dissipation, dismemberment, vaporization, atom fission, nucleic abolition.

Doesn’t make any sense does it.

But that’s alright. It’s a kite. Doesn’t matter what you think, or what I think. It matters only how windy the day. And the strength of the string.

“I sure wish this fever would go away.”

“She has no idea how fast it goes.”

Loosen up Lucy. Leave the luck lady behind. Little late Larry. Try to mind the minute hand.

 Because it will just flow out, like dreams before coffee. Like advice before the blame. Like evidence before prosecution. It flees, and we are refugees forever. Moving ever from home to home, from identity to identity, from love to love, from rainbow back to rain. Because it never stops. The words, the voices, the snap judgments, the fears, the aspirations, the recriminations, the finger pointing, the finger banging for that matter.  It is effortless, and without choice. It is hell in heaven. We dream we’re awake and return to full consciousness every night. We snore through our lives like great mutant elephants striding in a herd through the savanna twilight. There is Sven, and he sparkles.

Because it collects in a pool. It flows from higher to lower, from higher pressure to lower pressure, bringing wet, and collected debrie from a thousand million hundred buttery fly wingbeats. It is spell corrected and pulled over for a roadside soberity test. It is booked, printed, arraigned, and released upon its own recognizance. It is a map of a globe projected upon a two dimensional surface. It is false, it is lies, and garbage companies named Lies. It is picked up each week. And then dragged back into the alley to wait another week. It is blather and chaos. It is incomprehensible. It leads with affixes and begs off with suffixes. It pretends and loiters. It cons and reveals its game. It knows, what the knowing know.

Feeling flight, the flightless revel in the strong stream of the surreal. When you throw a penguin in the air, from an airplane, it suddenly sees the sky as the sea. Flap flap, spin dive, swoop, poop, splat.

Kettle cool, simple style, whisper loud, all the while. Screaming screech, porch door slam, that woman, done left her man.

Moon River.

Hold a candle for me, and let the hot wax run. Down your sleeve, under your clothes. Feel the sudden heat, and instant cooling. The sticky crackle of solidifying steaming streams.

Sigh.

Pic, site in the hills

drunk & roll

Pic, ghost, remember ghost

and sometimes (frequently) there's this

This was my day. Redid my whole brake system. Good times!

Pic, The Man's signpost

Pic, fight scene

From starwars exhibit

Red Blue

Pic, bits

This falls somewhere in the middle of the beginning. This scene has been on my mind since we fired and whiskyed (pl. vrb.)
I think we'll start with a brawl that just describes what is happening, then allude to the code within afterword and slowly decipher it with the following actions describing much of the code therein.





Creeping quietly to the edge of the artificial precipice, the proficient could peer out ever so slightly with out being seen by the horde below. Their movements in near perfect sync.
They start from a horse stance and bow to Sifu, then turn to bow to the elders no longer in the cycles.
They start with a flowing crane out then into embrace the moon.
He mumbles the movements to himself in order again and again as to remember.

Pulling down heaven, 
three steps left,
pushing heart palm,
sliding dragon, back to center.
Pebble in pond, 
embrace qi,
embrace moon,
center.
Three steps right.
Repeat all.

I think I've got it.

He runs with the quickness and stealthiness of a great cat from Terra before. As soon as he is out of earshot, he repeats the movements that he saw.
No contemplation. Just clear my mind. Center. Begin.
He runs through the form three times on each side until his muscle memory is locked in. His body will now remember these movements in their sequence for as long as he draws recycled breathes.
He continues on in a less great cat like gallop with a smile from ear to ear.
He doesn't know exactly what the movements mean, but he knows what these movements represent.
They represent the first passing of knowledge from those one hundred cycles before.
They represent the beginning of the uprising.

Running in elation he nearly runs through the sound trap on the front line of camp.
He stops just in time to crawl under the the light line that would alert the
Overs to his presence. That surely would have gotten him a week in solly without a hearing.

It was nearly over before it even began. I need to be more careful. I can't let the elders down.

"Slow down young man!" whispered a voice from the void ahead, "You wouldn't want to wake the sleepers now, would you?"

"Sorry Sifu! I got excited"
He could recognize his teachers voice out of a thousand in a cramped bell entering atmosphere.

"Did you see and remember?"

"Yes Sifu! My body remembers well"

Without a blink of hesitation, the proficient began from a horse stance. He repeated the movements three times on each side until the form was completed. He continued to repeat the form as the elders dropped their Sheng Biao sparring and started to gather around the circle form. He could see each of their individual faces light up with elation as soon as he could make them out through the pronounced gloom and darkness of  holding room three. He continued the form gaining momentum every time until he was breaking a heavy sweat. The elders cheered and grasped each other by the forearm, shaking the other heartily.

"That is sufficient young man. Your service today will not be forgotten."

The proficients beaming smile immediately turned to a solemn downward glance. He knew this meant his presence was no longer desired. He was not to hear the message that he had just relayed to the elders. He stood straight as an arrow and gave each elder a bowing salute.

"Thank you Sifu."

He walked slowly away hoping to pick up on a few words of the conversation before he was too far away.

My mates are going to hang me up and beat me bloody if I don't come back to them with something!

"We pass the message through a proficient with deer horn knives,"
he heard one elder exclaim a little to loudly as he slowed his pace even more, "The mark of the moon of Titan will be cut into the Lotus clans chest during combat.
He is not to be killed. This will signify our continuing support of the Keller uprising and will signal the Lotus clan that we are to take lead in the commencement of operation hip throw."

I knew it! This is the cycle! The battle begins! Oh man, everyone is going to be so envious! 
I wonder who will be the knife bearer. 
Will it be Bau? Maybe Ming?
I cant wait to tell the boys.

The proficients slow crawling pace quickened to a cantor towards the boys lock down, not unnoticed by the elders.

"I felt they should know some of what is to come, my brothers, so they too can celebrate during light out and then prepare in the forward Mark. The next Mark will be a momentous occasion for us all!"  

Hanin

Well, it’s time to write something. It can’t all be dumbfounded pictures. There’s work to be done. And courage to be found. Regrets to be discarded. And lives to be invented.

“Hanin”. There’s a first pick at the name of our narrator. Perhaps: he is injured before one of the station fights. He’s forced to sit aside with the infants and elders, is able to observe what the old ones remember they must do, what the children are too young to understand. First bug, when does the Cleanse of materials occur during the process of moving through the dance? I think maybe as a clan moves into a Bell, prepared for transport. Aside, one material that could not be confiscated would be the tattooed skin of the people. Do the elders record notes from the coded station battles in the skin of the infants? Such unreasoned pain to inflict upon a child. But perhaps that is a fundamental part of these people. The Bell arrives at a Station: the arriving clan is released into the transitional zone to meet the departing clan. Question: how do the Controls enforce the leaving of the leaving clan. How do they enforce the arrivals and departing not mix and go where they are not specified to go? Implanted chip coding? RFID tracking, and thus enforcement. I envision the Controls are attached to the ceiling much as the computer face in MOON. Perhaps they are also equipped with big people moving manipulators, and if the sorting of the arrivals and the departing does not occur voluntarily, the Controls enforce the design themselves. The RFID is implanted by Bell Controls shortly after birth.

[Other Guy, I wonder if you could create a drawing, crude as the ignorant peoples would create, showing the final visual description of the Dance, with the Bells included “keeping the time of the Dance”. Maybe something to be revealed later as the mystery develops.]  

Where were we? The material goods of a clan are Cleansed upon entering a Bell. The children under 8 are held by the Elders, calm for preparation before the Station Clash, they are tattooed by the elders during the fight. These markings live with them for the rest of their lives to continue the hunt for history’s truth. The Skin Notes would have to be made redundant. Not overly so, but maybe at least two copies. Maybe not. So much synthesis would occur one new Skin Notes are made, and everything could be correlated during the 30 year working hiatus at Jupe, or Mars/Belt, or Earth. Just to formalize what was discussed with the Other Guy, the Other Night 1: we wondered about the need for the mining in the Belt, and the Building it infers upon the plan of the Dance. We pondered a Dyson’s Sphere (not total inclusion) in the orbit of Earth, and the construction of Generation Ships in the orbit of Jupiter. It is a two-pronged grand ambition that maybe fits the rugged stricture of the Dance. Humankind at some point put into motion the loss of individual freedoms and understanding in trade for the dual accomplishments: harnessing the full power of the solar system energy and so progressing to a Type I civilization with the Dyson Sphere; and the dream of expansion and diaspora to other solar systems.  Why just focus on one, if you’re going to threaten the very nature of human nature, of human character, and human soul. It is a trade of the importance of the individual in respect of proven dangerous  human history. Conflict subtracted from the equation. Yet, loop holes allowed to continue the evolution of human culture and collective thought. There by the Dance is imperfect, yet resilient, strong and ultimately powerful. This is a narrative without alien interaction.  The force of the Other is the Cruel Decision that was made.   

Apologies, of course, for the sloppy herkey jerky nature of this writing. Allowances made by invoking the reading room, the study hall, the experimental lab. At some point we’ll have to correlate and make our own notes based on what we type in this blog. Though, we can probably forgo the ink needling of children. For now.

Again, where were we?  Hanin. I admit a leaning toward the name sound of an old, departed friend. A sound made new in a new endeavor. If that doesn’t work, it can change. Hanin is a father of a single daughter. The mother of his daughter already dead due to the mining/industrial accident that found them both. Hanin survived to find himself being prepared to take on the role of an elder, without all the confidence that comes with such practice and age. Is he made to tattoo his own child upon the Bell Ring? That sounds rough. I want to know more from the Other Guy what this physical, dance, violence, rumble code is.

Hanin has individual preferences in life. Sounds obvious, but I have to remind myself, this is how you make a believable character. And I know for god’s sake, GOOD STORIES ARE CHARACTER DRIVEN, NOT PLOT DRIVEN. So, Hanin experiences loss.  Loss of his mate, concern over his daughter.  Hmm, the daughter should have only been born during the route to Keller Station. Did the mother die en route from her injuries? Yet was able to give birth to their daughter before succumbing?  Yes, that tracks. He has the loss of his mate, the sudden change in job/station/tribe placement. And his new daughter. Now, I have to admit a lack of personal experience with having children and the sublime change of priorities it causes. The uncompromised love that blooms instantly upon first seeing the child, hearing its cries, laughter… the sudden understanding of why existence exists at all.  Am I getting that right? I hope so. I doubt it could be over blown. It’s understood to be fundamental to life. Human life.

And with those new notes we close. Not bad. We are moving forward in design and detail.

Thanks to the Other Guy for hanging out the Other Night 1. It helps to ponder these things together without time dilation, while yet dealing with the dazzling spinning saw blade of instant communication.

empire state

Pic, midnight walk

start at the beginning

Pic, don't water the grass

Pic , collaboration

Things of the past on

Opening up an old journal to figure out what year my 7th avenue photo was taken, I think to myself
when was the last time I wrote anything in a journal. The one in question is a travel journal that starts with my road trip with Nate and Curtis in 2000 to Chicago. The drink, "broken down in Carney" came to life, I think it was mountain dew and Siroc vodka. The backlot, the wedding, the endless prattling about some silly girls, the poetry, the sketches. It's like having your very own history book. The history of me. Much of it would be far to embarrassing to share publicly. I was thinking that this blog would become somewhat of a journal, but when you are writing something that only you will see, there is a huge difference. I reminisce in the colors of my sketches, my view of the Empire state building out the 7th floor window, the hot sweaty nights in jazz clubs and the even hotter sweatier nights in bed with what I think was West Nile that I got from mosquito bites while crossing the Brooklyn bridge on foot. I was in bed for nearly a week and have never had such vivid fever dreams. When I was awake, I watched dvds on a huge projected screen from Zoriahs bottomless collection. I remember the music from the opening menu of Caligula, having slept for a whole day with it running on a constant loop. The melody is dissonant and still haunting. I nearly jumped off the balcony, convinced by the fever that I could fly.
Ahhh to be 24 again, knowing what I know now and all that other folk wisdom!
I start to wonder how many private journals are still out there. Are there people under the age of thirty that still practice that archaic ritual? When I was 24, I would stop and meet with other artists who also carried their journals and sketchbooks every where they went like a safety blanket in awkward should slung taches or more practical backpacks, like the one I took every where for about 10 years. We would sit in cafes over espresso's or bars over beers discussing our philosophies and world views. We would share our art and often exchange it.  I got lost in the feelings I had back then and yearn for those simpler times. I also yearn to pay $350 a month for rent. I can't escape the thoughts that not only am I mourning the loss of my youth, but more importantly, I am mourning the loss of that that whole culture. The information age has brought about a great many things, but I don't see anyone carrying around all their paper and ideas anymore. I don't hear younger people debating philosophy or art in the cafes any longer. I don't hear people in bars discussing what is wrong with the world and how to go about fixing it. No one carries a typewriter. No one has a parrot on their shoulder and a cloak. No one has or does any of the strange individual things that were commonplace in my life twenty years ago. The paper culture has been replaced by the information culture.

I did a performance art piece in a dingy half assed gallery in a burnt out ghetto warehouse, in a neighborhood that is now gentrified million dollar flats and farm to table restaurants, many years ago. The focus, I now realize, was that transformation. I had a vision jerking coffee at the Market on Larimer square. A major backdrop for the paper culture. At the tables in front of the espresso bar sat people four or five years younger than I. At every table there were two people and both were either on a cell phone talking to someone else or on a laptop beginning the culture that would come to destroy mine. They all sat for over an hour in this manner, barely even recognizing their companions actions. I came to find that most of them didn't even know each other. In my vision I saw nuclear Holocaust, the war machines of the earth, destructive pollution and radiation, a changing climate, and even direct physical threats to the people seated, plugged into their devices. They remained plugged in and oblivious to the nightmare all around them. I had to describe this physically so I had friends reenact the coffee house scene while a movie I put together of ultra violence played out behind them and loud dark music blared (Low). At the time, I was trying to communicate my vision of a careless society of automatons that couldn't see what was right in front of their eyes, wouldn't hear the cries for help because their ears were glued to phones, couldn't wake up and smell the undrinkable water beneath their noses. Now I realize. I was also warning my brethren of the destruction of our lifestyle and our assimilation into it.
I sit here and type on a humming luminous screen that makes my eyes tired, what I used to write by hand or type on a typewriter. I spend more hours than I ever have in my life binge watching netflix or dvr'd shows when I would have been creating.
Not only has the information culture destroyed the paper culture, it has replaced it in many socially acceptable ways for people like me. I can barely remember who that kid was that drew those sketches and took those color film photo graphs. I can barely read, decipher, or understand a lot of what I had written. I can't remember my plans or motivations. I can barely spell any longer with out a spell checker and wonder how I ever used a typewriter. My mind has certainly dulled in some very notable and noticeable ways. I have become a part of the thing that I feared the most due to many moons passed that place a person into a repetitive complacency.
I am very happy to break out of that here!
I still read and write music. I still play music. I still make art. I still write, but I don't do any of those things on the level, frequency, or with the intensity I used to. That used to be every thing to me.

That other guy wrote about having those check points. How will I get through this?
How will I get to this? Then what will I do?
The wear and tear on the soul of many years has replaced those destinations and hopes with utter complacency and comfort.
I have created too many things that need to be taken care of regularly to remain in that comfort zone,
it's neat yeah yeah yeah. (sorry for the inside joke if anyone else is actually reading this rabble)
I wish to go back to simpler times where I didn't need cable and netflix. I yearn for the days when I never had a phone chained to me at all times, or even had a phone, or felt the need to check in or check out things online.
I am crying out for the return of the paper culture.
Calling all poets,
all painters,
all sculptors and makers.
Let's take back our culture.

This has been a message brought to you by me telling me to put the remote down which I am still reaching for at this very moment with my mind. It's time to do some unplugging.

In a New York state of mind

7th avenue, East VIllage, NY July 2000
Seems like a different life and a lifetime ago.

Pic, Apollo eye

Pic, leaf

everything is clearer where the air is thin

dreaming of taylor

look familiar?

Fuck WALL-E

Having a hard time thinking of something to type today. But that’s not the point. So if this rambles more than usual, forgive me. (Though, there probably won’t be a detectable difference.) I’m also typing the date wrong all day. Typing 2/17/16 instead. That was so last year, man. I’m daffed or something. I have a week off of work coming up. Staycation time. Wow. The wise advice was, “don’t fill all the time up with plans!” Leave room for spontaneous action, or just plain old in action. But plans happen anyway. Like the old man says… (and I’m not sure anymore when he’s in fact quoting HIS old man), “Life happens while you make plans.”. I suppose that’s true. Funny thing about getting old… er, older. Especially at this “midpoint” time of 40 years of age. Seems I’m always wondering what all happened, and what all is gonna happen next. Who knows.  Who knows? I know. There’s plans.  There’s been so many plans, I’ve forgotten all the plans made, fought for, and won… or lost.  That’s age I guess. You don’t even remember what it was that caused so much concern back in the day. Oh god! How will I ever finish high school? Oh god! How will I finish college?  How will I ever learn to live without her! Oh god! I miss friends I’ll never see again, etc. But all those things faded. The urgency, the intensity, all faded by repeated passing of the sun. Dear sole, fading all of us into submission.

And that leads me to thoughts of the sun. And the planets. And the way big pockets of gas and matter coalesce into solar systems. It all seems to work out so nicely. Too nicely! The fact is… yes, the game of the universe is indeed rigged. Einstein was right. God doesn’t place dice. He prefers Mahjong.

We live in this universe because the odds in this universe were sufficient to create and engender life. If we lived somewhere else, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s not luck, by itself. It’s us. We’re lucky. The whole place is lucky. Because the whole universe is a winning hand we were dealt. The only real thing left is … how much do you bet. You don’t want to come on too strong and scare God away. You want to string him a long a bit. Keep him in the game. Sure, sure, we’ll worship your son, but, we’re going to fucking crucify the guy! Sure, sure, it was your plan all along. But it was still a surprise to Mr. J. when he found out in the garden the night before.

I’m not talking about religion. I’m talking about systems of belief. Maybe there’s a difference. I mean, they are spelled differently.

Life is not about morality. There, I said it. Life is about itself. And life is about anti-entropy. We’re not here to become conscious and fill the galaxy with love. We’re here to be slightly better organized than rocks. And we are pretty good at it. I don’t me we as in Humans, or we as animals, etc. I’ll give all the props to bacteria.  They are the fucking awesome. Did you know there are more bacteria cells in your body than human cells. So, you tell me who’s the Hasbro Tonka truck in this scenario. We are the Uber of the single celled empire. We are the big ambulatory riverboats of the big Mississippi river of chaos… and we have amenities. Guts and fingers and eyes and ears and a full entertainment system in the cortex.

And who’s to say we’re steering ourselves. Who’s to say we are just big dumb pack beasts being prodded left or right by the sharp stick of visceral impulse, hunger, sexual drive, fear, etc.  Who’s to say?   I’m to say, cause fuck that. We’re better than those bugs and we’re gonna be the famous ones, not some E-coli bastard town of cytoplasm and cilia and butts for mouths.

We are the kings, baby!  And it would be swell if we acted like kings. Ruled well for a bit. But I don’t know, most the time. I don’t fear the world will end. I don’t believe we have the power to end life on this planet. We have the power to end ours, sure, why not if we really work at it.  But even that’s a long shot. No, life will go on. Maybe the systematic institutionalized structures of love and compassion for our fellow man will fall away. We take a great deal of philosophic thought for granted. All those high ideals of the Enlightenment, the liberalism of government, etc. That’s all good stuff. Amiable stuff for the rights of the individual. I get it. But don’t think civilization or life on earth depends on it. No sir. Political fairness and economic security are the rare phase in our long told but briefly experience history of mankind.

So relax. So what if we warm up the planet. Fuck it. We’ll adapt. Or, if we truly suck that bad, we won’t adapt. And something else will in our place. We’ve gotten so wrapped up in our identity of the steward of the planet, the keeper of our brothers, the kind and good martyr. Which I think is great. But I could deal with less hand wringing over every little detail. Because we lose sight of the big picture when we focus only on smaller and smaller outrages.

People are going to die. Period. So let’s kill them. Let’s send ourselves into dangerous, exciting places. Let’s go to Mars, the Belt, the outer planets, and beyond. Let’s burn human capital like it’s cheap wine. Cause it is. Because the tragedy and emotion are for drama in the theater, not the frontier. We need pain. We fucking thrive off it. We are formed by getting fucked by the universe. We only adapt when challenged.

Fuck WALL-E.  Ain’t going out of town, like that.  Hunting a straw from a chair.

Response to other guy's recent untitled post, cause comments don't work for me

Hmmmm. What if, cover story for the clans. The feuds are the cover story to belay the authority's suspicion. They believe we only strive to revenge. In truth, we fight to communicate. A code coded in violence. Wounds as script. Box scores of station brawls later read through augury. The transmission of clues to the Dance committed through bodily sacrifice.

On the subject of the orbits of the planets

On the subject of the orbits of the planets, and how to time the steps of the Dance:  If the orbits were perfect circles, the math wouldn’t be completely impossible.  That is, I’m trying to describe a situation where the mass migrations from Jupiter to Earth to Mars are timed to have the various arrivals occur fairly simultaneously.  But that can be a troubling thing to calculate considering Mars along has an orbit “eccentricity of 0.093, which means that its distance from the Sun varies by a little over 18%, or nearly 28 million miles.” 

(http://cseligman.com/text/planets/marsoppositions.htm)

I’m sure this problem gets worse as we take into account any eccentricity of Jupiter’s orbit and Earth (which I read is rather circular), and compound that when trying to coordinate all three.  We should still investigate the best “average” period of time when the Steps should happen.  But I have an idea.

[INTERJECTION, is the phrase Steps of the Dance stupid?  hmmmmm]

So one worry has been the math of the orbits, and determining a system that is approaching realistic.  Or at least wouldn’t make the average reader through the story across the room in disgust.

[I wonder, Rosie, if you still throw books across the room when using a kindle or tablet.]

Also, the name of this story has always been “Space Station Keller”  or “Keller Station”, etc.  Because it is an artificial location in space named Keller.  I only point this out because it begs the questions: what’s so special about this station, how many stations are there, why are they built.

So what if the stations are big.  And the stations are used to coordinate the clockwork of the Dance.  Think of them as holding tanks for pollen.  The pollen is reach different destinations at the same time.  So the pollen would need to be gathered at different times for each origination, and then released properly timed to arrive at the next destination.  The Stations could be placed in perfectly circular orbits around Sol.  And voila, we have a stable predictable way to time the Steps.

Brilliant, no?!

[Also, I’m fully aware “Twixts” is not going to work.  Considering how much animosity exists between the owners and workers of the Left Twix factory and the Right Twix factory… in, er, Twix Town.]

We’re going to need more pictures.  Pictures to help visualize the answers to these riddles of logistics.

That's it for today folks.  TLDR?  We need stations to make the logistics work.

sideways with friends

In the end there is nothing. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, no choir of angels singing.
No heaven.
We are born and then we die. Simple and true.
The truth is usually the simplest explanation.
The lie is much more complicated.
The lie is thousands of years of story tellers and propagators and legions of those that need something to cling to.
In the beginning the lie was passed from mouth to ear,
from generation to next. It gains momentum and becomes a life of its own.
If enough believe in a lie, it is still a lie.
When it had been whispered and shouted from corner to corner, it was written.
Don't believe everything you read.
The lie into ink was born into the world, a crying baby in the dark. It became a thing above an idea.
It will now persist as long as we are around to pass the torch to the next.
If you know the  L Ron Hubbard story, you know his lie was birthed with a bet. It's momentum consumed even him. Being the scribe of god carries an enormous toll.
Heavy is the crown.
Give me something to believe in,
if there's a lord above.
There doesn't need to be be a lord for there to be belief.
It was brought into the world and no longer even needs to be written. The ink has stained.
We don't have much need for books, other than kindling, any more. Most of us can't even read.
Most of us still believe in the lie that has moved from words to stories, into books, and then back into words. It's a persistent stain..
The story that I am about to pass to you, my son, has very little to do with that stain, but it shares the same lineage.
So many lies begin, "In the beginning'"
There really wasn't a beginning.
There was our beginning.
In our beginning there wasn't much light.
Much of our time was spent in cold and darkness, clinging to pieces of comfort and nibbles of food. There was no language and only ignorance. The language is the only thing that has really changed. It is what keeps us going. Are we moving forward?
I don't believe so. We are just moving.
The ultimate goal was save the species from extinction.
No one ever thought about anything else. We are surviving, but not doing much else.
You have to ask yourself.
Are we really worth it?
Should we have just rolled over when the sky fell down?
It isn't in our nature.
Right or wrong, we will survive and we will move.
Always move, as we have done for nearly countless generations now.
The ancients held possession in high regard.
There are stories of viewing devices in every home and transportation devices costing more than some made in a life time. Currency was said to be made of precious metals and paper.
Can you imagine?!
What a waste of metals!
We risk everything for these same metals now. They are the key to our survival and way to precious to handed back and forth in exchange for things.
We no longer have a need for things.
We no longer desire to be better than our neighbor.
We no longer desire.
Survival was the only goal.
Surviving was all we do.
And then came the architect.
Everything changed and has opened our minds irreparably.
There's no going back once you have heard the tale I am about to spin.
Once the lid has been removed, it will not fit back on the can.
If you want to remain who you are,
it is time to leave the room.
Before the architect, we were doomed to burn when the air ignited. He found the way. You know the story of what he did, but you haven't heard the story of who he was. That is the story of our clan.
We are destined to bring an end to this endless cycle..
As the stain would say.
We are legion.

Pic, downtown loop, contrast addiction

Memories, like holes in the bright blackness

Memories, like holes in the bright blackness. Interpretive visions, made over like sculptor’s clay, gaining impressions with use. To Jupe, to Ere, to Marsh. And the twixts.

There was a time, it’s told. When we had matter for words. When we had materialization for writing. There was a time, it’s told. When we had interplay with the seens [sic], the bright flat faces of smile/no smile that herd us through the Dance. There was a time, when we told it different. That time, dear ones, is both behind us, and ahead. There will be a time, when we head where we will, again. Where we would, we will.

There was a time, it’s told.  Over some few full Dances ago, way back past when your grand grand grand grand grand grand grand mother and father far flung and flying from the stripy Jupe back down through the twixt and to old Ere herself…that there was a protesting.  This was the protesting which after they took all the writing materialization, bade we speak only, and record not. That was the banishment of the solid Word, and the beginning of the times being told only.

There was a time told. When we didn’t just report our progress to the faceplates, so the next shift knew where we did leave off. When we could leave solid Word for next crew. Before the next Dance step, 15 years on, before we’re to pick up home and herd and be pushed into the closest Bell by the cool bright leeds of the flatfaces, for blast and taken places. Back in the Dance again for a year and 3, to Ere, to Jupe. Or just the small step of months only from Ere to Marsh. There was a time, it’s told. This was back then. Back when, many more of us wondered from where the Dance started, and the work, and the building, the stations, and the flatfaces. A grand game of why was played, and the players penned pals from step to step. 

[INTERJECT, you’ve read WOOL yes? seen Snowpiercer? The histories are made of revolts…. Ever read SAND?  And seen that eerie map on the inside cover depicting three cities north to south, Danvar, Sprinston, Low-Pub?]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interplanetary_spaceflight#Hohmann_transfers


Got a little patois there with the yarn telling. I admit, I watched CLOUD ATLAS again this weekend. But that's not a bad narrative template perhaps. There's a lot of room in here. A lot of places to fuck up, make mistakes, and get scared to ever try again. Keller has been in a box for a long while. More work done on it lately, than ever. Reminds me of how Baxter recalls a dinner party with Pratchett, where Terry mentions an idea of his hid away without development... infinite Earths, east and west, and a simple machine driven by potato power stepping you from one to the next...  and so they decided to develop it, and now later six books of The Long Earth.

So we can do this. If we don't let the experiment get too big, too intimidating. I'm just mortified of making a physics blunder. Committing work and narrative to some glaring error in logistics. Alas, the September in me.  We need to hire a physicist for an hour.  Pick the brain.  See which ideas make them howl.

Let's keep building up the frame work at the same time we build up the window dressing.  Deep timbers and sawdust. Sewers and satellites.  Search and censor. Belief and ability. Steeped tea and senility. Sudden fortune and sterility.

Who do the flatfaces serve? What are they causing to be built? No doubt the system was dreamed up by humankind.  And if it wasn't, if it was thrust upon us by something extra solar, then it would look much different.  No, I think we did this to ourselves.  Let's dream the structure. And sprinkle the years and miles with human suffering, human hope, human experience.

I know these trees.
In my youth I climbed them.
I saw the buds blossom in the spring.
I watched the leaves drift off to decay in the Autumn.
I hear them die in the winter.
My favorite one is now gone.
I wept as if I'd lost a sibling.
I spent days on it's massive limb that hung out over the lake reading. I read Lord of the rings, Chronicles of Narnia, The foundation series, and many other books that influenced my life and my mind. I spent countless hours in its comfortable embrace contemplating the meaning of life and the secrets of the universe, formulating infinity and my place or lack of place with in it.
I cried over lost loves.
I laughed over memories passed.
I lamented the present and hoped for the future.
I sketched the things happening around me and sang to the still water.
I never thought that it would all be gone some day and just a memory.
My tree is now a hole in the ground being filled in with screened dirt by two dark skinned laborers.
Their skin like mine, scarred by years of the elements relentless March.
It was my good place.
My safe place.
My Walden pond.
My Mecca.
The loss of this icon to so many, made me truly realize that nothing lasts forever and that now is all we really have. People will say, " you have your memories." but those memories are being remembered and relived by you in the now. Your thoughts, hopes and dreams are uplifting or putting you down in the present.
This is it.
All there is, is in this very moment and then the next.
What does this mean?
Does the past not exist?
Is the future a fiction?
An animal doesn't think of these things, so why do we?
Is it some sort of fresh hell in which we baste ourselves over the hot brim stones of hell?
Are we our own devil and executioner?
Are we our own angel and deliverance?
Yes and yes.
We are both good and evil.
We are balance and checks.
Infinity and eternal nirvana lies within living this realization.
Carpe diem!
I spent most of my life trying to push down parts of me that makes me
me. I spent years trying to be a better person.
The best person I can be is the one that I was made to be,
right or wrong.
Good or bad.
These are all human concepts to add meaning to the concept of time.
I watch as an older couple walks by holding hands. They seem much more ancient than the tree was. They tentatively step around the remains, exchanging stories.
Memories.
Their children probably climbed it as I did when they were young.
They remember the simpler times and smile. They revel in the warm shower of memories.
They were younger too.
More recently, their grandchildren climbed the same limbs, only their parents take family selfies and film with their phones what their parents keep in deep thought as clear as any picture.
They laugh at their childrens generation and can only shake their heads and wonder.
A tear runs down the woman's wrinkled face as joggers run by with out a glance or care.
They have no knowledge of the beauty and wonder that once stood here. They are unaware of the generations of life that once proudly stood in this very spot.
It is now lost in the ocean of a perpetual forward moving tide.
It's moment has been washed out to sea and will be forgotten.
The landscape and backdrop seems foreign to me. It's as if I have slipped into another dimension where things are just slightly different, but different enough to feel a sense of loss and displacement.
There is no great shadow there any longer.
There is no longer a mile marker.
Nature does not have such a romantic notion of such things.
The leaves turn and die again, the buds return every year until the vessel is no more.
Time marches on.
We document.
We remember.
We try desperately to pass on these memories.
We try in vain.
Inevitably we will fail.
The life maybe remembers , but the details are tossed like Autumn leaves.
There will be no funeral.
There will be no procession.
Only private tears and solitary prayers.
Only our memories that are now.



I'm not counting my words.

Pic, facia

Pic, Ellis Vader

Apologies for the lack of words lately.

Pic full moon

Two pics, for the price of 1K

There's a hole at the top of the world

I found a hole at the top of the world
the cold burned
and the wind swirled
As dark as a corner of the moonless sky
 then I blink
and the heavens cry

Frankly, pic

Black holed sun blue moon

Writing, cause that's the case

Writing, cause that's the case. Hours spent in the chase. Found God in my pocket. Third pocket in the dungarees. Used to be a spot for the watch. When time hung on a chain. Now it clings to my wrist. Tryst betwixt divinity and the everyday. Funny how the daily obligation pushes the everyday writing. Writing, cause that's the case. A formerly locked case. What discipline, asks the disciple.  Is that how you spell it? Billy shakes. Had it easier. It didn't matter in the days of the Globe Theatre. The man invented more idioms than I know can be attributed to a single nom. Strange thing the writing. Strange thing the story. What story can save the world? No tome seems like the book being written in The Lady In The Water.

The ultimate question of this, and any, endeavor is how can this save the world. Question: what's wrong with the world? Hunger, Pollution, War, Death, basically the four horseman. (Aside, I'm almost done with Good Omens by Pratchett and Gaiman. Fun stuff, like a Catholic ride through Hitchhiker's Guide and some Beyond The Fringe.)  The problem is human success paired with finite space in which to groove, expand, grow. So we split, diversify, come up with separate gods, and land, and borders. We start defending what we got. Because what we got is threatened. That's the gist.

The answer: a perfect system. That goal has plagued us for millennia. Plagued, because these perfect systems have fucked up. Crashed and burned. Deity worship. Plain and simple. Whether that object of worship has been a man, personality cult, economic system, ideal, ritual of morals, etcetera. To name a few: Rah, Jesus, Yahweh, Mohammed, science, communism, capitalism, progress, socialism, Gaia, anarchy...  

The childish answer is to remove human fear and human greed. But I think that would drain all color from our faces. We need irrational passions. We can't go around making perfect sense. We can't solve the problems of the world with love. How boring, how droll, how much a zombified society that would be. Like the lamest episode of Star Trek, where the hour's highlight was when they fixed the replicator just in time to serve non-alcohol at the party in 10 Forward. Leave such mental perfections  to our robot children. Let them assume control and later study how we were so flawed yet so fulfilled.

And yet, I want to try the fix. I want to game the solution. I want to work the problem. And have some fun along the way. So we study means of failure. This is the essence of science fiction, the most moralistic art form of man.

If the problem isn't solving our moral failings, then the problem is surviving them. Rule One! Avoid extinction. Live to fuck up another day. That's the motto of life. Survival of our species is survival on more worlds that this one Earth. So then, the solar system. Colonies. Solar economies. With all the usual social stratification of the rich and the poor, the over represented and the under served, the deceits of politics, the salvation of human mercy, love, humor, forgiveness and joy.  I like the future era of solar expansion. There's way too much room between stars to suddenly jump to galactic civilization. We'll need greater means of transportation than that. Yada Yada.  The details.

The details of the story. How to construct the story. Where to begin?  At the end, at the beginning? At the weird glimpse of odd sensation that grips your head when you consider a single fun part of a story's setting or concept... and then follow that sensation, see where it leads.  Just like the other guy did in the previous post.  Aye man.

The Other Guy.  *waves

Maybe the twinge in Keller is the deep play. The generations long sleeper cell. The vendetta writ across the elliptic. And why such hatred. Why the vast need to pay back.

It sounds like only the working class gets shuffled from Jupiter to Earth to Mars and back again. Are the rich and powerful allowed to stay in one place. Or is the entire system run by AI caretakers who force the totality of humankind to do the solar dance? Did we do this to ourselves. Out of desperation? After some heinous crime against humanity perpetrated on a solar scale. Is this large human swirl the debris field, the splatter pattern of something buried in the past. Does some secret sect endeavor to uncover that secret crime.

We set up the time, and reveal the crime.  There’s a plot.  Conspiracy of self discovery. How slow it must be to piece together the ancient puzzle when the knowledge must be continually passed from generation to generation, verification of evidence coming only when the right people finally transition to the correct stop in the dance.

Let’s write history yet found.

Secrets exchanged when the travel cycles happen. Messages left for the next arrivals. Dead drops in coded graffiti, coded tampering in robot servants left behind, coded tampering in utilities systems left behind, coded tampering in food recipes, coded messages in all kinds of supra steam punk ways, tattooed body sacrifices, ….   A growing oral history, discovering more with each line. A revelation, a solution, a breaking of the cycles. To escape eternity, to escape the solar system, to escape self imposed limbo.

How to tell it short. How to tell it long. What manner of characters. The Other Guy hints at systems of security, espionage, veterans of a war. Unmoored from home being a place, what replaces the definition of home. What new social conventions. What language, what facial expression, what handshakes of human nature in such a strange setting. Who are they, what is their name. Who is the enemy, who the hero.

Where to start. Start at the moment of transition. Start with an explanation to a child. Teach the child just what world it has been born into. How the days will proceed. How the future is described. What goals are dreamed of. What subjects or actions are taboo.

And on to you, Other Guy.

What are you even barking at? There's nothing there... right?

What are you even barking at? There's nothing there... right?

Tomorrow I go in. I walk through that door with papers in hand.
 I get hassled by security, dogs, drones, media bots. Immediately!

Yes, I have my implant.
No, no one approached me to carry items into the building.
Private second class, Alfred  T. Straighter III.
Yes, my boots have steel toes.
Why?
Well, I have to make a living, right? ohhh. you don't know what I mean.
Apologies.
Of course. I'll take them off.
No. No hydraulics. No enhancers. No positronic on my skeletal.
Why don't I have anything in my pockets?
Because I'm used to this.
Used to what? This I suppose. I know i'm being searched, so I carry very little.
May I continue, please?
No. I am not an enemy of the state. I have never been charged as such.
Yes, I'll submit to further search. I have nothing to hide.
Yes. I have two carbon fiber knee replacements, both hips redone in mono carbon, three pins in my right shoulder, and six mono filament pins. Four in my right hand, one in my left.
Ahh!Your math is good. The sixth is in my second vertebrae.
Yes. I was in the uprising. I do have my papers in order.
I was demoted to private, second class, prime cycle 5280. I surrendered at Camp Hale Colorado the following year.
Yes. I accept the outcome of the sixty second election and am a productive member of the labor sect. Faction 1.5 from the oligarchy secondary command, planet Terra cycle 74.
I am traveling to intra_-staion Terra 1.56.
From there to Luna colony 1.5, wait a cycle, jump  to cycle 2140 to mars station 6.
I have my labor permit in hand, sir. I'm a returner.
Yes, a returner.
 I'm a miner, have been for cycles.My family has been for cycles before. We keep a little plot on terea. Family thing. Bi centennial and such.

At this point, I am either cleared or in a nuerostasis station.
Damn it! They'll let me pass or they won't. I don't want to simulate again. I'll get there.
I promise.
Sir... yes Sir, Captain Sir.
I didn't mean any disrespect.
These simulations are just so tiresome.

Private first class. You are too opinionated. When they ask to search you, you don't ask why and say you are used to it! You got a mouth on you son, it's gonna get you in a heap of station 1.0 disposal you can't get out of! We are trying to infiltrate the brigade itself here son! You need to remember, you're Alfred T Straighter of the Mars 6 miners. You were born to the Prefect over all mars operations. and you.. well quite frankly You're acting as if you're John Q Public from counter measure 7.
 I'm a traitor to the cause! Here I am! Zat the cuffs on me and particle slide a confession straight out of me! I'll tell you everything! Just make it stop!
It is of utmost importance that you get to the Luna colony to make the jump this cycle.
If you fail.
All is lost.

I am Alfred T. Straighter III, sir. Everyone is always counting on me.
They weren't in my shoes during the uprising. They don't have to live with the things I've done. They work tirelessly to destroy what I worked for. I will pass. I am a descendant of the Mars miners. I can pass for these people. Just got to remember to slur the rrrr hard and omit the eee. Yes srrrrr admiral. It isss don!
I know my dialect interpretation is over the top, sir. Just blowing off some steam.
If they detect the explosive devices, I detonate and everybody wins!

Well... everyone but me and a few nameless. Wouldn't be the best exit, but it wouldn't be the worst.

Private second class Alfred T Straighter III, reporting for duty sir. 


I remember the explorer bursting into flames from the pixelated roll out analogue television in my grade school auditorium. It had rabbit ears! I remember thinking at first. Oh. They'll be ok, as the shuttle trailed off to the left ever so slightly.
Oh Shit!
I actually thought those words at ten years of age.
Nope. Not okay.
Load em' up again.
They're gone.
I actually stood up and saluted their ashes as they pummeled to the earth.
I thought at that moment, one day I will die that way. How grand and noble.

Tonight I ask all the angels that have sat on my shoulder, All of those that have gone in the past,
to mind thier own fraking business.

I need to clean this keyboard

I need to clean this keyboard. Speed of death. Speed of life. Notation, flotation. Dream while asleep, dream while awake. I’m also digging this requirement to write each day. This freedom to free associate each day, to stream the rivulets each day. To damn up the flow for a single day’s season and make my lodge and fuck some beaver in my lodge and stash aspen branches near my lodge and weather the winter of the day again. Er, if you will allow the metaphor.

I wish for a tool useful for writing while walking. Walking seems to me the best time to write. The head blood is flowing, inspiration is all around. It’s exciting without its motion, danger, dedication to balance. I know one can get a blue tooth mic and use some voice recognition. And that’s ok. But research is dubious on the accuracy of the result, and do I really want to walk around like an asshole, talking to myself up one block and down the other? I wish for an in hand gadget, where you could play the finger triggers as you would a piano, but form letters instead of notes. So I suppose I would rather publically LOOK like a twitchy asshole, than SOUND like one.

Ya sir, we’re in the same place. It’s perhaps the 40 thing. Makes you wonder a bit, standing in the middle of it all. So we’re finally comfortable adulting. Good on us. It begs the question, what next? I mean, besides diseased duffy death. For those with progeny, the answer is automatically “see to the children!”. For those without, the question becomes more self contemplative. Without fostering the further generation, the question of our purpose is harder to answer. I grew up. Now what? What else do we nurture. What else do we bring to fruition, to maturity. Where’s the next bottle of whiskey. Alas, simple descriptions of complex issues.

The answer is: maintain honor, do the laundry, and if you can’t leave genes, leave memes.

Oh and have good friends.

Today is a scattered day. So if this reads piecemeal, that’s because it is.

Frenetic phonics.

Recently watched The Visit by Mr. M. Night. Man, I like kids, but I wanted to murder that white boy rapping silver spoon bastard. I wanted him over, ended, discontinued.

You describe how you were able to channel creative urges into your professional life. I applaud that. I get how it’s not enough. I have done the same. But only as far as “form” goes… that is, only as far as “function” goes. I’m a master of form. Creative content was left behind. At least during the work hours, the work week. (Of course, we’re changing all that now.) It’s not to say I haven’t written a thing. There’s been some notebooks filled up in the last decade or more. Hidden away. Secret messages. Message in a bottle. Read after violent death… kind of stuff.

I do like the hidden. The secret. The drastic difference between the surface of one’s face, and what lies below. I love that humans lie. Shit I dig that dogs lie too. I enjoy sci fi stories where an alien species doesn’t have the ability to lie, doesn’t even have the concept. Man, the humans love to take advantage of that.

Go read The Three Body Problem, Liu Cixin. Read the whole trilogy. Don’t walk, run.

Best sci fi I’ve read in a decade.

There’s a lot the deep face in that series. Deep face from the aliens. Deep face from other humans.

Secret plans made inside the brain and never even hinted at. Never even a gesture. A glance.  Nothing to reveal true intent.

Wall Facer.

Oooh, loved that trilogy.  Anyhoo, moving on.

What are we here for. What do we hear for? What questions started before the idea of answers was invented. What grunts suffice. What unthinking wisdom is enough. Why do we think greater complexity is superior? Because, muther fucker, greater complexity is superior. Don’t let them hippy dippy people tell you different. This ain’t about Gaia. This life is a competition. Genes striving against genes. Winners survive, losers die. And that’s good. There’s only one way to battle the universe’s cold calculated grind of entropy, and that’s good old evolution born carbon based life forms. Have I already covered this? Apologies if so. I’m patriotic. But less for a nation than for our species. For our genes. I want to see the experiment continue. I want to do what I can to allow it to grow, expand, see if there’s something more to being human. To see what happens when we leave our humanity … behind.

I want to go to space. I want to know what it is. What’s inner space? Damn, the vastness of scales… up and downward. Here we are in the middle. Vast conglomerates of cells, repetitive and specialized. Big friggin vehicles of water and membrane and COMPLEXITY.

Imagine what a paramecium things about monstrosities such as us. Like grotesque tanks lumbering across the field. Like giant machines with unthought-of of massive brains in control. We modern humans sweat the coming “singularity” where the advancements of artificial intelligence and materials and god knows what else will all combine into a sudden shift of society and civilization.

Is that not like what happened with the progression from cells, to multicellular, to organs, sense organs, computing Brainiac organs?

Are we the gods of the little bugs in full form?  I’d say yes. Of course.

Scale and scales. Miniscule and vast.

Sometimes there’s too much content. Too much context to everything.

Never look around and say, “nothing is going on, there’s nothing to do, nothing to comment on, nothing to write about.”

What can we do to improve our lot in life. Keep taking known and understood positive steps.

Complain about being fat. Drink beer anyway. Send and resend. Restore, resume, remake.

Remember, the which renews, revitalizes. That which is new, is soon to be old.

That which is rotten, feeds the next beauty.

TQD, pic

Futzing in the darkroom. 

Four different burns, 3 sec through 12 sec.

Time lapse exposure at night, Taylor Park.

The set and framing...still under construction.

sleepless statement

I always end up here in spite of my best intention. Walking the hallways whispering to myself in bare feet about the sleep I have missed and the day that will shorten to night. Prophecy is the hypocrisy of the enlightened. He will not see his end draw near. Whatever is the cry of the vapid who sit vacant in their stools thumbing through social media dribbling disguised thought or opinion. Leave me alone, the cry of the co-dependent. Another sleepless night to slide into the day that follows.

What am I doing here? The cry of the existentialist. After forty years on this rock, I'm still not sure. I'm not really sure if the question is valid or answerable. I have learned to stick with the things I am good at and nurture them. I've often been told that you should only do what you know how to do well. It has been many years since I wrote anything on a regular basis, none the less on a nearly daily basis. I was in college creative writing courses where I quickly learned the only reason to be there is for criticism from your peers. All else is exercise, practice and repetition, in other words, things that can all be done on ones own time and dime. As with many things, the daily grind of living life and age tarnish the gleam and glitter of things that were once romantic, shiny, and new. These things get put on a shelf, in many ways, and aren't used or seen in the same way again. As a business owner I still write frequently and my education adds professionalism and confidence to the product I put out. I have also funneled my visual arts into drafting, design, and implementing design. In other words, my skills are still utilized and not lost, but changed, dulled perhaps. I have come to realize over the years that these skills or "gifts" can also be burdens. They are muscles, that when not properly exercised, fall into atrophy and fade. They become a dead weight that blocks the exits for the soul and that soul festers in a cage feeding off it's own madness. I have come to learn these exists must remain cleared for the mind to be at ease and peace. I have kept these exits mostly cleared through music and mad scribblings over the years and occasionally my work clears the debris. It is both melancholic and liberating to think of creatives and creativity in  this manner, but I think most would agree with me. With out producing, with out their work, madness breeds in the soul as if it were a fecund swamp in the spring time. Creativity is a living thing and like all living things feels a procreative imperative. It must produce or die in the process. This brings me to the point of this prattling.
What am I doing here?
Specifically on this blog in this instance. Why would I accept an invitation to a daily dose of self prescribed homework?
I intend to use this blog to exercise the literary muscles with in me that are in a state of atrophy, to clear out the doors, the windows, and the halls. To sharpen the sword. I feel somewhat accomplished by my many years of successfully running a business, but I feel something is missing. I have felt my life drifting back towards the arts as a necessity for my soul. I endeavor to once again do the things I was made to do. This venue will force production, some terrible and unreadable, I have no doubt. I won't begrudge anyone who doesn't read much of what I write here, I may not reread much of it myself. My co author and I have shared a bond through our prose for many years. A bond that is still very strong as was demonstrated to me already in the early stages of this project. I had written something having not read his most recent offering. Upon review there were a lot of similarities. We both referenced a story of a hero and his luck dragon, and seem to be roughly on the same page without having discussed it. I expect that our individual offerings will be serendipitous in many ways and will naturally intentionally and unintentionally intertwine.

I loved the idea of 1000 words or a picture that is worth as many every day. I accept that this task will be difficult at times, especially because of my life long list of technical difficulties that I'm sure will continue to plague me. However, I will do my best to put out 7 items per week, even if they are not put out on time or daily for myself, for my brother in letters, for the project, and perhaps for leaving an occasional timeless fruit for others to enjoy or to inspire.
Some of this will be streams of babble, some stories pushing their way into the world. Some structured and thought out, some not. Some days that link up into weeks, some single expressions. Some good, some bad, some very ugly. I'm not sure what will come of all of this other than habit, exercise, and production, but in these early stages my feelings are already good and my mind brims with ideas.
I'm all in and will do my best J.