Update: 8 march 2017

Sometimes my mind goes walkabout while my body languishes someplace forgotten.  The disconnect eats up my sense of time’s passage so that months or weeks elapse while the road seems still, making chronology seem a liar.

This isn’t, or wasn’t, one of those times.  I’m in pretty good shape this gone round.

I don’t recall when last I wrote regularly, and even if I were to look it up, the date would be meaningless.  Life is not an American high school history exam, the dates never matter so much as the ethos of their events.  As such, it’s pointless to dissect the calendar in a search for answers, because, without writing, my time is ephemeral, as my short term memory is rather shit.  I can tell you what life was like as a three year old, but I’m hard pressed to recall what yesterday’s breakfast contained.  My perception is built for the long game, for big ideas and long term recollection; for whatever reason the only minutiae that ever stick are spats of movie dialogue and biographies of fictional characters.

Having established my nature as something between Leonard Shelby and a cork at sea, the best course of action seems simply to move on, so on I shall move.

This weekend is the Philadelphia Flower Show, and while my business has been on something of a hiatus while I adapted to my new part time job, my interest in botany hasn’t abated in the slightest.  I’m excited for the show and look forward to the multitudinous displays and the many ideas they’ll give me.  I’d already planned to restart Thistlehammer Transmutational in the spring, and now is near enough.  I’ll take a few hundred pictures and a notebook full ideas home and into the studio, and with any diligence (the lack of which is my usual downfall, not luck; luck is like pneumonia, merely a description of a set of symptoms) I’ll rejoin that part of my life fully enthused.  At the very least, I’ll see some cool plants and have some good dumplings in Chinatown.

I’ve about hit the maximum word count for the internet’s mandated attention span, and as I’ve nothing specific to share I’ll end here.  My hope is to start posting more regularly, and I’ve some ideas for future posts that I think will be pretty cool.

I look forward to sharing them with you, soon.




I wished for snow, but all that came was freezing rain.  I can hear it rattle off of the air conditioner housing, then drowned out by the vapid hum of the indoor air filter.  Now the outside seems to have melted, all the sounds have gone away and left a tangible, susurrant absence.

In the mornings, after I’ve unfurled my back and ground vertebra, muscle, and viscera back to place, I’m full of sanguine anger.  Then I can almost feel the sense of bone on blood on bone of fist to inconsequential Napoleonics, of shattered windbags and broken windpipes.  The morning was a long time ago.  I’ve none of the piss and less of the vinegar left.  Night time is a time for depression and depressants, not for activity.

This is the first I’ve put finger to keyboard for anything longer than an item description in six weeks.

I’ve an amplified version of the sense I’ve had for nearly years now, that I haven’t much to say and less inclination to say it, but the pent up statements are grinding away at me until what I live seems a very narrow life, thoughts having lost their cogency and devolved to impulse, so that the simple life I thought I’d affect has become, instead, the life of a simpleton.  A mind not used now in heavy atrophy.  Finger tips at word ends, reaching for the upward light of continued sentience, return to sapience.  I don’t apologize for big words or unclear thoughts.  This is for me.  This is how I wake back up.


Update 10 September 2016

Most of my waking time has been spent in the studio, a space far away from writing by every metric, physically divided by three floors and the insufficient reach of my wifi, mentally by the half of my brain that deals in shapes and movements, that taking over the hermit crab section which sits, watches and records.

My hands still shake, badly, but their intent is clearer, their output cleaner.  Two weeks ago I made three terrariums by hand.  It took me a month but I’ve learned to cut glass with a glass key.  My divisions are keen enough now for me to accurately cut mirror, something I’ve read is one of the most difficult types of glass object to cut cleanly.   My finishing skills have greatly improved.

I’ve discovered a hardening chemical that will enable me to better work with raw wood, putting better to use the drift wood and windfall I collect on my walks through River Front Park.

Onward progresses my plan of using recycled materials to raise environmental awareness, to operate a business that, by its existence, improves the planet.

Far from the writing frame as I’ve been I cannot put it aside completely.  Yesterday I wrote the highlights for a season long screen play.  The first idea came as a complete scene, a discussion between two unknown but familiar characters.  A great many of my ideas start this way.

I left for D.C. at noon.  I don’t remember the trip between Harrisburg and the capital city limits.  The two hours were spent ironing out plots and laying out conversations.  By the trip home I had a complete character roster, an overarching plot, a series of subplots, character back stories, an understanding of the world, and the type of interactions I want the characters to have.  It’s been a long time since my brain has handed me something so complete, my greatest fear now is that I won’t be able to get it all down before the idea begins to fade, corrode, and dissipate.

So I write here, instead, because if I don’t work on that story in can remain perfect as an idea.

Or, I write here to kick off the dust and spend the first few dried and dull strings of sentences  on something not immemorial, on something nearly transient and ephemeral.