Evening, dawn. The might hunter returns from the sky, to the sky. Orion- mighty hunter. Fear his sword. His..sword. “I’m sorry,” she laughs. “His sword. That’s fucking ridiculous.”
I love her. So much. I’d eat her pussy all day long, all night strong. I’d wear her like a hat. The mighty hunter returns from the sky- Orion, iron-thewed, hair shorn like a rough barbarian- business up front, pleasure in the back. Liquor up front, poker in the rear.
Orion’s snake dangles from his belt and wraps cock-like around his leg, past the bald patch on his calf where the harness boots he usually wears rub the hair off, past his ankle, with a hiss, to the top of his British Knights.
The mighty hunter spits out the nicotine patch he has been chewing and within moments seems to blur, to fade, to recede from everyone’s vision as…
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Sunday morning. You’ve awoken to the warm smell of an empty kettle on a blazing hotplate. Scrambling to turn the damn thing off, you’re reminded of what an old-timer recently told you- that Sunday mornings in summertime used to be full of the warm smell of colitas, but that a brief spasm of anti-colonial sentiment ended up with all the dope plants cut down and burned in a landfill far outside of town, their sweet vapors mingling with wine, and kerosene, and worse. Morning used to be a sweet routine on Rue de Becker et Fagen, you have been informed by stubbly foreign old-timers, whose depth of wrinkles and yellowness of hat-brims lend them the appropriate authority. “Heed our warnings,” their Carolina Herrera cologne seems to say. “We have been playing dominoes on this corner for A THOUSAND YEARS.” This is not important right now. For the moment, you have…
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I don’t know, man. It’s always been hard to keep a blog going. There’s just a lazy part of me that thinks, “Ah, I have plenty of pithy things to say on Facebook, why duplicate…” But now that I see Vince Kramer has a blog, I guess I should keep up with the Joneses. Or Kramers. Anyway, I know I have plenty of good stuff to write about- guess I will just have to try harder.
This highly anticipated anthology is out July 12th! If you like steampunk, ephemera, fringe science, althistory, pseudoscholarship… this is like a dream come true. Edited by Ann and Jeff Vandermeer, it contains stories and artwork by Alan Moore, Michael Moorcock, China Mieville, Mike Mignola, and a crapton of other awesome people. Including me… check out my microfiction/illustration “Coffin Torpedo” on page 294!
You know, there was a time that I was not free.
Most people aren’t- but I am lucky in that to some measure I am free.
Worked hard today, and now it’s night. The groceries are brought in, wife and daughter are tucked in bed. So I’m a husband and father, but now- tonight? What am I? Well, tonight I am a composer. There’s something amazing about being able to say that. To be able to do that.
It’s because I was aware of the choice to be free that I escaped the clutches of despair. So in gratitude, while I begin my musical work, I have lit an incense. For the Tathagatha, who was willing to share what he discovered. For that ol’ rugged dharma that I am fortunate enough to have found. And of course for the sangha- not only the monastics who keep it precious and true, but my friends and fellow practitioners who are here in the world working diligently at salvation. Peace out.
Okay,first post made on a phone. Brave new world, eh.
So, what I’m posting about is that I am at the HPL film fest, and waiting for the short films to start. Saw the Eraserhead Press folks, gave them a copy of STOMPING. Met Cody Goodfellow, moved over to give ST Joshi a seat… And now I am writing names of awesome titles in my moleskine. I pledge to write great things. UPDATE! I am now sitting with Ed and watching the Howie awards. Great stuff.