Hello.
Welcome to my blog. I am here to write on a variety of topics. The title of the site 'Fractal Journal' reflects the way I see the world and wish to explore it. I believe that everything is interconnected and the best way to understand it is through studying perspective.
I suppose some may find it pompous but I view what I do as,
'Perspective Journalism.'
There will be recurring themes throughout. For instance there may be long spells in which I will write about a single topic from many angles. One such topic will be water, the natural resource about which I am currently writing a book.
If you find that you enjoy what I do, please subscribe.
I didn’t find fear in a dark alley. Nor did I find it in some lonesome backwood cabin. There was no metro labyrinth. Monsters and ghosts are but paper tigers.
I found terror at the end of a cigarette.
It was mere tabacco. No one had laced it. I’d taken nothing but a coffee prior.
Yet as the last ring combusted and collapsed as ash onto the porcelain I died.
It was a silent explosion. A silent explosion in my head. Like an old camera flash sans sound.
As bright dust settled everything had changed. I looked at the roundheaded blonde with the outsized blue eyes but I didn’t see her.
I was sitting in the diner but I was no longer there.
She asked what was wrong and my lips merely smiled.
Despite the bright fluorescence of the resteraunt lights I felt the dark. I felt it pressing in from every angle.
All eternity was pressing down upon us. Every sentence that had been and every sentence that would be drowned this period. We were merely punctuation.
I traced the outline of her skull. Totentanz was here. Whirling and laughing the mad company mocked with invisible suggestion.
Her every freckle a star. Stars that formed constellations made of the dust of the infiinite dead.
She looked up form her absent minded sketching on the napkin. Again asking what was wrong.
I could not answer. My mouth was stuffed with the pitch of the abyss.
Death eternal, the only constant, the ground base against which faint viol peals of punctuation grasped haphazard for a melody.
She told me that my eyes had changed color again. A trick of perception born of inattention. My eyes are hazel. Grey, green, brown, and blue and what you see all depends on what the light wants.
But what seized me was the opposite. It was not a trick. It was perception. Cutting with a sharp dullness it showed what the dark wants.
She wants us to know that she is our mother. That from her we spring and to her we shall return.
Uh OH! Looks like YT formatted out the clip I had in the video…bbl. It’s no big probably has to do with the fact that it was webm clip. Should be fixed sometime tommorow. Apologies.
I caught myself making this ‘Mea Culpa’ in yesterday’s video.
Considering my day job, my workouts, and my attempts at writing and learning computer science odds and ends I don’t think this is entirely accurate.
But then again it kind of is. First, because I could do all these things a lot better. And second because I still avoid boring or difficult activities even if they’re necessary.
And that I think is the way you can really tell to what degree you are lazy.
To what degree are necessary and useful things within your power to do being left undone as your finite time on this spinning bit of space debris slips away?
My self score is a solid 7/10. I should do something about it. But this wine sure is good and it would be nice to go for a stroll.
I didn’t have much reason to hang around the dawning of Atlantis. So I cleared my mind and rejoined the expedition.
“Is it elevenses already?” Sam inquired.
“Huh?”
“What’s with the teaball man?”
“Oh..uh..I just had forgotten I’d put it in my pocket.”
“That’s pretty weird my dude. Heh..say what’s in that tea braheem…?”
I actually had no idea since I’d just gotten it from a Victorian ghost. But, I did know that now was not the time to consume it.
“Maybe I’ll let you try some later. And we’ll see if you can sit with elders of the gentle race.”
I stepped off the trail and let the expedition troop past me as I deposited the item into my ruck.
Doctor Cook came up on me after a bit.
“I have been talking to Senhor Hoyt.”
“O?”
“Si, and he says that the map merely leads to another map.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes, that’s what I said. I love the jungle. I love the ruins we are seeing but…even I have my limits.”
“I think I reached mine before this party started.”
“There are many limits to be broken.” Graham muttered melodramatically.
“So Ipsissimus…” I quipped. “Where the hell are we?”
“We are a hundred some miles northeast of the true coordinates of Dead Horse Camp.”
“Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet….!” I taunted.
“We are within fifty miles of the location of the second map.”
“Please tell me that there are only two maps. Please….”
Graham merely smirked .
‘What a dick.’
“You’re not going to tell me where the second map is gonna take us are you?”
“Why do you assume I know.”
“Because you’re fucking demon possessed…”
“Am I?”
I was getting really tired of that statementesque question.
“Yep.”
“You know that they said the same thing to Jesus.”
“And Satan often dresses up like Jesus.”
“Isn’t it teatime?” Graham prodded.
“Um…” There was no way he had seen my recent acquisition. Though given all his newly acquired parlor tricks I took this as a sign that it was indeed time for elevenses.
We had been trooping since dawn and my suggestion was roundly accepted.
Graham, Cook, and I found a spot away from the expedition and sat down to tea.
The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.
The forest is full of embers. The humid evening hums as glowing insects flit round phosphorescent moss. My boots sink into clay setting the meter against which the owl hoots and the boar grunts. It is an ancient place the swamp.
Primeval trees with their gnarled roots stand sentinel among the mist.
Carefully I launch the kayak in the shallows. With a few laps I begin to glide into strange hours.
When one is alone with the gentle current and some black Cavendish, they begin to speak. At first it is more like a suggestion. But slowly one becomes aware of a litany of voices.
Add an hour and a drop of whiskey and soon the murmur will have an elocution.
It will tell you of all those thing to which the bright stars above have given light. Of the dust that settled and became animate. Of the dust that continues to hum.
Once in a while a Spaniard will shout taunts from the shore. Or a Congaree chief will confuse you with riddles. Sometimes a fox winks and other times the owl does your thinking.
As three hours pass it is most dangerous to slumber.
For these are the strange hours. When the hum ceases to be a procession. When the river becomes a sea.
There amidst the caresses of a thousand vespers you are nullified. The gliding trees are gliding spheres.
You may well end on dry ground. In a portion of the wood which is wholly unfamiliar. You will know you have been. But where? And more alarmingly…with whom?
The Fractal Journal 