I’ve taken to putting my earbuds in on the bus so that no one tries to talk to me, so that I can quietly take in the odd tiny waiting room a bus is. February right now, end of winter is here, too far north for most people. The days are just starting to get longer, but rush hour still matches up with sunset. Today a break from the snow, and the sun is glaring from the west, everyone has a dramatic light on them light like they’re lit for a film, with what I think it would be called a pepper. I made a film once, I helped make one that is, the director and producers knew about the lighting stuff, not me. A girl checked her reflection in her in the black screen of her phone, people seemed happy to have the sun on their faces, you get to miss the sun in winter. I’ve never much liked such dramatic light, too contrasty. I don’t take pictures of people on the bus, I know that it would upset people, my DSLR makes far too much noise to do it without notice anyways. I suppose I don’t like the dramatic light because then all someone sees is how pretty the light is. Of course light is the primary, and only part of any photograph when you get right down to it, but I think that life can be the subject too. If the lighting sparkles too much then that’s all you see.  

What Ways Out


You have made this prison yourself,

out of respect for the fine quality,

you dare not break a way out

Resolve:

Post the unlikeable, the failures, and all the pathos that overfillls silence.

What It Was

Being awake is so very unlike sleep, this constancy of faces, warm pressures, open streets, and insistent calls for attention wear me down each day. Each day my effort is for a silence and solitude in this constant intercourse that I walk into. In the day I operate on versions of programs I’ve written, that secure, propel, and insulate me from the masks that folk don each day. I can wonder tonight who was it that I talked to, what they meant by; and dream how they are. But, today I have little time to pause, and ask the why, and what it was; there is more to be done. 

I reason that

because monuments slowly dissolve,

a catastrophe is a evil boon


which we don't want to,

but do hope for.

On Sentences — An Urge to Silence




a kind of writing noesis 

the punctuated sentence a noeme 


having the presence of paper


having the pressure of a thought spoken

the doubt of halted speech

the burden to speak
at all.


a kind of writing that urges towards silence

the burden to speak 

double halted speech

the pressure of a thought spoken

at all

can thinking be punctuated

at all

except by the pen

I feel as if I should shutdown every idea of the world, and that being my only possible idea; the impossibility of thought, compel you to listening, to the reasonableness of my proposition.