Sometimes post-waking I tuck my mandibles into my shirt sleeves and assemble my exoskeleton on public transportation. As spirit exits body in search of locations that smell less like spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon, and feature fewer people yelling into track phones to parole officers about where they can locate that breathalizer device for the old Honda, all six of my in-body eyes activate for the express purpose of recording. The human parasite is an interesting organism, oozing and infesting every available entryway. This is what I do: Observe. Record. Float. Report back to Avalon. Apologize. Lie.
I also enjoy detecting earthquakes, real or imagined. More a skeksi than a gelfling, both ringwraith and Ent.
My first book, Psychopomp Volume 1: Cracked Plate, is something you should buy: https://squareup.com/market/one-eye-two-crows-press
Three other books rotting on my hard drive. Not sure which to pimp next, but something tells me the insomnia ramblings will accidentally finish on account of a return to no-sleep. Single shots of espresso are cruel, unless poured directly into eye.
Every head and house has a haunting. Methinks the entity is me.
Someone needs to translate the static.
They used to have 3D pictures in shopping malls in cheap frames supported by tripods, with generic objects buried in the fecal matter of film. People would stare and wait to see the tree or triangle or sailboat spill out, and all I ever wished for were words.
That's still what I'm wishing for: an enigma decoded and framed.
This is the serious business part:
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and I Wept (Elizabeth Smart)
Everything by Ray Bradbury
Everything by Shakespeare, but especially the Tempest and Hamlet,
Everything by Sylvia Plath
Everything by Jennifer Egan
Everything by Charlotte Delbo
Alan Moore (mostly his essays)
Peter Mattheissen, Thomas Pynchon, Robert Anton Wilson, and so many more.
This will be updated. A lot.