Egg Yolks, Dandelions & the Kaleidoscopic Mystery of Life.

Greens, author image.

This, dear reader, is the rare post that is transcribed directly from today’s journal entry, hence, the quirky perspective in the beginning. I’ll say no more.

The last entry is not the fleshed-out version that I posted on the website to a degree that I haven’t allowed up till now. That is, I’ve always up until now been careful to include here all, or reasonably most of all, what I’m posting there, as it were, because frankly the website and blog just don’t seem real or permanent enough to me. Sure, none of this is permanent, none of this will last, from a blog post to a piece of solid state memory, it all goes away one day, all things must pass and all that but I’m rather referring to my sense of where my work resides. All the eleven-plus years of getting this stuff down “on paper” has its own (I hate to call it a tradition) legacy, I guess. Something troubles me about suddenly allowing my journaling to be reduced to throwaway social media driven bloviations. I want my bloviations to at least resemble worthy work. And the medium of course doesn’t matter but somehow a string of blog posts or newsletter posts – call them what you will, who cares? – automatically seem incidental, that’s the only apt word for them.

So, I continue to begin with them here and experiment with placing them “out there” and I feel better meanwhile knowing that I can simply cancel all my silly website ambitions and aspirations and experimentations (I really have the sense that that’s all my internet existence is and will ever be: an experiment) any time I want, no harm, no foul. Why? Mostly because never seems to me to be the archive that it could be argued that it is. The internet, for all its amazing resources and accessibility and its success as the greatest storehouse and resource of information that has ever been – what doesn’t it contain or have the potential to contain besides pretty much everything? – remains, to me, in a word: junky.

The internet is chock full of junk. So that even the great shit gets tarnished by association. I can’t tell you how many times I’m looking at something – reading or watching or listening or all three – and the first thing I do is make certain that whatever it is that I really like isn’t available in some “better” format; namely, a book or even a video collection somewhere that is devoted to such things. HWG likes to reference hard copies of things. I do not. Nevertheless, if something I like only exists on some website it’s still to me like it barely and tentatively exists at all.

I’m not exactly sure what I’m talking about. But my intuition is what it is. Perhaps it dates me, but I really don’t think so. There are younger folks, that is, who get much more into bashing the modern and everything digital because, I believe, the appeal of certain formats is a personal taste thing, which amounts to a personal mythology thing. Vinyl records, as I’ve discussed, from my audiophile perspective, have always driven me crazy with their sonic shittiness, their impossibly affected limits. They have always and always will sound like ass. But some folks dig the tactile quality of things, the finger-friendly, graphics welcoming size and shape and heavy, clumsy, horrid technical wonkiness and thingness of certain things. Slabs of vinyl that barely reproduce the otherwise likewise limited master tapes that they came from, for example, Remember, folks, your original masters are all on TAPE. And tape sucks. (There have been, I believe, direct-to-LP-master recordings but only as what amount to audiophile test discs and if I’m not mistaken I owned one in my youth and I wish I could recall the name of it here, sorry). Meanwhile, tape. Remember cassettes? Yuck. And don’t even get me started on so-called eight-tracks. Yikes.

I’ve spiraled. So be it. I hate vinyl records. HWG loves to have and hold them. But he listens to hi-resolution streaming music. Which is to say he hasn’t replaced the turntable he got rid of twenty-five years ago. Not least for the indescribably superior sound (given a great master) that, at a minimum FLAC (CD-quality) delivers and your whole body in my opinion, will feel as much as your ears will hear, trust me – but also because of (and this returns us to the idea of the internet) the library, the archive, the access. Where else can you find such a wealth of music? And now, in hi-res.

Shutting up on that. I’m banging away in this journal until I get to a year that I decide isn’t going to involve a new DOP volume. I have tried to kill this thing off several times, after all, thinking that I’m done with the idea; that it no longer serves, no longer adds value, no longer helps move me forward. Let it go and see what comes back, as they say – it remains very good advice. When in doubt, do not hang on to a thing. Let it go. Period. Because in personal mythological terms it’s not up to you. It’s a cosmic mandate or not. In concert with your biology. But we’ve covered all this elsewhere.

In other news I was very pleased yesterday to have gone balls out on TC2 – the muse seized me and I found myself banging the story out into shape within the otherwise tattered and neglected chapter thirty-eight, the second-to-last chapter (so far at least), so that it indeed finally feels like the manuscript has become a book. By that I mean to say it has a legitimate beginning, middle and end that holds together respectably as a novel and not just a fucked-up tangle of loose ends that lead nowhere and, very importantly, it ramps up at the end. That is, I’m keen to have it finish in a fury. Call it a cliff hanger ending, call it what you will, my heart tells me that TC must keep driving forward with speed, each book must have all the character arcs and disasters and story arc that makes for good reading but I also need to have it read furiously, as it were, as if the plot is a runaway train at the “end” that is not an ending, if you know what I mean. I like the books that at the last page won’t let you go and you put it down with the thing still ringing in your head, either booming like, wow, that was CRAZY (uppercase) or, hmm, that was crazy (lowercase) but either way you remain gripped and can’t wait for more, for the next book.

This is a very tricky magic trick and of course it is magic and myth and all the intangible art-craft weirdness and wonder that happens in spite of trying to make it happen. Which is to say that for months I’ve been fretting and trying not fret about the book’s ending. It has to be worthy and it wasn’t. The final chapters weren’t finished. And I had an awful day of torturous anxiety the day before yesterday because I felt it was all, for better or worse but perilously on the edge of worse, coming to a head that either was snappy and jazzy and apt and awesome or forced, lame, fucked up and, heaven forbid, dull. I was thinking, jeezus, after all this I’m going to end up with a flat ending? Something that would inspire a reader, including myself, to say, cripes, this is anti-climactic blah, blah bullshit. And to toss the thing aside and trash it with a well-deserved pissy online review.

No. Time Crime. Cannot. Be. Blasé. Believe me, I understand that I am not the gifted wordsmith, the immaculately gifted craftsman of prose or dialogue. I get it. I read my writing (and perhaps other writers endure this, too, I can only assume my woes are not unique) and always struggle to accept its – for lack of a better word: lack. I aspire, relentlessly, to achieve transporting prose. I read things as much for the writing, otherwise considered style, as for the story but there’s more to it than style, I think; it’s rather a magic touch on behalf of an author that takes a story that can’t help but resemble some other story and invigorates it with an intangible flair. It resonates with, I don’t know, the music of the spheres, the ring of truth, the mystery of myth, the power of prose. Prose does something no other art-craft medium can do and short of trying and failing to define that quality I can at least express the fact that we know it when we read it. Rocket sauce. Wow, I say, when I read an author’s great sentence. That’s it exactly. I couldn’t have been said, or written, any better.

Do I ever accomplish it? Does my work ever ring true? It’s not really for me to judge. When I try to be as objective as I can about my stuff, as good as it gets, I would say it gets the job done. In terms of that special writerly rocket sauce I think it routinely falls short. That is, my writing voice isn’t much of one. Too often I sound like everybody else and nobody at all. Workaday is not what I aspire to but nevertheless it’s what I have a tendency to produce. God, how I wish it weren’t that way. I do work to enliven things by way of drilling deeply into my underlying inspiration. How, I ask myself, do I get further up and further in, to borrow a sentiment from Joyce. How do I bring this more to life? If I’m in one of my rare descriptive passages, I can’t resort to purply prose. Don’t go getting intentionally poetic. No. If I’m dealing with dialogue, internal or otherwise, how do I intensify the experience that I’m trying to evoke or demonstrate or communicate? How is it really what the character is experiencing?

All this usually involves allowing and enduring what inevitably strike me as diversions or distractions that, given their proper attention, contribute the magic. I’ll be hammering away with things, doing my determined workaday work within whatever draft and damned if something doesn’t cry out for more exposition or detail or tweaking or a handful of sentences, another whole paragraph or even an entire scene or chapter that, really, goddammit, I was not intending and not in the “mood” for. I place “mood” in scare quotes because it’s a constant struggle for me to allow the muse, call it what you will, to take over like that, to interrupt my overtly conscious, hyper-cognitive awareness of what I’m doing and planning to do and rather let the book take over.

In this sense, then, I’m pleased when I know I’ve surrendered and not pushed too hard for a productivity that is simply that. More words. More pages. More this or that written down. No. It’s not about that. But working it along in that way, being tenaciously professional in that way, working in spite of less-than-inspiring energies, let’s call it, is part of the job that a guy like Nick Cave does well to communicate (see previous post). So that you remain ready and able for the muse, the magic, the being taken over by the characters and the world-building and the mythology.

I don’t intend to sound trippy. But writing fiction probably has to be trippy. A novel writes itself. That’s pretty trippy. What sucks about that is when you as the writer aren’t at all certain that you can keep up with it or help it get where it needs to go; that you don’t have a handle on things. I don’t despair too much with this. I consider myself fortunate to both like, in general, my storylines, and to therefore be free of problems with what the novels are about. They are about what they must be about. I’ve yet to feel tapped out or baffled as to how to proceed. I haven’t suffered the what-do-I-write-about thing that some writers suffer. And I am thankful and consider it a gift that the stories have indeed arrived in this manner. It’s a privilege to have something to write about.

Nevertheless, even being blessed with plenty to write about, I wish that my writing was remarkable. I’m not apologizing because that merely insults the work that I’ve been given and the readers who enjoy it. They are out there. They may not be many, but I know you are there and I’m lucky to have you. I’m tasked with doing my best to get it across, within my means. That’s all any of us are tasked with, namely, aspiring to greatness and enduring and respecting and celebrating, in our humble manner, our humble results. It’s everything. It’s just a book. It’s everything. It’s just a book. And so on. This is the perpetually enlivening yet maddeningly frustrating paradox, isn’t it, of our experience?

Today, then, I look forward to immersing myself in the last chapter of TC2. And seeing what happens. Then, perhaps there will be an epilogue, inevitably brief, I’m not certain, we’ll see. I like the trailing sentiment that a proper epilogue contributes, like a little gift to take away with you as a reader. If, for example, you’ve been otherwise thrilled or saddened or exhausted by having come to the ending, an epilogue says, Look here, friend, it’s not completely over. It doesn’t have to end. It never has to end. If it’s been a wild, unhinged rocket ride, here’s a little return to Earth. Or, if it’s been a horror, here’s a little comfort. If it’s been sad, perhaps here’s something a little less so. I don’t know. For me, the epilogue invites one last envelope of tantalizing mystery into your psychological mailbox, so to say. If nothing else, it bestows the sense of more to come in life and death.

Egg Yolks, Dandelions & the Kaleidoscopic Mystery of Life. As always, there are images that have inspired whatever I write about. And I enjoy including a link to something as often as I can that may serve to demonstrate or evoke or simply acknowledge, however indirectly, whatever it is that moves me. The devoted reader will understand that I have another very devoted vocation all to do with being a home cook (with experience as a professional cook) and for those who have not read my very early posts, well, let’s just say that there is plenty of mythology, personal and cultural, if you care to look for it, within the realm of food and cookery. If you enjoy this fine and funny Japanese film from 1985, Tampopo, then we think alike:

Syncro-Vox Heaven & the Bliss of Exploding Butterflies


Let’s just say it’s all about metamorphosis. I spent eight hours yesterday completing the prologue to TC2, rewriting here and there but mostly adding. And adding. And, of course, I became fraught with the idea that this is supposed to be a prologue not another version of the first chapter of the novel. Stop! I tried to tell myself – what are you doing? I mean, I want to get to the end not reinvent the beginning.

Well, I didn’t actually tell myself to stop because mostly I’m still comfortable enough with my intuition and unaffected enough by the outside world, i.e., a readership, to allow everything to write itself. But a prologue? And a ten-page version at that? So be it. I pounded it out and I like it. It sets a stage I hadn’t expected to set, begins things within an ancient future, returns to everybody’s favorite antagonists, namely, the Molemen, and introduces enough mystery, drama and conflict straightaway to energize the story. I suppose you can manage to pack too many disasters into a novel so that it eventually reads like a comic book or plays like a television drama or a silly blockbuster action film but then again, perhaps not. Better to error on the side of shit happening instead of shit getting ready to happen. As if I have a choice at all. If you write novels you know that this stuff just arrives and you’re not in charge as much as along for the ride. You’re not the reader but then again you’re not the writer, either, as much as you’d like to consider yourself such. Oh, this is what I’m writing. When a chapter ago you were convinced you were writing that other thing. Such is the experience.

When it’s working and I know that it’s good (or good enough within the boundaries of what I perceive as my humble measure of talent) I mostly love the idea of routinely overstepping good taste, and erroring on the side of tropey, campy, science fiction indulgence, let’s call it; of surrendering in a wink-wink manner to the established and expected. It’s fun, after all, to give in to and get what you want out of a thing, especially when the context is SF, a genre that has always happily exploited its own absurdities and ambitions. There’s room for everybody within SF, I’m convinced of it. From hard to soft, from horror to humor, from mystery to romance and everything in between, there’s a place within SF for whatever you find yourself writing. The single requirement in my opinion, the single marker of what makes science fiction into science fiction being not so much a speculative perspective, though certainly that is a requirement – is Atwood really SF? (dunno myself, I’ve never read her) – as a sense of, in my opinion at least, and I hate to say it because it probably puts me on the side of critics versus fans: irony. Defined as the experience of something not being what it appears.

I am not hereby automatically disparaging the idea of earnestness. No. I enjoy earnestness immensely. Probably because the more intensely earnest the earnestness is, the more enlivened the irony. I was watching the inaugural podcast, just a chat, really, posted by the Crafsman and T-Nu (from Cajun Craftastrophe) and the video background or wallpaper, as it were, happened to be clips from a mid-1960s, American animated television series entitled Space Angel which apparently aired in five-minute segments (yes, five-minutes!) in its day and used the utterly campy and nowadays impossibly endearing so-called Syncro-Vox technique:

Syncro-Vox (sometimes spelled Synchro-Vox) is a filming method that combines static images with moving images, the most common use of which is to superimpose talking lips on a photograph of a celebrity or a cartoon drawing. It is one of the most extreme examples of the cost-cutting strategy of limited animation. The method was developed by cameraman Edwin “Ted” Gillette in the 1950s to simulate talking animals in television commercials.

“Syncro-Vox”,, retrieved 7.7.21.

I’m not sure how I managed to miss this strange little show because as a kid I watched so many otherwise cheesy television programs, original broadcasts and reruns, from Spiderman to Bugs Bunny cartoons, from Get Smart to the Brady Bunch, from Lost In Space to Star Trek, from Godzilla to The Three Stooges, what have you, but so be it, better late than never. What do I mean by “cheesy”? Cheap, unpleasant or blatantly inauthentic? Now, of course, yes. Then? I have always been a discerner, everybody is in their way, and I can recall preferring the vastly more accomplished artistry and storytelling of the golden age Warner Bros. cartoons – Bugs, Daffy, Elmer Fudd, Peppe Le Pew, Foghorn Leghorn and the rest – over what I perceived even in my adolescence as the hackneyed technique and insipid themes of, say, Hana-Barbera episodes. With the exception of the Flintstones and the Jetsons, which I loved, so, there you go, I shouldn’t single out Hanna-Barbera as especially cheesy. (Apparently Hanna and Barbera were the guys who created Tom & Jerry before founding their own cartoon company).

Anyway, back to Space Angel. Within the Crafsman-T-Nu “craft pod” we don’t get the sound. But the images do their work.

That is to say, within the context of the friendly, earnest, self-aware, shamelessly quirky adventurism that anybody who gets SF, well, gets. We could discuss at length what makes the fiction of SF different than the fiction of Fantasy but whomever coined the idea that SF communicates what isn’t real but one day could be, whereas fantasy communicates what isn’t real and could never be, had it concisely correct. So, take your pick. And what all great storytelling shares, by the way is, you guessed it: mythology.

In the 1990s I recall the irony-loaded (or overloaded, depending upon your opinion) Cartoon Network show, Space Ghost: Coast-to-Coast. Which is an example of driving irony in upon itself to the extent that it becomes so arch and dry and witty that it inevitably seems to destroy all they happy oxygen in the room. I liked Space Ghost. But when irony transforms from the tongue-in-cheek, poking fun perspective to the cutting, mocking, ridiculing version then, within the context of my entertainments, I’m going elsewhere.

Prologues, then. They can signify hackneyed, lazy, info-dump heavy writing or they can indeed serve as value-adding backstory or engaging foretelling (as it were) otherwise impossible to present in any other manner. And having written one and emerged pleased with the result, I can say that a good prologue isn’t an introduction as much as immersion. It’s not the first chapter as much as pre-game fireworks. It references aspects of the first novel without having anything to do with it. It’s not seeking a once-upon-a-time vibe as much as getting everybody in tale-telling mode. And in my case it serves to allow for characters who otherwise have no permanent place within the story to sprinkle their magic sprinkles and disappear into the reader’s subconscious. Or into the mysteriously entangled realm of what makes for a book series. The following linked article addresses the concerns and legitimate advantages of a prologue judiciously, which is to say mostly sans the inevitably jaded perspective of the editor type:

In the end, I just go with my intuition, with my gut, with what the book tells me it wants. As a novelist you’re on the high wire from the beginning anyway, risking all, making yourself vulnerable to most punishing and humiliating and soul-destroying of criticisms, right or wrong, ruthless or insightful, sensitive or insensitive, hurtful or helpful. It has to be fun, there has to be conflict, it has to be entertaining, if only to yourself. And you go from there.

Otherwise, I need to wrap this up because I have indeed been so busy hammering away at the manuscript lately that, well, blog posts require at least half a day’s honest work and lately I haven’t had the mental space nor enough hours in the day to do it right. I owe everybody my best work, or at least my best effort, after all. As an update, TC1 has sold six copies in the last three weeks, an eBook, an audiobook, and four paperbacks spread across the U.S., U.K. Germany and France, yay!

I had intended to include a quote or two from one of Nick Cave’s recent Red Hand Files because it so effectively communicates life within the creative process but better, I think, to just include the link:

And meanwhile make room here for a tidbit from TC2, as a kind of snack for everyone who has taken the trouble to read this far. What follows is the very beginning (at least as it stands today) in the second draft of the manuscript, a mere portion of the prologue. I’ve two chapters left to edit and then by the end of this week, the gods willing, I’ll be on to the third draft. I’d read somewhere that there is the first draft, the goal of which is to get a beginning, middle and end with sufficient disasters in between, followed by the second draft which aims to put in everything you forgot to add, then the third draft which removes everything you don’t need and finally, the fourth draft hones it all into publishable form. Well, I don’t believe for a moment that a manuscript is ready for publication after only four drafts but I get the idea that we need at least the four drafts to bang something into recognizable, serviceable shape as a novel. Gotta go. Thanks and happy reading, everybody.


“Your skirmishes with the Cham have squandered manpower and resources. Your generals and captains die in the fields alongside their warriors, horses and elephants. Your women and children are taken slaves. The hydraulics are neglected. The rice is not harvested. The tax is not collected. Energy for building is wasted in war. Because of you, the completion of the temple is made impossible.”

“Great Lord,” said the king. He lay face down upon the floor of the shrine with arms outstretched, prostrate in the Khmer manner of obeisance, and reached further towards the feet of the molemen, his voice muffled by the sandstone blocks. “Holy Trimurti, forgive me. I have not properly understood. Instruct me. What alms will appease you? What sacrifices? Is it your will that the Cham destroy us?”

“Fool,” said Zero-Seven. “You do understand. And no alms will appease us. What could the Khmer possess that we require? You have lied all along and you are lying now.”

“Lord?” The king craned his neck and looked up, his pained expression made vaguely hideous by his reddened teeth and the smudged discoloration of his lips.[1]

Zero-Seven reluctantly tweaked the resolution of his auto-translator. Always there was the annoying possibility of misapprehension, of the colloquial Khmer words confounding the translation of the royal language. He prepared to repeat himself.

“Wait,” said Four-Alpha. “Suryavarman. We have bestowed upon you the power to rule. Likewise, we have blessed the Khmer with the engineering to control the waters and increase the yield of rice. And the architectural means to embody the celestial city here, at the center of this world.” He winked at Zero-Seven and rolled his eyes. “Your salvation, that of the masses and your own, is maintained by us. Hence, the Cham is not of your concern. Neither the Vietnamese. Nor Siamese. Nor even the Chinese.”

Suryavarman forgot himself and sat up. “But, Lord! Oh, my gracious Lord, the Chinese buy our Kingfisher feathers, elephant tusks, rhinoceros’s horn, beeswax, incense, pepper. And their merchants bestow gold, silver and silks, the finely glazed pottery, the tin goods, sandalwood, musk, linen, iron pots, copper trays and freshwater pearls. The ballista for war.[2]

“War,” said Six-Naught-Six. “Is nothing but childish aggression disguised as purpose. The Aztecs, Greeks and Romans at least had their sport as an occasional substitute. Meanwhile, trinkets. Luxuries. Indulgences of betel, wine, women and slaves. You are like one of your jungle crows, transfixed by sparkling objects of no utility. At the cost of everything that matters. Stand, Suryavarman. And call your rājahotar from his hiding place.”

Suryavarman II scrambled to his feet. He snapped his fingers and waited. They all waited, as usual, for the venerable high priest, a slightly built, almost toothless crag of a man who appeared to be at least twice the age of the king, to hobble from behind his elaborate curtain and assume his deferential place an arm’s length behind Suryavarman.

Six-Naught-Six toggled off his transponder and addressed Zero-Seven and Four-Alpha in their native Engineering tongue. “Testing, one, two,” he murmured. Satisfied the translator was disabled, he proceeded. “Our predicament is plain enough. The Khmer are flawed. Humans are flawed. But these Khmer in particular lack sufficient intelligence and discipline and the will to work. Suryavarman himself is lazy, stupid and distracted by his own petty self-interests. This chief, so-called engineer priest of his? Wizened, obviously. But wise? Cunning, I’ll give him that. Enough to contrive his priestly authority through, what – the reign of three kings including this one? Meanwhile, an engineer priest is nothing but a contradiction in terms.

“We have squandered ten Earth years upon this charade,” he continued, “teaching these fools astronomically relevant mathematics and the basics of stone architecture and hydraulic engineering. And now any diamagnetic advantages of an equatorial orientation for the component have been proven as insufficient and irrelevant as that of the Mayan experiment. Alongside the breakthroughs in hyper-dimensional resolution? It only makes the irony more keenly intolerable.”

“Which irony?” sneered Zero-Seven. “That we, the Angkor team, were the statistical favorites over the Maya project clods and their sprawling geographical mess and that the Giza project wasn’t even expected to survive their first round of funding? Or that the future is the past? So that a three-millennia cultural head start transformed us from frontrunners to also-rans? The Maya team failed as the bureaucratic money pit we all anticipated. Giza ought to have flopped as a hopeless one man show. Yet here we are. It’s not merely intolerable. It’s humiliating.”

“Regardless,” said Six-Naught-Six, “We have failed.”

Four-Alpha stood scowling. “We are to allow Double-Five and his crew the victory in Giza? No. I say we assume control. Smash the Cham ourselves, make an example of this little tin toy of a king and his senile priest and drive this wretched populace like the chattel that they are.”

“A tactic,” said Six-Naught-Six, “that will distort the future beyond our control. And guarantee that each of us is court marshalled. No. Your frustration only exemplifies our failure. We have accomplished nothing besides bleeding Moleman secrets into this stinking Khmer soil. And you, Four-Alpha. You would do things differently now? You allowed this petty tyrant his little egomaniacal indulgences. You allowed him to muster his army yet again and to threaten the Cham.”

“You blame me?” Four-Alpha stomped his foot. “What in blazes have I done short of my duty?”

“You have addressed this puny ruler as an equal. And you have taught him enough of our language that he is likely deciphering enough of this conversation to yet again put us at risk of a mutiny.”

“Mutiny? What would you know of such a thing? Lounging within the cloaked zone, chatting with mission control, growing fat on our rations. While I risk my neck every day on the scaffolds and in the excavations? Directing the foremen. Enduring this despicable weather and the horrible ultraviolet and the biting insects and disgusting food? I gnaw upon roasted fruit bats and pick maggots from my spoiled rice alongside the laborers. I am in the trenches, literally. If there were talk of mutiny I would know it. No. The only mutiny is within this room, among ourselves….”

Carnegie Olson, “Prologue,” Time Crime 2: Empire & Oracle, (Ann Arbor: Humble Hogs Press, 2021-22), 1-4. This citation likewise applies to the footnotes below.

[1] Like many Khmer, the king avails himself of the famous betel chew, an alkaloid-rich masticatory comprised of the berry of the areca palm tree mixed with lime and wrapped with Piper Betle leaves and used as a stimulant throughout Southeast Asia.

[2] A weapon consisting of two opposing bows, designed to be mounted upon an elephant or wheeled vehicle that shot arrows with tremendous force.

P.S. I think ya’ll might be happy to know, too, that new artwork – an illustration of the Mothman Empress! – is almost complete and it is by none other than Kevin E., whom those who pay attention to such things will recognize from the copyright and dedication pages of TC1. So, stay tuned for an eye-popping book cover update as well as a mind-blowing illustration for the interior!

Who Am I…?

“Bundle,” author image.

Somebody was kind and wholeheartedly innocent enough to forward to me a link to a ballot for the NPR Summer SFF Poll.

I apologize to my kind friend because they couldn’t know that the little editorial-sales-pitch NPR attached to this ballot would get my underwear in a bundle and inspire me to bitch out NPR’s Public Editor, so-called. Which is to say that people are good – I really do believe that – but this decade (so far) has too often managed to communicate an intolerable amount of…, well, what follows speaks for itself.

As an organization that ought to know better, which is to say an organization that many moons ago actually celebrated quality and talent as an end in itself versus image-minded, media-driven gamesmanship at all costs, NPR’s militant virtue signaling (militant in the sense that you attack and suppress your perceived opposition) and transparently crippling anxiety over our litigation culture’s threat to your institutional propagation, disguised as apologetics, can also be relegated to yet another historical example of unhinged righteousness. Yes, NPR is fascist. Look it up.

Did it ever occur to any of you, as you mow around your “Black Squirrels Matter” yard sign with your electric mower fueled by a coal-fired power plant (cough) that by banging the diversity drum you are indeed banging a drum? And it’s the same drum that segregates and divides and singles out a person according to the color of their skin? If you can see the color of their skin past their worthless dust mask? So that when you celebrate the really idiotic idea of cramming SF authors into a “best of” list base upon, first of all, their race and secondly by their gender, we all know that you mean to segregate OUT the whites and specifically white males who, as it happens and utterly without such an agenda in mind, inaugurated and established and made great exactly the genre that you seek to run through a cultural blender. To make yourselves feel better. You’ve all apparently inherited a sense of guilt that would make even a devout catholic shudder. Oh, by the way, that reminds me: why don’t you single out authors on behalf of their religion, too, while you’re at it?

You are better than me. Okay. Except you’re also as ethically repulsive and neurotic as any other racist, misogynist, homophobic, self-assigned autocrat or self-aggrandizing tyrant. How many races are there? Who cares? How many genders are there? Again, how and why should it matter? If you can’t somehow discern an author’s personal details, by the way, how do you folks go about selecting what books to read? Do you ask around to discover if so and so is, say, black? Or Chinese? Or gay? What the f*ck (all hail, free speech!) does any of it have to do with writing science fiction novels? What does it accomplish to pad your list with anything but the very best within the context of the writing itself? And how will this list be at all representational of what people who submit responses actually voted for if you are going to suppress votes (yes, admit it) and otherwise reassemble the list that makes y’all feel good about the world, which is to say, about yourselves?

You are hypocrites because you make race and gender the context of your conversation no matter the content of the conversation while trying to eliminate race and gender as the context to begin with. You have everything backwards and upside down. Why can’t you see this? Why must you insist upon mutating what seems to me to be a late 1960s, summer of love, we-can-change-the-world naivete, for all the silly fun that was, into an organized witch hunt evocative of the Middle Ages?

Who am I…? I used to actually support, with my hard-earned cash, what I perceived, wrongly apparently, as your organization’s commitment to excellence sans righteous adjudication and insider privilege. You are failing the freedoms and liberties you so earnestly appropriate because you’ve made them a cause. Science fiction? I write it. I read it. I am the future, part of it at least, and my race, gender and sexual preferences – let’s assume I’m using a pen name just to keep from making it easy for you – are irrelevant. But then you’ll just search my address for clues to all that, won’t you? And now that I’ve posted this on F-Book (unless my comment has already been censored, cancelled and removed) you can just look at my picture. And promptly bestow your adjudications. Who are you people? What would George Orwell think of NPR these days? You’re all so self-satisfied and drunk on your hyper-liberal Kool-Aid that you fail to see that you’ve become what you hate. Screw you and screw your list.

All That We Can’t Leave Behind. Or, Horror is the Foreground of Wonder.

All That We Can’t Leave Behind, author image

Dreams. Visions of greatness. For most of us, not least of all us writers, that’s all our aspirations ever amount to. And of course taking into account the potential reach and marketability of one’s topic, field or genre is an undeniable necessity, an insurmountable reality. Exceptions, that is, indeed merely prove the rule of marketplace practicalities. Meanwhile, it’s always fascinating and remarkable and beyond mysterious how outsized, hyperbolic success actually does happen to people. That is to say, how it manages to happen to anyone at all.

Yet it does. In virtually every field of endeavor. Novelists hit it big, everybody knows it happens (not that most folks comprehend how rarely), and I even stumbled across an example of an author who writes fiction and pursues scholarship seemingly from a similarly mythos centric or at least folkloric perspective akin to my own and manages, somehow, to shatter all aspects of perceived conventional limitations. His name is Kyōgoku Natsuhiko, born in 1963, a man merely two years older than me, which only reinforces, despite the cultural disparities, my sense that shared generational perspectives, let’s call them, oftentimes appear to exist.

Kyōgoku is almost supernaturally prolific. Since his debut novel in 1994, he has written dozens of books and hundreds of short stories and essays. Many of his novels are so long they are easily spotted in the paperback section of a bookstore: bricklike books dwarfing their neighbors. His fiction has been adapted for television, film, manga, and anime. He also publishes research articles, edits academic volumes on yōkai, lectures widely throughout Japan, and appears annually in forums and panel discussions, where he always draws a huge crowd. He is a celebrity in both the literary and yōkai worlds, and his work brings these two worlds together.

Michael Dylan Foster, The Book of Yōkai: Mysterious Creatures of Japanese Folklore, (Oakland, University of California Press, 2015), 70.

Kyōgoku references, as one would assume he must, Mizuki Shigeru (1922-2015), the renowned manga and anime illustrator and author who, according to Foster, “most transformed the elusive yōkai of folklore into the concrete yōkai characters of contemporary popular culture and mass media” (Foster, 62). This is an art-crafter who has achieved the scale and intensity of mythologization even within his own lifetime that outstrips our typical concepts of fame. Within Mizuki’s hometown of Sakaiminato, bronze statues of his yōkai characters line the street named after him, there is a museum devoted to his work and tens of thousands visit each year (Foster, 64).

But to return to Kyōgoku, the description that inspires me, tentatively at least given my lack of familiarity (I only just encountered his story) appears within Foster’s previously cited The Book of Yokai (Foster, 71):

The Summer of the Ubume is the first work in Kyōgoku’s “Hyakkiyagyō series” of novels, each of which features many of the same characters found in the others and draws on a Sekien1 yōkai for title and motif. The theme of each story reflects the nature of the particular yōkai, resulting in a unique blend of the mystical atmospherics of yōkai fiction and the rational deductive methods of a modern detective novel. Kyōgoku’s writing is famous for its sophisticated use of difficult kanji2 and the books themselves are known for their high production values and stylish design.

1. Referencing Toriyama Sekien (1712-1788), an artist who, according to Foster, “had the most significant influence on how we envision and understand yōkai to this day.” Born in Edo, he was a follower of the Kanō school of painting. Citation: Michael Dylan Foster, The Book of Yōkai…, 48.
2. A system of Japanese writing using Chinese characters.

Within the context of Time Crime, many of the same characters of course appear within the series, particular mythological motifs (in my case cultural and geographical) are drawn upon for each novel and I like to think that a competent blend of mythological atmospherics and rational, deductive, detective story methods are the result. Furthermore, within the entry for the English translation of The Summer of the Ubume, I find this description of the tale: “Only Kyōgokudō’s knowledge of Japanese folklore – and specifically the legend of the ubume, often associated with death in childbirth – can make sense of the conflicting evidence…” which inevitably evokes Mr. Z.’s own “keenness for cosmic lore” as I describe it on TC1’s back cover blurb; a keenness which he of course uses to help solve time crimes. There is nothing new under the sun.

And my point is that if this guy can do it, publishing 800-page novels with academically robust mythological leanings that somehow readers flock to, then how unrealistic is it to pursue my own, infinitely more modest version of success?

Meanwhile, the molted exoskeleton of a periodical cicada – what entomologists refer to as the exuviae – (a photograph of which appears as the theme image for this post) is something I found on the sidewalk this morning. Here in Ann Arbor our 17-year brood emergence took place a couple of weeks ago but there remain plenty of these remains laying around or stuck to a tree trunk or even adhered to the slats of wooden fences. The little beasts begin as eggs within the bark of trees (inserted there by the adult females), hatch, go underground, attach themselves to suitably juicy tree roots and feed upon the sap for, in this example, seventeen long years until they struggle from the earth, transform and continue the cycle.

Strangely, however, this year I’m not hearing the distinctive drone – that unmistakably alien sounding, crescendo-decrescendo chorus of rasping mating calls that oftentimes provides a loud summertime soundtrack (for me, it evokes the unnatural, grating whine of high-voltage electrical equipment).

Within the context of Time Crime, the exuviae evokes one of the motifs within TC2 that I’m working into the manuscript. Sometime last month it struck me to have the Mothman Empress – preliminary artwork already exists courtesy of HW Guy – desperate as she is to win the war against the Molemen, commit to initiating histogenesis (from the Latin words histo, meaning tissue, and genesis, meaning origin or beginning) otherwise known as the cocooning process appropriate to moths (butterflies produce a chrysalis but moths produce a cocoon).

Within the pupal case, most of the caterpillar body breaks down through a process called histolysis. Special groups of transformative cells, which remained hidden and inert during the larval stage, now become the directors of the body’s reconstruction. These cell groups, called histoblasts, initiate biochemical processes which transform the deconstructed caterpillar into a viable butterfly or moth.

Why include this motif in the novel? Because the metamorphosis or transformation is intended to endow her with even greater, perhaps unmatched psi-abilities and she’s a little bit cracked off to begin with, after all, succumbing to the pressures of having murdered… wait, SPOILER ALERT! Anyway, histogenesis within the Mothman culture has long since been considered a backwards and primitive and very dangerous relic of their own species and they’ve worked hard as a culture to, as they interpret it, advance beyond their more unsightly and less civilized origins. But what does a culture do whenever it’s undergoing a mythological schism? Or a war? Or anything that strains its sense of identity and perpetuation? Why, of course, revisit their myths!

It’s pretty gross, this histogenesis idea, to say nothing of the visuals (check out the brief cicada brood emergence video above, narrated by David Attenborough, very cool!) and horrible in its psychological and visceral way but it fits in perfectly with the epigraph of TC2, namely, “Horror is the foreground of wonder.”

Moreover, the mythological tie-ins go without saying and I point to an article by Adolf Portmann, one of the early contributors to the Eranos conferences, entitled, “Metamorphosis in Animals: The Transformation of the Individual and the Type” that suggests the following:

It is scarcely possible to witness the transformations of a dragonfly without experiencing an assault of inner images pointing in the same direction as the meditations in which Jan Swammerdam for the first time reverently described the metamorphosis of the May flies as a “copy of human life.”

Adolf Portmann, “Metamorphosis in Animals: The Transformation of the Individual and the Type,” Man and Transformation: Papers from the Eranos Yearbooks, Joseph Campbell, ed., (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972 [1964]), 297.

Happy Friday, everybody. Sorry I’ve been gone so long from the blog posting. It happens. I wish you all a truly transformative weekend! Thanks for reading.

Living On the Blighted Page

Limelighted. Author image.

Meanwhile, it’s been more than a few days since my last post. Not that I don’t compose a journal entry almost every day. So why not post them all? I’ve talked about how some journal entries are just too confessional and rambling and mostly just me writing out my tortured thoughts in a manner that, to me, in the context of that inner reader that I’ve mentioned – the ineffable, intangible other reader that somehow isn’t me – is unpublishable autotherapeutic crap. Crap writing has its value in that way, so be it.

Oh, you say, all this stuff you take the time and effort to post is what you’ve somehow deemed worthy of publication? In a word, yes. Well, what’s the criteria, merely your own personal ego-centric predilections? I mean, you indie so-called authors and you bloggers, it’s just hubris and self-flattery to be dumping all your lousy bloviations on us all, isn’t it?

Yes. It is. Such is the nature of the internet. Such is the experience of living on the blighted page. It’s the volcano of shit, as I’ve heard it referred to, all this unedited, unvetted, unevaluated, mostly unread and unwanted writing and writing and more writing that previous to blogs and newsletters and the like remained, as perhaps it ought to, within the deep space nowheresville of oblivion. In a box. In a desk drawer. In a landfill. Pulped and recycled into lower quality paper. As ash in the fireplace. But I’ve already written about how I hate blogs as much as anyone somewhere, I don’t recall exactly, in the journal, perhaps back in 2011 or thereabouts. Who cares? Things change. And here we are, if we are, skateboarding or skating or tripping over the cosmic underground pool rim or across the razor’s edge of the void, what have you, pick your metaphor, together. Hello, out there.

How do I choose what to post and what not to? I have standards, yes. I critique the stuff and pass judgement. I adjudicate as best I can. What are my criteria? It’s intuitive to a large extent – the subject matter has to resonant in mythological terms, first of all, whatever that entails. Which is to say it entails at a minimum a sense of possessing a beginning, middle and end. It has to present at least the intimation of a narrative. It has to be a story. Akin to any myth. That’s what I want to read and I assume it’s all that anyone else really wants to read, too. Stories. Tales. Adventures. It can’t just be a rant. Or a complaint. Or the expression of a neurosis. That would qualify it as nothing but an editorial. Or a diary. Ho hum. No. An acceptable post will inevitably contain elements of all these things to be sure, but I’ve discussed before the difference in my opinion between a journal and a diary: the journal writes for a public and the diary is merely a running internal commentary that mostly feeds on itself. Journals reveal a person’s inner life like diaries and they both can function as self-work, as autotherapy, but with a diary you’re always and very specifically talking to yourself – there is a refuge quality in both formats but the diary’s sacrosanct privacy means that it’s better to burn even a dead person’s diary without ever opening it than violate that pact of secrecy.

Whereas a journal? Hell, if it’s somebody famous or otherwise noteworthy and you think people might get something out of it, publish the f*cking thing. Which is to say, dump it onto the web and see what happens, if anything. Because all the while that guy was writing away in his journal, he had that other reader in his head or on his shoulder or the muse was in his lap and he otherwise had some modicum of ambition or aspiration for the thing. He was writing to be read. Believe me.

All this time this week that I haven’t been posting, then, I’ve been journaling. And ever since I started this blog I’ve felt a pang of obligation and accompanying anxiety when I don’t manage to write anything that I deem worthy of reading. When I don’t post, it’s like so-called dead air on the radio, isn’t it? I have a sense that people are thinking, hey, what the f*ck? – is anybody in there? Did this guy die or something? As if anyone out there would ever go to the trouble to wonder whether I died or not. But allow me my little fantasy, dear reader, please.

Otherwise, I’ve been dutifully editing TC2, giving it my all, putting my new reservoir of time to good use in spite of enduring a heightened sense of futility and nagging intuition that I’m wasting my time and money and everybody else’s too. Life on the blighted page, again. Categorically unglamorous. It’s a struggle. Nonetheless, this morning, I’m compelled to haul this out of yesterday’s mess of an unpublishable journal entry:

Funnily enough, because it somehow didn’t seem at all like a coincidence, a Red Hand Files arrived this morning. The topic? Not even a question. Something utterly not me; rather, one of Nick’s spacier fans riffing on something from one of Nick’s books. Obscure, hyper-intuitive, playfully silly stuff – essentially a demonstration of everything anti-intellectual – with an overt nod to the innocently miraculous imagination of children. Essentially all the things that, say, my question to him was not.

It’s as if (and I know this is crazy talk) Nick himself was trying to tell me, dude, you’re not on the same page as me so stop clogging up the Red Hand Files because it’s never going to happen that I respond because I don’t know what the f*ck you’re talking about and meanwhile you’re wasting my time, thanks but no thanks.

What was my question? What did I submit to the Red Hand Files? Well, it would be rude to discuss it and then not show it. I’m neither fond of it nor embarrassed by it, after all. It just is. In my humble opinion it works as a question. It’s not just me vying for attention. At least I don’t think it is. I worked on it not being merely that. I really am curious about how Nick might respond. Hell, I don’t even use my pen name when I query the Nickster. Anyway:

Greetings, Nick. I was cruising around for the first time – “opulent intelligence” may do something to describe the vibe – and I couldn’t help noticing the reference to Falconetti. Then, within “Stuff” I was pleased to discover that Susie digs The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and of course besides the silent film aesthetic it’s a difficult experience to endure in psychological terms – I read somewhere that when it was first screened in New York City a couple of folks died in their seats watching it. Frankly, I can believe this. And if it weren’t based on a true story and therefore tragic and heroic beyond words and a heartbreaking lesson against righteousness it might instead be a great horror flick. Seriously. With all due respect to Joan herself. Otherwise, it contains all that is fine and unsettling about myth, both personal and cultural.

Anyway, film being more or less one of your mediums, I was curious about your take on so-called mystical realism. And the film Ordet, in particular, another Dreyer masterwork. Or perhaps it’s more Susie’s thing. Meanwhile, I’m the guy always going on about advancing mythology, hence, I would rather classify the work of these two films as mythological realism and examples of modern mythology and it strikes me that you may get what I mean. And that your own stuff communicates, likewise, this perspective. That is, if we agree that myth => metaphor (a mostly unidirectional congruence) then mythological realism expresses the experience or encounter of metaphor. Hence, the experience or encounter of myth. In your life. As a tangible intangibility, so to say, versus merely on the page. I would argue that it differs from transcendentalism or mystical realism or even the experience of the Divine because within mythological realism there remains a narrative. Certain songs accomplish this. Hell, I suppose a dress can accomplish it, too.

You’ve no interest, as you say, in making art, nor perhaps intellectualizing your work or anybody else’s for that matter – in being confronted by things in that way (as Susie might put it), in other words. If so, I get it. And categorization never helped anybody in the end. But do you think you may indeed have a thing for mythological realism?

I know. Who in their right mind would respond to this? But people, me included, behave strangely in relation to their guides and inspirations. I read somewhere that Ian Hunter traveled to Graceland once when Elvis was alive and walked up to the front door and knocked on it. And Elvis answered. Hello? What can I do for you? That kind of thing. It seems miraculous that anybody could get past what one would assume was a gated Graceland compound but then maybe it wasn’t gated or guarded at all and perhaps Elvis didn’t feel threatened by fans? Maybe he just hung out at home sometimes and answered the front door? Maybe, too, Ian was just pulling everybody’s chain.

Point being, most of us, whether we’re “stars” in our own right or not, have our fandom moments. Or, perhaps more accurately, our fandom requirements. John Wetton of King Crimson and Asia fame told a story somewhere of his attending a James Taylor show, Taylor (of all people) being one of his heroes and he remembered going backstage and introducing himself and complimenting Taylor on his work and telling him how much it meant to him and all that and that Taylor was gracious enough not knowing who the f*ck he was. Funny and strange to imagine it. And then I just read the other day on Susie Cave’s website her story of meeting Stevie Nicks who she loves and that she had a total “fandom” moment, getting her picture taken with her and all that and so be it, this is how it works. Ex-international model, appeared in an Elton John video, sells her own dress designs to superstar actresses like Kate Blanchett. All goofy over meeting Stevie Nicks. I can’t explain it, fandom, nor exactly the value of it but nevertheless, there it is.

Of course you get a little older and mostly you realize that actually meeting your heroes isn’t the best result because, well, they can’t possibly live up to or even in any sensible way respond to the encounter that, from their perspective involves a complete f*cking stranger. Well, this is the way some folks with fans experience it while others assume a more in-the-context type of perspective, that fans aren’t imbeciles and are rather experiencing something important to them and it has to with your persona which is real versus anything to do with your private personality and personhood and life. You’re an image. You’re a symbol. They are identifying with a part of you, only a part, because that’s how it works. It’s not an invasion or confrontation let alone an insult or a threat to have someone walk up to you in a state of being more or less beside themselves – star struck – and inevitably say something stupid like “I love your work” and even more stupidly ask for an autograph.

Bob Fripp famously and infamously has a kind of second career excoriating and, to his credit, also attempting to explain himself, regarding the insensitivity of such folks, fans (or not) of the music. It is the weird case sometimes, of course, that the star factor makes certain people who aren’t even interested in a particular art-crafter’s or race car driver’s or actor’s work behave ridiculously. I remember, for instance, being in a Tower Records sometime in 1990 or so, when I worked in Manhattan at a Sam Goody and lived in Queens, and somehow word spread in a flash that Ozzy Osbourne was coming into the store. (Back then a big record/CD store in New York City was still occasionally a place to be). The vibe was a little nuts all of a sudden – “Ozzy Osbourne!” – whether he was indeed outside the store or some security force had called ahead, I don’t know – what did I care, I fucking had no interest whatever in Ozzy. I left, mostly relieved that nothing appeared to be going on but nevertheless intrigued in spite of myself regarding what might have been a so-called brush-with-greatness. And for all my self-proclaimed indifference, here I am writing it about it goddamn thirty-one years later. What, indeed, is happening during these brushes with greatness? Or celebrity?

One of two things. The first is simply our natural tendency to attribute unique value to the otherwise famous among us. Fame is fleeting, yes, but then again it isn’t for everybody. Madonna, for example, could probably still waltz into a (I was going to say record store but frankly I don’t think they exist anymore) shopping mall, let’s say, and cause a stir. Perhaps not. But I’m betting yes. Anyway, we attribute a special intensity of existence to these folks. Their proximity is rare, and rarity is compelling, but lots of rare things we encounter don’t affect us at all. But it’s as if the limelight, so-called, that follows the famous around is so bright or somehow so bountiful as to spill over a bit onto us, to bathe us in overflowing rocket sauce (mixing metaphors, sorry) and to endow us with special virtue for a moment. We momentarily become more relevant ourselves, more alive within the presence of celebrity, somehow, I don’t know. I do know some folks seem to seek this experience for its own sake; they follow the limelight anyway or anyhow.

Me? I like to think I respect the phenomenon of the limelight for all its suitably mythologically potent unsettling-ness all around. I’m not in it. It’s not to be sought. But it’s out there, doing its thing all over, and for better or for worse always seeking, it seems, to direct its brilliant beam upon the next victim, as it were. Otherwise, to help explain it, I can only reference Neil Peart’s famous lyric[1] as probably the most concisely wise interpretation out there:

Living on a lighted stage

Approaches the unreal

For those who think and feel

In touch with some reality

Beyond the gilded cage

Cast in this unlikely role

Ill-equipped to act

With insufficient tact

One must put up barriers

To keep oneself intact

Living in the Limelight

The universal dream

For those who wish to seem

For those who wish to be

Must put aside the alienation

Get on with the fascination

The real relation

The underlying theme

Living in a fisheye lens

Caught in the camera eye

I have no heart to lie

I can’t pretend a stranger

Is a long-awaited friend

All the world’s indeed a stage

And we are merely players

Performers and portrayers

Each another’s audience

Outside the gilded cage


The words never get old and neither does the music. Here’s to Neil. As it happens, I came across something on the web entitled, “Rush Music Taught Me That I Could Grow, That I Could Change,” on a site that posts worthy posts, I don’t know anything more about it other than it appears to be based in Canada, go figure, hey we know Rush is Canadian. But, clearly, reading the thing, this guy got much more out of Rush music than the idea, worthy as it is on its own, that he could change. Which is to say I could’ve helped him with the title. Rush Changed My Life would’ve worked if nothing else. Nevertheless, I wish this guy would’ve posted the letter.

Guides within guides. To wrap this up, last week or so I was enjoying the thirty minutes of Distant Sky that is the only portion available to those who missed the Bad Seeds show in Copenhagen in 2018 and the release of the concert film. Five or six songs. One of which is the amazing version of the title track with an appearance by Else Torp – it’s breathtaking and if you can’t do that, listen to it on your favorite streaming service (I use Qobuz because I must have my hi-res!).

Anyway, a guides-within-guides experience isn’t anything I ever expected and frankly it’s nothing I’ve ever even read about. As such, I’ve been struggling with the idea of communicating this or not because it’s intensely personal. The kind of thing that perhaps belongs in a diary or an exclusively private journal. But since I don’t write a diary, and somehow it’s my mission to evaluate the mythological effectiveness of this journal, to let it do its work such as it is, in the world, and what I encountered probably can be said to fall within the topic of mystical realism and definitely mythological realism, well, I think it’s apt and so be it.

Nick Cave was singing, it was a closeup of sorts, him at the edge of the stage as he likes to be, and I suddenly saw not Nick’s face but that of Joe Campbell. Joseph Campbell, that is, of The Hero with a Thousand Faces fame. The guy I’ve spent the last eleven or twelve years referencing more or less regularly in this damn journal. First Nick, then this subtle transformation that became unsubtle and unmistakable and there I was seeing one guide shining or rather projecting from within another. It’s really the best way I can attempt to describe it. And the moment passed and it was Nick again. And I know better than to ask what it means. Because it rather just is. An affecting image. Crazy. Unsettling. In its way sustaining. I don’t know, otherwise. Except that the images are here to do their work on us, come what may. And I’ll never forget it.

Thanks for reading.

[1] Lee, Lifeson, Peart, “Limelight,” from the album Moving Pictures, 1981,