Welcome. I'm currently...
So, you're here but have come unannounced. Well... depending on the timing of your visit... I may've put work aside and am staring through a window: watching the birds, rabbits, and squirrels. Perhaps I've fallen asleep while doing so. (In that case, shh!) Or, if the weather's agreeable, I may be outside and, if so, I've likely fallen asleep there too and you'll have discovered backyard critters climbing all over me. Please do not claw me away from that paradise — please do apply a little sunblock to my forehead (thank you, much appreciated).
Anyway... leave me a note if you want to chat. I'll respond once finished with the backyard fauna.
Brief BIO: moniker and man
[MONIKER] silhouette reminiscent of SHAW's unreasonable man admiring the acerbic wit of TWAIN, a I-IV-V barre chord (rock'n'roll) progression: simple & imperfect.
[MAN] humanoid with a big heart, and sometimes an even bigger mouth: a writer, a fighter, and a candlelighter. He is a curious observer, a guitarist, an honest analytic, an average kayaker but a n00b sailor. A passionate explorer of life, he paid his way through university, graduated with honors, and began his career as a Certified Public Accountant, performing the rare accomplishment of passing all four parts of the exam on the initial sitting - he loves the irony given that he does not practice any longer and he calls himself a Recovering Accountant. While participating as a member in the proverbial alphabet soup gang - MBA/CPA (Inactive) - he performed for the benefit of himself and his previous employers. Basically, he worked his ass off in order to fulfill youthful dreams and promise (and he still works his ass off). He writes and publishes under pseudonyms. He's a volunteer for the grassroots children's literacy outreach charity he co-founded and for other organizations. Dr. Frankenstein is an apt description of his electric guitar playing: he mulls about his basement laboratory composing rock guitar instrumentals that occasionally come to life and wreak (beautiful, meaningful) havoc. He enjoys dabbling in the culinary arts, and he'd love to be able to call himself a sailor while keeping a straight face. He is committed to lifelong learning and possesses an uncanny ability, willingness and stamina to linger in museums and art galleries for extended periods of time: so long, in fact, he has been escorted off premises by security personnel for lingering beyond closing time.
"This is hunger. I am Hungary."
a bear witness-style poem of words and photos.
IN THE SPACE FORCE
It's here again. The Presence. I smell it... feel and taste it. Acrid, sweat en masse, fear-based cultural perspiration that corrodes the mind and rusts viewpoints, well-meaning or not, into place. The emotional journey writ large I witnessed happening and that I attempted to set to music in 2004 with an instrumental "The Pacifist." The distinct melodies remain, still visible — audible. 1. solitary voice (now the tone seems evermore sad when amplified by blatant attempts at herding via social media); 2. confusion; and, finally, the Pacifist succumbs, 3. rage.
Oh hell, the A-side | B-side argumentation is maniacal at present. Fortunately I am a multi-dimensional object... and, fuck off!
[IN-PROCESS] Publicly pitching (twisted from the headlines):
Fuck Trump, says Bobbie De Niro? Well, fine. Agreed. And also, fuck De Niro... and every other entertainer that's made a mint working under the umbrella of MNCs (bolstered by and bolstering 'the system') peddling distraction, escapism, and choreographed nonsense under the guise of art.
There's a woman who calls often, and (apparently) does so from all over the U.S. She must have a huge sales territory, perhaps her employer might hire another rep to help alleviate the burden. Wait! What's that? You say it's a scam. A scam? Really? Fuck me, making America great again seems altogether similar to the last 2000yrs: Dipshit scumbag criminals hiding behind the (gossamer) veil of professional commerce.
A world awash with high-minded folks who neglected equitability, for years giving intangible values lip-service as they carved the capitalist (human meat) pie and served themselves a sizable slice. I reckon a fix will not be had in the near term. Best to buckle up... and provision well.
I don't know what's disturbing the monkeys at this moment. It is likely different from yesterday's perturbance, and you can be certain tomorrow's will be altogether dissimilar. There is always something: always at least one of them dragging a stick — click! clack! click! — across the bars of the cage they've imprisoned themselves. I certainly cannot predict or control them, nor do I want to. What I can do is choose not to live among these rapacious, maniacal sorts.