bzzzzbots in the 3rd dimension

I WEAR BARBED WIRE BRACELETS IN BATTLES WITH DEMONS BEYOND THE REALMS OF REALITY VISION, THOUGH ALL THINGS SEEN THRU THE PRISM OF THE MIND ARE REAL AS FUCK, YOU BEST BELIEVE THAT BRUTHA

SUN SHINES MADLY FROM OVER THE SHOULDER OF BZZZZZBOT OVERLORDS LURKING UPON THE RIDGELINE, STARING DOWN WITH THEIR INVISIBLE FOG MACHINES THAT CLOUD MY DAYS/YEARS/LIVES INTO REGRET AND COULD'VE BEENS

AT THE END OF THE DAY I WILL BE NOTHING BUT TWO-DIMENSIONAL MEMORIES TACKED UPON THE DILAPIDATED WALLS OF THOSE I LEFT BEHIND, SUCH A SAD FATE FOR A THREE-DIMENSIONAL BEING WITH FOURTH- AND EVEN SOME FIFTH-DIMENSIONAL ASPIRATIONS, THOUGH TRIPS INTO THOSE REALMS ARE DIFFICULT TO NAVIGATE, WHAT WITH ME BEING LIMITED BY MY X- AND Y- AND Z-AXIS LIMITATIONS. (WHY DID WE MAKE THOSE THE THREE, AS IF ZETA-AXIS WAS THE BE-ALL END-ALL? HOW SELF-INDULGENT OF US. I SHALL HEREFORTH MAKE MY HOMESCHOOLED CHILDREN GEOMETRICALLY REFER TO THEM AS THE A-AXIS, BE-AXIS, AND SEE-AXIS.)

Monday morning coming down

I shall never come unhinged, too viking for these bitches

sun shines down on my grimy soul, cleanfaces can't see me

Sunday night dissatisfaction

I have not written much inside the robot box lately because I think like the Big Chief used to say, they've turned up the fog to high.

The train is still on the tracks but it sits idle. America is on freedom duct tape life support. Yall bitches better learn how to scavenge.

You can climb your way up the socioeconomic ladder and see that you've really gotten nowhere, as the ladder is dilapidated and rusty and fucked up. That's because it's not a ladder at all but just some piles of shit you play around on and try to convince yourself you're getting somewhere when the whole time you're going nowhere. Our collective journey to nowhere. Word to Maharidge & Williamson.

Refractions on a Broken Window

This my Kickstarter bitches - ONE THOUSAND FEATHERS - so git on up with the git down, brother. (By the way, I call people "brother" all the time now, but am very careful to say "brother" like a middle-aged black dude and not like an "I only eat organic" white dude. Those guys are very in-organic. Brother.)

One Thousand Feathers zine support

Yo, I set up a Kickstarter thing because I am starting a new phase to whatever it is I do called One Thousand Feathers. First off, here is the kickstarter link - One Thousand Feathers first firecracker - and that explains what is going on in their detail. But let me lay it on you like this here on my interweb homebase - my plan at this point is to do 1000 of these zines, which are only a single 11x17 sheet, double-sided, with traditional Raven Mack microfont, so that each issue will probably be somewhere from 4000 to 7000 words. But fuck a word count. Each issue will be thick with content that'll get your mind pregnant with thought. In fact, repeat that with me: EACH ISSUE WILL BE THICK WITH CONTENT THAT'LL GET YOUR MIND PREGNANT WITH THOUGHT. That's my promise.
As you'll see on the Kickstarter page, there are multiple levels of support, and with the first level you get the zines. Really at this point I don't want to guarantee a way for someone to get every possible issue, meaning there probably will be no subscriptions. There will be a Big Cartel page for ordering the zines as they come out, so I guess you could get them that way. But with that first level of support, you will get the first six issues guaranteed. With second level of support, you get that plus a gambleraku graffiti scroll (as seen by picture link in the sidebar). And with the third high level of support, which are limited as fuck, you'll get a spyku, which is my railroad spike haiku I've been doing lately. Here are some pictures.

Each is a one-of-a-kind haiku straight off the free dome of the wildbird lounger (aka me), ground the fuck into a wild harvested railroad spike. I'm doing these bamas for an art show next month, and basically would like my life to be just hanging around in my back yard grinding on metal all day long every day.
Now the plan for the zine is hopefully I will do one to fourteen a month. The first five will be funded by your support. The next ten will be supported by selling off those first five. Then next twenty after that will be supported by selling off those ten. And like a string of firecrackers, they light each other up to enable me to spread my nonsense in physical form that can be left inside somebody's car or beside their toilet or at the Greyhound station. That is important to me.
If you are tied to the robot world, no sweat. Eventually, down the road, I'm sure I'll compile some of this shit into e-books. I mean I guess I will. Seems like robots have more money than real people nowadays, so I don't want to cut myself off to robot wealth because the electric company accepts that shit just as quick as my gunnysack full of dimes, in fact quicker, because the electric company lady - god bless her heart - she hates that I don't wrap my dimes up. But I'll never wrap my dimes up, takes all the feeling out of it.
So there you have it. You can get on board now or catch up later. I have felt a powerful shift in my world in the past two months, and shit is happening. The hawks fly over my head as if on schedule, the red fox waits for my truck to dance in the ditch alongside the back road home, and the magic has become strong. Shit is real. The struggle is real, and always will be, but I've found a lot of beauty in that struggle because it shows us our true strength. I love real, more than anything. And these One Thousand Feathers will be real as fuck.

the decline of American "civilization"

So more than anything I would like to be doing what I was doing this weekend, which is carving one-off haiku into wild harvested railroad spikes. Thing is I burned through all my burrs, and am having a hard ass time finding more. No place, online or in real life, has more than a couple, which is a manufacturing issue I've seen at work as well. It seems we don't have actual manufactured shit in stock any more. I mean you can buy all the presswood shelves and rinky-dink handy homeowner cheap ass tools you want, but for actual tough-as-fuck gonna-last more than three uses manufactured shit, it's gone.
But whatever. Let this festering pyramid scheme colored with freedom crash in on itself. I feel it's very fitting to carve haiku into spikes, to have my written word in a form where I can actually stab people with it, literally, and for it to involve sparks and vise grips and toxic dust and make my back hurt and scare children and be loud and nasty. That is my ultimate work here, to turn the toxic into something beautiful. It is what I have done in my own personal life (two years sober this past Halloween) and it is what I do with my work. I do not call myself a writer any more because I have sat amongst those people and they are not my people. They are pussies, for lack of a better term. (I actually hate that term, because the yoni is a powerful thing, and I am in awe of the nature of the mother, but I haven't thought of a better term yet that would make someone reading my words understand my meaning.) Weak people with weak stories. Even the alleged bourbon-drinking gritty noir guys are just charlatans and Martha Stewart stereotypes but with cuss words. Fuck all these people.
So yeah, America is fucked, and shit will get realer before it gets all champagne bubbly and American dreamed out again. But as chaos unfolds, look along the tracks you hike between hidden clusters of civilization... maybe one of my haiku will be on that railroad spike you find. Actually in the process of working on these over the weekend I realized how many haiku I've written in the past decade. Lately, I've been doing at least five a day, and being my beerbox haiku project was a definite 1000 I wrote, and there's four or five other notebooks from other projects full of haiku, not to mention when I decided on this site to write gamblerakus that were 7-7-7 syllable structure because I felt stifled by the rhythm of 5-7-5, I've easily written thousands upon thousands of these things. Not collected, not even organized. There are stacks of notecards with haiku in my house that we use for scrap paper so my children will doodle drawings or phone numbers of my youngest has learned to write her name and it will be on the back of an index card with a haiku on it. You cannot collect everything you do - internet or otherwise - and you most likely, if you are born from the bloodlines I am born from, not going to find it easy to monetize the things you do either. No one gives a fuck about what I say unless I turn my southside Virginia memories into gritty sell-out rural noir that makes all my beautiful people look like bastards and scumfucks. Screw that, because of all the bastards and scumfucks I have known in my life, they all are better than these people I walk amongst now - these of the brick facade faces who if they have known struggle have plastered over the scars with their better credit scores or stocks or I don't know. I seriously don't know how people get to where they have gotten, or become successful. It's not part of my frame of reference. Grinding shit into steel, that I can understand. It's a shame this ain't a country of people like me no more, just a bunch of scam asses trying to cash in quick.

Dear Blogsitewebinard

Let this be the reset with us. I do not know what that means other
than I need space, which obviously I've taken. I'm not sure if our
relationship really fulfills me like it once did. And I'm not sure if
that fulfillment back then was real or me just falling in love with my
own reflection in your eyes. I mean, I really appreciate how you let
everybody know what I'm up to all the time, as that can be helpful.
But I'm not sure if anybody really listens to you and shit, because
you're always talking, a thousand things at once, kinda chickenheady.
Anyways, I can't spend the time like I once did with you, though I
enjoy your company and love looking back on our time together. I think
I'm just gonna send you these notes from now on time to time, maybe
come back and add a picture later. I don't know really. I'm trying to
be in love with something I do again and it's hard because most of
what I do is not what I love. Job is a job - not bad but not
fulfilling and just kind of eats up the hours of my life, on the large
scale but also on the daily scale so that when I come home and want to
carve haiku into railroad spikes, it's already dark and cold outside.
So I try to write some bullshit inside but the house is a clutter of
large personalities that billow out in five directions - all members
of the Bird Tribe have large psychic wingspans. Ultimately the house
doesn't work until everybody is down to sleep. And yet I'm getting to
be an older man than I once was, and I am very often down to sleep
before everybody and sometimes anybody.
I don't know. What I'm saying is obviously there's bullshit with me
going on. I'm tired, and don't have the fuckin' energy any more. And I
look back on all the time I spent with our relationship and can't help
but think maybe I should've spent it with someone who gave something
back a little more substantially, a little more fulfilling. I know
that's not your fault necessarily - you're just a fucking thing.
Shit, I don't know what I know or what I don't know. I'll get at you.
And give me back my fuckin' grey hoodie with the fuzzy lining if you
think about it.

Love,
Raven

a real storm

I was wondering last night if this was the storm Travis Bickle was talking about washing all the riffraff and scumfucks all away into the ocean. Wait... was Travis Bickle the Taxi Driver guy or am I getting that name mixed up with a Nascar dude?

Monday morning mantra

here I am, off to dance along my well-worn path of consumer domestication, performing tasks that are mind-numbingly stupid and unsatisfying, all so I can continue to maintain the correct order of numbers in my life. this week, I will do what I can to subvert this order, and plant the quiet seeds of destruction to the numbers, which is actually building something real. fuck you america.

sunday

sun

Brave New World

This already posted in its base form because I forgot to add text and crap like that so perhaps you rss fed this to your eyeballs already, except now it's gone because I changed it from what it was. Multiple times. This is the Brave New World, where what we know can be changed without us consciously knowing, and then we go back to where we thought we learned and it's different and then we have self-doubt as well as doubt of Self. Thus we become more needy and trusting upon the trick-nology.

Perhaps I'll just change this post all the time so that it is never what it was. This also opens up the possibility of me doing that to all the posts, which makes this site an even more amorphous tornado of laser chaos than it already was.

DJ Spinebreaker

I done stole a bunch of music from inside the fertile crescent valleys of the interwebs, but I still got a longer record collection than i-toons total playlist

traditionalist

A Primordial Traditionalist, 1366 A.D. in western North Carolina style

enough rope

Chris Knight sang about it: "you can't hang yourself if you ain't got enough rope"

the rust belt

while one hood gentrifies, another dilapidates
don't turn a blind eye by pointing yourself upwardly mobile

thanks to Michael in Australia

Paypallied the money this morning, gambleraku graffiti scroll airmailed tomorrow morning. I'm bad, I'm worldwide. Gambleraku Graffiti Scrolls

"you either build or destroy, where you come from?"

in 5% Islam philosophy, 85% are lost, 5% try to civilize the lost and build, and 10% are outright destroyers who have no care about anything other than stacking quantities of finance on top of the graves of humanity. that is the western notion of civilization, though it's not civilized at all, unless you accept that civilization is a perversion, which sometimes I must admit I am almost ready to accept. but to accept that is to give up on the human potential, and knowing my own path I know every human has infinite potential inside if they can focus in on it in the appropriate ways. devils can shoot billion dollar rovers onto Mars, but you can sit spot a Mars rover into your own universe, and it ain't but one thing to realize but still it stacks taller than a billion dollars. word is bond motherfucker.

yo, straight up here is the deal

dusted & disgusted screwed & chopped is on my headphones

Anyways, I have this new thing I am getting started. I need about $200 to make it roll, though honestly I could get by getting it rolling probably with $100. Can't tell you what it is, other than it's real, and can't promise you anything in return, other than a share of what comes from it, but if you feel like supporting the madness of the black bird mindframe, hit that paypal donation button over there on the right side. If you do make it a gift so that paypal don't be jocking our exchange of grip unnecessarily. I will tell you that the first issue of this new thing is inspired by reading Rene Guenon and his The Reign of Quantity and Signs of the Times. I am a primordial traditionalist.

walking the shores line again

still hear the whistle and dream of climbing stairway into oblivion

been almost 2 years since I flipped the sideways 8

onto build and off destroy

but ain't no denying destruction of self is embedded

deep in my motherfuckin' bloodstream

the greatest trick facebook ever played was convincing you it didn't exist

facebook is dead, killed all three of my accounts

plus the rojonekku page, fuck that tracking bullshit

you can always do the rss feed or subscribe to this shit or catch me on the back roads

comment here if you are here, let's connect without oversight from the overlord

I still has twitters too

Gambleraku Graffiti Scrolls

It can be difficult to transcend the physical world with your creative juju intact when you might wonder how some are successful and you are not. That is part of the struggle we each get to handle though. But I often juggle thoughts of how to feel rewarded for what it is I do, whatever that is, when it doesn’t quite fit the realm of marketability according to how our society works. But then today there was a roll of forgotten receipt printing paper on top of the gas pump.

Things like this are blessings in my crooked brain wiring, so I snagged that bama and brought it home, like a thousand other found objects around the Bird Tribe compound. The scroll-like quality of it automatically registered with me.

So of course I composed a gambleraku (that’s my form of haiku – three lines of seven syllables each, triple sevens, which I first wrote while in the void of Vegas a couple years back, thus gambleraku), which I scribbled out in my half-assed grafuscript.

Words scribble through my mind all the time, and I must admit I have trouble turning them into the types of things that the word industry can understand and sell to other people who enjoy consuming word products. But this is as natural as oxygen in/carbon dioxide out to me. I could do it all day long.

Except the roll of paper will run out at some point. But I figured it’s a good opportunity to share my work with whoever out there might want to have it shared with them. So until the roll is done, I’ll compose one-of-a-kind gamblerakus, for whoever wants to enable our Bird Tribe compound lifestyle.

And being I am into quality not quantity, I don’t really feel like making it real specific in the number sense. If you paypal me anything from $15 to $23, wherever you feel good in that scale, with the button on the right, I’ll mail you your own gambleraku graffiti scroll of pure raven. If you ain’t American lean high on that scale so the postman doesn’t unenable what you are enabling. But whatever feels right is gonna be right. If you choose to do so, when doing the paypals, check it as a gift too to keep their grubby intrusions more minimal. That’s basically it. If you can see this post, then the deal is still real.

the 17th rebirth of raven

this site will sort of exist again as daily pics from my homepix

not much in way of writing for robots as trying to right for real bods

though mostly just trying to not die, the dream feels dead mostly

nothing to do but do, fuck the world's eyeballs

WEEKLY FRYBREAD: bird tribe lessons

I had not planned on posting a weekly frybread this week, partially because I haven’t done much in way of writing this past week but also because if I did do some writing, why just do a stupid blog update instead of working on the 7000 things in my head? Not sure. But then I took a lunch break and escaped the constant buzz of the inside of buildings and computer screens, and had a moment to reflect. A lot of times if I am hungry, I grab some $3 dumplings at the dumpling spot near where I work. They are in all likelihood from big bags of frozen dumplings from the Chinese grocery store, but they are heated and have soy and some rooster pepper sauce of some sort, and I enjoy taking them into the park near my work and kick back and chill on a bench with some dumplings. I have learned to use chopsticks in the past four months by doing just that. It’s a nice day so the easily accessible park areas by campus were pretty crowded, but I’ve also found these gardens tucked in between the main lawn of campus and the hospital expansion that nobody seems to know about. There’s like five of them, with multiple levels to most all five, and usually I sit by this one with a spire, but today I went to the far one in the string as I’d never gone in there. I found a bench completely underneath a scrubby tree, so kicked back with not another soul in sight. I mean, I could hear the dudes scraping and replacing the slate roofs of ancient student housing, but it was cool because my eyesight was full of nothing but greenery and chillage. I really do love these gardens a lot, not sure their history and if they come straight from Mr. Jefferson himself or not, but I’ve contemplated etching haiku or tanka or maybe even full sonnets onto scrap slate or maybe just haiku on railroad spikes and leaving them hidden in these gardens. That will come with time. Anyways, I got a spicy noodle bowl to go with the dumplings today, and was leaning forward eating, so as to not slop sauce all over myself while using chopsticks with noodles, when some small grey bird – bigger than a hummingbird but not nearly as large as the red-breasted robins that have been my spirit guide this year – came floating directly in front of my face, like a foot out. It just hung there, bouncing as it flapped, and I wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what to do. I felt like I should hold my arm out for it, but didn’t. It flew up in the branch above my head, and I noticed another one to my left as well. Then I noticed the three had a pretty good population of birds. This of course was a positive omen to me. Birds have been more prominent in my psychic space this year, which would seem odd considering my birth-given middle name is Raven and my familial unit’s street name is Bird Tribe. (Remind me to show you my rhinestone Bird Tribe overalls at some point; I only wear them on the most special of occasions.) But starting around February, I became very aware of the red-breasted robins that seemed to be following or guarding my path most days. It was weird actually, to where if I didn’t see one it freaked me out. I still don’t know shit about bird species, and have no desire to be one of those O.C.D. bird watcher types, but this floating bird before my face was a good omen. I get caught up in what I haven’t done too often, how I have all these books and stories and ideas in various stages of outline but very few completed. Mostly this is because I use the internet and the internet is full of writers. I would dare say four out of every five people on the internet consider themselves writers. I read some bar graph defense of some dude dissing free form poetry the other day which talked about how if there were far more writers, you have this flow of quality where the majority of it is half-assed and mediocre, but with so much input, your final high-quality output is a higher level as well. That may be true, but there has to be some way to find that, because mostly what I see is shitty writing, or self-important people always self-hyping themselves. One of my biggest difficulties with finishing the Football Metaphysics book was having to then tell people, constantly, that it existed. I hate this aspect of writing because I see “writers” doing it all the time for lackluster crap. I’m not just talking e-publishing wannabes either; I see well-respected writers with major book company deals who are busy talking up some really mediocre and barely thought out crap. I don’t want to be that. I won’t be that. Thus, sometimes it can be hard to find the motivation to get work done, because I fear I’m part of that industry. But having the bird float in my face while I ate a spicy noodle just drove home my whole Bird Tribe reality. I am a dude who uses words, because it is how my mind works. But I am probably more of a poet-philosopher than actual writer, even though if you asked me I’d say poetry was stupid (for the most part). I enjoy language and the way certain words roll together, and mostly it is like freestyling to me, and the key is to attune the mind to being more receptive to unleashing the freestyles that are always there. Now that I’m to a point where I have long stories and novels and projects laid out, it becomes an issue of fine-tuning these mental wanderings to be incorporated into larger projects. That’s not really that difficult, but it can be tedious, and the more tedious it gets the more it reminds me of all the assholes. Here’s the thing though – my oldest kid, who is 13, has already finished one novel, and is starting another. In fact, she just started a blog and put up her first post the other day. She is already on a path of creativity far ahead of where I was at age 13. And I was pretty intensely creative when compared to the other kids my age back then. My second child is a natural director of large theatrical efforts, and a natural born dancer, and overall creative mind as well, but with the spirit of a healer. She will take care of people at some point, I know, whether that be as a simple nurse or in some complicated self-help/self-realization way. She is still young, so it will have to show itself to her. And the youngest is only four but has this strange unseen world where she communicates with the bees, and knew their leader was named Melissa (which it is, according to Greek mythology) without anyone even explaining to her that bees could have leaders. And all of this with my lovely ol’ lady, who is an artist and plant healer and probably the only woman who could be as much of a creative anarchist as me and yet still wholesome as fuck, in a sort of weird twisted urban degenerate in the middle of the country sort of way. We both come from broken families. There’s no need to get into the specifics or use anything from then as an excuse for now. But we’ve built together this Bird Tribe family of creative chaos. And yes, I do not think us perfect, and know there are broken things about us as well. But we are at the most less broken than what we were born into, and at least broken in new ways that are less corrosive for personal happiness. Our children are enabled to express themselves easier than we were, and that is progression. Ultimately, when my ol’ lady talks about her plant work, or I talk about writing, it becomes clear we don’t give a fuck about money. I mean, we do. Ideally, I’d be able to work from home and still afford the electric bill. Ideally, we’d be able to financially enable ourselves to more deeply explore our personal arts. But that’s not necessarily the world we got born into either. And all you can do is live where you was born, and make the best of it. So though I don’t have book deals like I sometimes have felt I should have gotten, when others who made lesser zines got book deals when that was a thing, or people who wrote lesser blogs got deals as that was a thing, I know that what I’m doing is what I’m supposed to be doing. If I write it at a slow boil, so be it. I mean, I am competing against mortality, but should not be against any outside notion of what being a writer means. Fuck most writers. And my children are already percolating, getting their slow boil going a lot earlier than me or my wife did. It’s pretty important to be part of that as well. So yeah, I don’t know what the fuck I was deciding to say by deciding to do a weekly frybread, other than maybe: writers sucks, birds are awesome, and though there’s no money in it what we are doing is what we are supposed to be doing. We might want to do more of it, but we don’t need to kill ourselves in the struggle to do it, or accidentally blow out our creative fires sucking on poisoned thinking. Bird Tribe motherfucker, floating right in front of your face, and sitting in the trees all around you. I don’t need to call your attention to it, you can look if you want to. If you don’t, so be it; it’s still happening.

WEEKLY FRYBREAD: returning to writing

The Football Metaphysics for Enlightened Degenerates book (still available over in the sidebar) did okay, about as I had hoped, maybe a little less, but also highly naïve of me to be the complete contrarian I am and write a book allegedly about football that’s not about football at all really and wonder why A) football fans were afraid of it, and B) people who hate football but follow my site/writings are afraid of it. But that is who I am. The hardest part has been getting back into the swing of things with writing. I absolutely detest the marketing part of shit like that, as I keep abreast of a lot of neurological studies and read shit regularly about neurophilosophy, so pretty much think the entire concept of “marketing” is somewhat based on immoral behavior, should you believe in morals, which I guess I do, though I have no real solid opinion as to what those morals are based on beyond my gut intuition towards what is right and wrong. Fuck science, fuck religion, unfuck the world – that’s what I say. But get back into it slowly is exactly what I’m trying to do this week, and not be completely lull-brained by the enticing siren buzz of social media into crashing my creativity onto the rocks of wasted time. I had planned on a book about everyday lessons around us being the second offering, with a collection of short stories hopefully by the end of the year being my third, but in starting to work on the observational stuff, my Rojonekku Manual came back to the forefront of my mind, and that shit needs to be done. So it shall be done, hopefully before Halloween, as that is the tentative target I am poking into my brain at this moment. However, I’ve also been getting into poetry for whatever reason, except not free-form but strictly rigid structural poetry, as is usual for me since my brain is somehow afflicted with mathematical viruses that cause me to think in numbers and grids and patterns and crap like that. So I started outlining multiple crowns of sonnets related to a 5-trailer trailer park, and am hoping to work up 120 sonnets related to this imaginary trailer park. By making them crowns of sonnets, with a 15th sonnet comprised of the last line of the first 14, and each crown relating to one person in one of the five trailers, and trying to construct a story somewhat through the 8 crowns in the 120 sonnets (good lord, the twisted mathematical literary mind inside my head), I have to sort of work backwards partially, and build it in a completely different way than most poetry is built. But I like that. And I hate most poetry. So it will be done. Also, trying to start finger-peck the Confederate Mack collection together little by little. That’s definitely on the backburner at the moment, but hopefully by spring at the latest I’ll get that dumb shit done. Of course, football season has started officially again, so I am sure I will start doing nonsense gibberish over at Armchair Linebacker like always, including a new thing I started this week where I put up a Redskins-related tanka every morning. That will last for as long as it lasts, which I told myself would be until ten days after their last game is done, but let’s be honest, may be next Tuesday. Additionally, new month’s worth of Krupert songs should show up at some point. I got a nice DMMA notice the other day from mediafire, so I was afraid my entire site would disappear in Orwellian fashion, which it probably will at some point anyways. Remember that. I know most people don’t care, and my site is certainly contradictory to the normal 2012 enjoyment of the interwebs where things are short and pictured and goofy and not-serious and all that hoo-ha. But I am proud of the elaborate labyrinth of nonsense that has slowly been built here, rather than abandon for a new blog or start a tumblr (though I’ve always done those things as well), and there’s a strange thickness you can get lost in at this site. Maybe nobody does this like I do, but I love strange, cryptic websites with large tag pools clustered along a sidebar or at the bottom of the page and after posts and you can click and clack your way through one site’s craziness, getting lost along strange tangents for hours. That is this. In fact, this is the 2100th post on this blog. That’s a lot of nonsense, of which much of it is not nonsense at all, but elaborate wrought-iron prophecy laid out in a purposefully confusing manner. It is like creepy medieval alchemist math, making things you don’t even realize, below your conscious mind. Won’t you please indulge?