My life is a tangle of wires and a thousand light-emitting diodes. Every glowing screen is a tiny sun that draws my distracted mind into its orbit. It wasn't always this way. And yet, I can harness it to my will, when I can remember what that is. 

Zoom in, zoom out, from infinitely complex to infinitesimally simple. Or the other way around. I forget. Or maybe I never knew. How would I know? 

Carve into you bark of a growing tree. The rings remember. 

The Greenland shark can live up to 500 years. Its flesh is toxic to mammals. 

What does it think about, as it swims deep in the icy waters for hundred of years? One day, will one rise from the depths with the answers to all our problems? 

Will we listen, or pickle its flesh and try to eat it, like we do with everything else? 

There's something in the walls of the house. 

One morning, when I turned 13, I noticed I had two shadows. 

I'm being stalked by a flock of unusually large ravens, and they all have human-looking teeth. They click them at me and smile when I look at them.

I've gotten what your voice sounds like, but I can still see your face. Frozen in the ice; the last time I saw you. 

A tiny pocket universe, where everyone is bored out of their minds. They're not evil, exactly, but so lacking in stimulation that you can pluck them out and promise they can stay in this universe if they'll just do a few terrible things to your enemies, I mean, to some bad guys that deserve it. 

Plastics can be directly bonded to the cells of your skin. You'll lose almost all sensation, but your skin will look perfect, and feel soft to the touch, and also be much tougher. It's very hard to cut, but if it does, it won't heal on its own and will require an operation to seal it. 

Embrace the darkness like a relative you have to put up with at annual holiday gatherings 

I meant to go to bed earlier, but I did not. That ever happen to you? After running around all day, leaping and twirling from task to task, suddenly night falls and the house becomes quiet and the waters recede, and the shores of consciousness spread out to the horizon. 

Man I do need sleep. 

It should be interesting. I'm sleeping on the treadmill. It sounds like a joke, but it isn't. The mattress fits on it, and if I sleep okay tonight then I can arrange this room to have more space for... I don't know I guess I can put my big comfy brooding armchair in here. 

I may be taking this minimalism thing too far. That's likely because I don't really know what minimalism is. There's probably more to the concept than just combining everything into one multifunctional thing, like a Swiss army knife of furniture. 

It must be windy outside. I hear, or think I hear, a dull distant roaring. Like a tsunami, or an uncertain future. 

Last night, it was whale sounds. Tonight, it's ocean sounds. I expect tomorrow will be kookaburra calls in ambient rainforest.

If that is what you wish, then that is what I wish too. 

Goodnight. 

When I fall asleep, I dream of the labyrinth. A labyrinth and a maze are two different things. The labyrinth has one path, to the center, and does have twists and turns and loops back very near to places you've already been. You can't get lost, but certainly you can stop, or give up and go backwards. 

Every night I walk this labyrinth. I am weary, and slightly injured, but I want to see what's next. 

One thing that puzzles me more than the occasional monsters and ancient treasure chests: why all the whale sounds? I can hear very faint whale songs. Am I underwater also? That seems a bit much, even for a mystical dream labyry.  

I'm trying real hard to be here every day. Even if it's just me prattling on about handpans or the correct plural form of octopus. (Both are fine, octopuses or octopi (turns out they don't even call themselves that so they don't really care what we call them.))

I wonder if there is any scientist out there experimenting to see if they can get octopus to live longer. They're so smart and if their lifespans weren't so short, I bet they would come up with some very interesting ideas. 

The delicate, ethereal notes of a handpan float through the air and simultaneously lull my restless spirit and invigorate my body. This is also very confusing because it's 2 am and this is a truck stop diner.

A handpan consists of two metal half-shells glued together and is played by hitting it with your hands. It's kind of like a steel drum, but it looks like a tiny flying saucer or a giant robot clam. 

It sounds like more laid-back version of a steel drum. Where steel drums tend to sound bubbly, buoyant, and festive, the handpan leans into exotic meditative tones. 

Knowing this, I still don't know why I'm hearing it now. I've finished my eggs and toast, the coffee is cold and black like the icy roads I've got to drive on for the next hundred miles, and I'm enjoying the warmth of the diner for a few more minutes before I have to brace myself for the winter chill as I go back to my truck. 

Is no one else hearing this?

Open and start typing. If you can begin, you can persist. I'm not sure that's exactly true, but I like the way it sounds. It feels right when you say it. We don't need to worry about how our minds are recursive, not yet. It's a green plastic watering can, with a few holes at the bottom, so when we walk to and from the flowers, we water the path a little, too. Surprising things might grow. 

It's either a great time to be reflective or a terrible time. I haven't decided yet. I think it's great, just more difficult. Our brains have a way of picking out and holding on to the information we like, that supports that we believe to be true, and then discarding the data that we don't like. 

I don't think I'm immune to this either. Knowing it's a thing isn't enough to stop it. I know I do tend to seem argumentative because when I hear something proclaimed as True, I want to test it, probe it, find the boundaries, extend the logic as far as it goes, like forging a silver thread, to see if it holds, or if it breaks. 

I'm real fun at parties. 

If you can begin, you can persist. 

If you're a watering can, you can exist. 

Well that doesn't sound right at all. 

There may be a moment, or many moments, a big old bunch of blobs of moments all stuck together like old boba tea, when it feels like...a mess. 

You can love the mess. It's allowed. 

Rowyn's Spire

Halfway up Mount Cullerman, (the locals call Rowyn's Spire) within just a few hour's hike from the summer cabin, are the ruins of an ancient stone fortress. They lie just at the edge of the treeline, which is strange because the treeline everywhere else in the area is about 2 thousand feet higher. Out of all the mountains in this stretch of the range, the trees just don't seem to want to grow any higher up on this one. 

Maybe that's why whoever built the fortress chose that spot. It wouldn't be hidden from their enemies, but nor could the enemies sneak right up to the walls. 

They'd have to cross about fifty yards of scree with no cover, and the clattering of the loose rock would alert the guards, even in darkness, and be met with a shower of arrows. 

I can see the tactical advantages, but what was the fortress guarding? Why spend the time and effort to put up stone walls and ramparts to defend a bare, resourceless mountaintop?

I made a campfire in the center of the ruins, and was sitting on the crumbling stones all mottled grey and green with lichen, with the sun having just set, when I heard the gritty, scraping, sounds of something, or many somethings, from somewhere above. 

It hadn't occurred to me that the guardians of this fortress may have been trying to keep something from getting down. 

Delicate rains are common this season. Every night until the early morning. The days are still warm, and the heat of the morning sun unleashes tendrils of mist and fog that quest across the city, snaking through alleyways and pooling in parking lots. 

The fog muffles sounds; the footsteps behind you could be closer than you think. 

I don't worry too much about it. The mist is more of an ally. 

purpose

Purpose, or what's left of it. I'm not even sure what that means. It's late and I'm tired, I guess. Some legal matters are finalized now, with new uncertainties to untangle tomorrow. 

Distractions abound. The din. Drowns out my own thoughts. Worse, other ideas slip in that I might think were my own. Chaff.

It's not so dire; admittedly, I frame it that way because that's how it feels sometimes. But not all the time. Right now, I'm cozy in my bed, listening to some ethereal music. The bizarre floating creatures writhing along in the sky have not noticed me yet, so I still have time to plan and prepare. I can get stronger and smarter and learn to be better. 

I've got a good feeling about tomorrow. 

The Dorian Strand

She was smarter than me, and I found that a little annoying. I was rowing the rowboat, or "more accurately" the skiff, through the choppy waters of the Dorian Strand. She was sitting in the stern, navigating, head bent over a map and compass, checking the landmarks on the shoreline. Occasionally she would tap my knee if I needed to adjust course. Left or right knee; a single tap if I was a little off, or multiple if I was very off. We had no rudder, 

She hadn't told me where we were going, probably because she never tells me where we're going. 

I suppose I'm okay with it. If we were doing something illegal, I'd have the benefit of plausible deniability. 

Although last time, we were attacked by a gratuitously large "chambered nautilus." I had called it "one of those things that look like an octopus hiding inside a seashell." It had latched on to the rowboat with its tentacles and was using its spiny tongue, or "radula," to bore through the bottom. 

That time she had uncorked one of her many vials she wore in a bandolier over her dress and dumped it onto the writhing mass of tentacles, which then immediately turned itself inside-out. I think that's what it did anyway. Hard to tell with a creature like that but I'm pretty suremost of it is supposed to be inside the shell. 

I had just kept rowing the whole time. She usually handled stuff like that. Whenever we encountered something that just needed to be hit with an oar, she usually left that to me. Probably doesn't want to waste her ingredients.

Refuge

It's just a title. I've been thinking of the home I've built. Or haven't built, I suppose. I always planned to pay off the house first and then save up for larger projects, upgrades, and the like. There's a few things I suppose I can tinker with. 

But I don't know. Perhaps I should be happy with what I have. Or accept that what I have is good enough. Maybe confront the fact that there's really no end to the process, no ultimate satisfaction to be gained, and to focus on that sliver of the Venn diagram that contains the things that I enjoy doing and may also benefit life in the long run. 

I am suspicious of comfort, but I do so enjoy being cozy. 

There's very few cozy adventures. 

Okay maybe I can think of one cozy adventure I've had but still.

Bearing discomfort is easier when remembering comfort is never forever either. 

Now it's time to rest in my cozy bed and dream of imagined discomforts. That is, adventure. 

Mileage

The great machines that power the city are failing. The massive gears, with teeth the size of a man, are ground down and warping. Coolant, turned acidic and corrosive from countless cycles of heating and cooling, eats away at the seals and hoses. The oil has become sludge, filled with particulate metals that have flaked off during a million hours of internal combustions. As it circulates, it scours and dulls the precisely engineered parts more and more until nothing fits anything. 

I am an expert at my job, helping this engine run another day. Ultimately, it may not matter, because it will fail. I keep my eyes and ears open for solutions, but it is very dark down here. 

I'll keep working, because it is what I know how to do. And perhaps someone else is working too, and they'll come up with a way to fix everything, and my work is buying them time. 

Maybe. 

More Neo Noir Thoughts

It's warm enough during the day to go swimming, but the nights are still cool. The tempo of the evening is pleasant; relaxed, like jazz drumming. I think. I don't know too much about jazz. 

There is probably more than what I'm seeing and hearing. I'm pretty observant, but nobody gets everything. 

The memory of the heat drags on me. Memories have weight, I believe. They can pile on and on, and crush you, if you don't keep moving. 

Am I not moving? 

Night Music

It's like we knew we didn't have time to be strangers. We became best friends so quickly I don't remember noticing. Now you're gone, and I'm sitting in a dark room listening to neo noir jazz songs picked out by a computer in my pocket.

I remain positive. There's a fair portion of my body that doesn't hurt, for example, and I focus on that.The cuts, burns, and broken bones I obtained while fighting by your side have healed pretty well, considering. Not perfectly, so I've had to adapt. 

The web of scar tissue has reduced some of my mobility. Still, I was always the slow one. You were quick, darting in and out, blades flashing. 

I'd slug it out with the heavily armored ones, knocking off armor to expose a vulnerable area, or just keep them busy until you figured out some other way to defeat them. 

You were the brains and the brawn, now that I think about it. And I was just...your friend, I guess. 

I lie down and try to sleep. I focus on the parts of me that don't hurt. It works, and I drift off. Perhaps there will be a good fight tomorrow. If someone needs help, I will be ready. And if nobody needs help, I'll still be ready. No need to overthink it. 

wiring apps

So many writing apps. Pretty neat. I'm probably going to half-ass my way through a handful of them and see what happens. Writing on the cell phone worked out okay for short stories so what if one of these is good for writing longer stuff. We'll see.

I had today off from work for Martin Luther King Jr. Day. I spent it cleaning my house and attempting to organize my life. I can only claim partial success on both counts. 

Yesterday was great though, my great friend Sibbitt was in town from Montana and we had a great time eating Mexican food and trying to solve all the world's problems. 

This is also my reminder to read The Brothers K by David James Duncan. Apparently, the first forty pages are a bit of a slog so Future Guillermo, hang in there. I wonder if it's like the director of Solaris, the original Russian adaptation, where he deliberately made the first act incredibly tedious to scare off any viewer who did not have the mental fortitude to grapple with the lofty concepts the film was purporting to explore. 

(I have seen it, and I prefer the American remake, but I don't know if it was necessary to gatekeep it that way.)

Solaris is basically this:

"Hey man are you having fun trying to figure out that crazy new planet that's impossible to figure out?"

"No. No I am not."

"Aw, man, I'm sorry to hear that. Boy, I sure miss my loved ones."

"Me too."

Fort Vine, Campfires, and Cryptids

"There's light inside your body!" the singer was saying as I walked up to the crescent of people sitting around them and a brazier of crackling fire. 

I was emerging from the darkness into the middle of a musical performance, with a group of mostly strangers, but they were talking science so I jumped right in. "That's right!" I pointed at the fire. "The same thing that's happening in the fire right now is happening inside our bodies!" 

Everyone turned to look at me. I said "Hi, I'm Guillermo! I've been approaching random campfires for the last hour and a half so I hope I've found the right one." Most of the people laughed. 

I was joking, of course. Wendy had invited me to this performance, a folk duo called Fort Vine, who were holding a neighborhood concert. I was just very late, because I had been trying to trick myself into being social. I completed my exercise routine, took a shower, then instead of just running around in my underwear afterwards, I put on pants, and shoes, and a shirt. Being dressed made me feel like getting undressed was a bigger hassle than driving a half-hour away for some reason, so I went. 

I'm glad I did. It was a lovely night. 

I met a girl named Catherine who is a literal rocket scientist, and I witnessed the moment she was given a pair of shorts that said "CRYPTID" across the butt. Apparently this was the culmination of several weeks of an escalating inside joke. She was delighted and donned them immediately. 

We talked about cryptids, and someone asked if the Loch Ness Monster was a cryptid, and I said yes it most certainly is. Catherine said she used to have a West Highland Terrier named Nessie, and I had said that's funny because I had also known a West Highland Terrier named Nessie, but this was years ago, and on the other side of town. 

Maybe Nessie The Westie is also a cryptid, existing in multiple households simultaneously in a kind of quantum canine superposition. 

The house hosting the neighborhood concert had a husky named Trillian, after The Hitchiker's Guide To The Galaxy. I petted her for quite a bit. 

Then on the drive home, I saw The Mothman flying over the interchange of the 202 to the I-10. 

Which I didn't consider a good sign or a bad sign. 

Almost certainly a coincidence. I doubt they're interested in me, as I am more of a  hermit-monk-smart-ass caricature than an actual person right now. 

Mothman ain't got no time for that mess. 

Imaginary Hotels

In the middle of the desert is a hotel where it's always raining inside. Not real rain, of course. Simulated streets, each room its own little house in the "suburbs" section, where it's always a cloudy, overcast day, although the artificial sun does peek out now and then. There's also the "city" section, with scaled-down brownstone buildings, alleyways, and even fake traffic. That's where I usually stay. I like to walk through the rain and wonder what could have been. 

There's even a pool. Swimming in the rain is one of my favorite things, but of course, it's dangerous to do so in an actual thunderstorm. In this hotel, the flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder are impressive, but harmless. 

The hotel is called "Felis Et Canes."

I will advise you to make use of the Sunrise Room before you leave. It looks like a little park, with benches and grass and trees. The fake rain will slowly stop, and the fake clouds will slowly part, and the fake sun will come out, and it will be less of a shock when you step back out into the desert sun. 

We should go sometime. I think you'd really like it. 

hidden factories

There are buildings with no roads that lead up to them. Generally made of red brick, with high, narrow windows. We have one on the outskirts of our small town. I don't know how anyone applies to work there. I heard you get a letter, with a contract to work for 2, 3, or 5 years. 

It's not a 9 to 5 job, whatever it is. The people walk out there, go inside, and they stay. They don't seem to ever come out the whole time. After their years are up, they walk back in to town. Most of them leave town and never come back. Those who stay keep to themselves, and don't seem unhappy, but none of them ever seem to work anywhere else again. 

stowaway

Stowing away had seemed like a good idea. Hide out in the hold for a little while, let the ship sail far away from my enemies, and then sneak out at one of the many island paradises along the trade route. Now, after two weeks of the dark, the damp, and horrible seasickness, Prell was lamenting that he was slowly dying, lying there in the mildewed belly of this ship, when he could have died quickly, on his feet, fighting in the sunlight of the city streets. He liked to fight. He might even have won. 

Instead he had run, and hid, and now he was alone, with his writhing innards, his regrets, and the taste of bile on his cracked lips. 

"Perhaps it's not to late to be a man," Prell croaked, his voice sending the gathering rats scurrying away. He began to crawl over to entrance of the hold, where he would try give himself up. He doubted he had the strength to climb the ladder, but he still had the cavalry whistle his father had given him. The shrill blast had signaled many men to charge into battle, sometimes their last. 

Maybe he'd even be able to get in one more good fight. 

New Year's Resolutions. A noble tradition, in which I do not participate. I'm sure I did, once. Like blowing out birthday candles and making a wish. 

In that moment, I imagined cake. Then I wondered why you couldn't wish for more wishes. Of course you can have more wishes; everyone has wishes, but the wording is important.  The power is in the granting. 

Genies (genii? Djinn; much better, sounds like it's singular and plural) are magical creatures, bound to servitude. Sentient, certainly. Human? No, I suppose not. If you unbound them, would their wrath at being bound extend to all humans? If a wasp stung you, would you not destroy the nest? My moral code, such as it is, would compell me to free any unjustly captured person or person-like thing. If I thought it would destroy me if I did, I probably would not. 

But I might. Out of spite. Someone has to try to fix things. The reasoning around self-preservation will often drown out ideals. 

A djinn... would probably cause more problems than it solves. 

I'll rest then, and return to work tomorrow. Still, I'll remain alert. There is much to do, and every opportunity that presents itself must be examined carefully, the magical and the mundane. 

Goodnight. 

Scar tissue is an active process. The connection, once broken, demands constant work to hold together. Nutrients from other parts of the body are rerouted, lashed into a structure that acts as both scaffolding and suture. 

Stitched. 

Her eyes flickered across my scars as I gesticulated; I was telling a story (that I thought was funny) and I pretended I didn't notice. They were subtle now, faded, and I barely thought of them. Once or twice a day, maybe. 

Sometimes I get confused and I think the scars are the memories. They're a kind of memory, I suppose. 

Maybe I'm just checking on them. Scar tissue is an active process. If I don't take care of myself, they could reopen. 

So far, so good.  

Photo backdrop fabric universe

paradox podcast

I've been listening to paradoxes to help me sleep. They have not been doing that, not exactly. Many of them seem to be about understanding the problem, not about finding an answer. 

Chasing answers isn't always the answer, is what I'm gathering from the three hours of self-proclaimed "life-changing" paradoxes. 

I don't think they can take so much credit. My life was already changing. 

Temporal Advancement Dawn (1)

I did go out for New Year's, to a lovely party at Donovan and Lauren's house. I didn't stay until midnight, because I wanted to be home in case the fireworks upset the all the dogs currently in my house. Mabel and Marceline are generally fine, and some enthusiastic neighbors already set off fireworks last night and Beth's dog Duke seemed okay. 

Wendy's dog, Roux, doesn't love fireworks. She doesn't seem afraid though; she gets very very angry. Very get-off-my-lawn. 

So they did well after all. 

I went to bed pretty late, but I'm awake now. My usual alarms are on because I've got dogs to feed. Maybe I'll get up like I'm going to work, get dressed, and see what happens. Oh, I can nap on the couch in my clothes. Just like a real adult. 

I think I recall hearing a tradition about  the first day of the new year setting the theme for rest of it. If that's true, I suppose I'll be filled with longing and hope, and be surprisingly rested despite not sleeping enough. And maybe I'll be writing. 

Okay. Here we go.