Chimenea. Somewhat of an opiate, in that I've lost hours in front of it. This time, sedated especially well by the fallen fruit and dried sage I had gathered and burned for the aroma. In the company of not but the sunset and the wind, slowly blowing my hair in front of my face, I retreat completely, and ponder a somewhat troubling piece of news that I had learned of almost as soon as I awoke earlier in the day.

In late March, a tenant at my old apartment complex in Virginia shot and killed several maintenance people, who were there for a routine inspection. Then killed himself an hour later. Absentia segue. Among those killed was a friendly acquaintance, Sam Shestul. I didn't know him well, but it's all still very strange to think about. We'd gotten on a first name basis after he had come to my place a few times for things like plumbing, the new windows management put in, and so on. He told me of Russia, emigrating, and taught me Russian words. Making pleasant time of what he had to spend seeing through the seemingly endless remodels the realtors were hatching at the time. He even recognized me when I was out walking around with my hood up. Coming from behind me, into my vignetted frame of view, leaning out of the employee golf cart as if to make sure it was me. With waves always exchanged at this point. I hope it was quick.

I remember when I lived there, I had just become fascinated with articulating relative reality. The extent of which people and one's experiences can be separated from one another. Solipsism. Being a recluse for most of the time I lived there, I'm thinking now that the apartment complex was a good, albeit distinct metaphor for it. William T. Smith, the killer, was by all accounts just as much of a recluse as I was. I wondered about him. I wondered about his neighbors' stories. How often he stockpiled. What he was doing when I took this photo, and how strange it might seem on the surface to a third witness. Just how often I had to walk past his...

Chimenea. Somewhat of an opiate, in that I've lost hours in front of it. This time, sedated especially well by the fallen fruit and dried sage I had gathered and burned for the aroma. In the company of not but the sunset and the wind, slowly blowing my hair in front of my face, I retreat completely, and ponder a somewhat troubling piece of news that I had learned of almost as soon as I awoke earlier in the day.

In late March, a tenant at my old apartment complex in Virginia shot and killed several maintenance people, who were there for a routine inspection. Then killed himself an hour later. Absentia segue. Among those killed was a friendly acquaintance, Sam Shestul. I didn't know him well, but it's all still very strange to think about. We'd gotten on a first name basis after he had come to my place a few times for things like plumbing, the new windows management put in, and so on. He told me of Russia, emigrating, and taught me Russian words. Making pleasant time of what he had to spend seeing through the seemingly endless remodels the realtors were hatching at the time. He even recognized me when I was out walking around with my hood up. Coming from behind me, into my vignetted frame of view, leaning out of the employee golf cart as if to make sure it was me. With waves always exchanged at this point. I hope it was quick.

I remember when I lived there, I had just become fascinated with articulating relative reality. The extent of which people and one's experiences can be separated from one another. Solipsism. Being a recluse for most of the time I lived there, I'm thinking now that the apartment complex was a good, albeit distinct metaphor for it. William T. Smith, the killer, was by all accounts just as much of a recluse as I was. I wondered about him. I wondered about his neighbors' stories. How often he stockpiled. What he was doing when I took this photo, and how strange it might seem on the surface to a third witness. Just how often I had to walk past his place to get to and from mine. If a moment of juvenile selfishness makes me a bad person. Separated only by our walls, and the white noise of the highway behind us, I feel no connection. There could never be. I just wanted to help people. So much so, that I panic sometimes.
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Some more photos for you:










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Some more music for you:

Maudlin of the Well - Interlude 4
Maudlin of the Well - Interlude 3
Agalloch - Summerisle Reprise
Snake of June - Would the Last One...
Do Make Say Think - The Apartment Song
David Gilmour - There's No Way Out of Here
Editors - Lullaby (The Cure)
Isis - Holy Tears
Huun Huur Tu - Ancestors
The Grasshopper Lies Heavy - A Reminder of What You People Can Be
The Grasshopper Lies Heavy - Gifts
Pig Destroyer - Pixie
Twlight - Beyond Light (Beautiful and Malignent)
Ministry - Dream Song
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Speaking of panic, I had my second ever panic attack a few weeks ago. Startling, but ultimately beautiful as I was coming down. I experienced tunnel vision, complete numbness, and uncontrollable thoughts of music and speech. The point where the three converged seemed to stretch on forever. In my bed, looking upon the glow of daylight on my ceiling, I'm feeling like I'm floating downward, yet side to side like falling paper. Romantically accompanied by a very dear song, High Hopes, by Pink Floyd. I don't know whether to think that was by chance, or a subconscious way of calming myself, but I loved it either way. Slowly getting my sense of touch back, I felt like I was being re-wrapped by my blankets, and the warmth therein. Tucked in by a memory. Mmm. I fell asleep shortly after, thinking gentle strings of whispered Joel Barish laments, and the faint sight of a door closing behind the graceful silhouette of someone I barely remember, in a house I've not seen in years.

I'm rambling. Aside from how I'm making it look, things are actually quite excellent otherwise. As I've mentioned, I've finished and pressed my album. I'm going to mail a few of the extra copies I have to friends, and to a select few of you here who have asked about it. I'm not too interested in label shopping yet, but somebody at Thirsty Ear in Connecticut has been making some really nice inquiries, and manages to keep me on the phone for longer than I'd expect. Solely on the distribution end, I've been keeping in sparse contact with a Washington state based distributor who seems interested as well. The former would be nicer though I think, for when I move back home to Rhode Island. I've also started writing. Short form fiction and poetry. Very therapeutic. I'll likely never publish anything, but I'll admit, I've been getting urges to test waters. Trying my hand at making videos from successions of still images. The first of which was inspired by the Vessel song Ark. Schnookums. Finally struck Florida death metal oil, and sessioned drums for an Incantation-esque band called Nailstreams in April. And of course, picking up Swedish again after dreadfully falling off the vagn for a short few months. Making plans for travel. Realizing more and more, what I actually want. Standard fare.
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Same as it ever was.
I really hope you're warm and well.
See you in another handful of months. Snarf snarf.