blogging
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Experimentation into the function of dreaming coalesce into one major theory: dreams are the subconscious mind’s own personal method of problem solving. Most dreams are nonsense, unremembered consequences of a sound command to “sleep on it” and awaken with fresh eyes and no knowledge of how you got there. But, if you’re like me, you…
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Fascism relies on despair. Relies on fear, on a misunderstanding and truncating of normal legal process to enforce the unenforcable through individual avoidance of possible consequences. It relies on the idea that those resisting are outnumbered, which is almost always untrue. As the barrage of executive orders roll in from the new fascist administration, we…
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Years ago, I saw a movie. An adaptation, I assumed, inspired by Lovecraft’s The Color from Outer Space — which is my favorite work by him for it’s relative lack of racism. Just a rock that changes everything around it, the living things in its vicinity taking its influence into themselves as an indescribable color…
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I’ve done it! I did it! The first garment in my wardrobe, totally constructed by me panel by panel and stitch by stitch. This thing is both heavy and airy, a grainy transition between many of my favorite colors. Weaving it up (loop by knot, with a crochet hook that matched the colorway) leaves an…
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The problem with being an achiever is the achievements. When you’re still in school, they come at a steady clip. A on the midterm, on the term papers, in the socratic seminars, in the videogames you still have time to play, in the number of shots you down in one night and still go to…
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15 minutes before I have to get my brain up and moving for a 2-part science lesson on fake dinosaur tracks for an eighth grader. This gets me up at 7, bleary eyed and exhausted from a creaking bed, my dog confused and offended that he must begin his daily herding of humans a full…
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And so here we are. Back after a long hiatus of working on things in the comforting dark of internet obscurity and not sharing. Because it’s none of your business, really, this voyeuristic/narcissistic practice of journaling to the internet for a like or two. But I must, right? I’m a writer, and what’s the point…
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We don’t outgrow the things we love, not like a plant outgrows the pot its in. These things simply fall away from us when we no longer need them. Less like a too-small shirt and more like pine needles that drop off in the winter. They can always grow back. I can always pick up…
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Paint a picture of the American West for me. Paint me sprawling yellow deserts and blue mountains reaching to the heavens, arches of red rock and dusty ghost towns beneath stone spires. Draw me the abandoned mine shafts, the long lonely highways. I want to hear the sad twang of guitar between that night sky…
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I am eclectic by nature. My habit of picking things up off the ground, of taking any plant clipping offered to me, leads to a house full of curios. However, not all of those collected objects stay very long. Twice a year, I get an itch that says its too much. This urge to delete…
from the pen of icarus blake 