The Blurring of Time Passing.

“You won’t pass me, motherfucking Kia” his nasaly drone wore on… An old western cattle drive played through the recording again. This time it got clearer. They had adjusted the music to hear themselves think. To hear each other at least, as they sang along with the ballad. A ghastly take of an old standard

The Dull Thump of a Bulletproof Car.

I listened to the smooth jazz lilting from the restaurant’s speakers. Not so much a swanky place as it was an old pub, someplace that pulled up every damp feeling you’ve ever felt drip over you while watching a crime drama. Just a hole in the wall. The burger squished against my teeth as I

The First Recording.

The first ten minutes are consistent with ambient noise. A high-performance vehicle’s engine whines in the background. Sounds of contemporary jazz guitar flicker through the recording. The ambient background fuzz is reminiscent of a vehicle travelling down the highway. There are two men talking in this audio. Both have voices that are punching out of

Lord Anything the Eighth

A door opens. I was ready for the cardboard box in front of me. The dry cracked skin showed signs of age like anything would; with wrinkles and cracks and a variety of stains. This was the last box that was pulled from the last storage unit left in his name. The last one. Not

An Update

So after what will most definitely be the most interesting and chaotic time of my life thus far, I’ve kept detailed notes, and made every attempt where possible to record high quality audio and video. What follows is an account of what will possibly be the most slightly-above-average piece of post-modern American literature that will

Spring Twilight West of Chicago

Anybody that passes it is struck by the neon glow. It’s either that or the massive, illuminated, black and white sign against the aged teal siding. It looks like a regular house. While people have seen shadowy figures in the attic windows long after close, it doesn’t stop them from cramming into every last space

The Edge of the Wood

This is a piece that I wrote and performed at my local open mic night. It took place at a small coffeehouse that I haunt in Illinois, in southwest Chicagoland, in the western suburbs, south of the rivers and canals, and northeast of the westernmost Cook County forest preserves. I went early to work with

Artem Nephis Animi

Fluffy pillows, twisting darkness that exist as home to Mount Olympus and carrier of Zeus. Orchestrated by Thor to clamor ripples of thunder and summon tines of lightning; bridging our world with Asgard. Paid their due heed by both sky captains and sailors alike; I have sailed through them, swam under them, hiked grumbly amidst

The Little Coupe That Did.

What started out as a hate letter, disguised as a come-to-Jesus request to pavement-vehicle manufacturers, had turned into a commentary on business and production. I effectively played to emotions that don’t exist in corporations- passion or duty. Personally, I view vehicles as machines. In our American market, they are more than that. They are fashion

La Macchina Va Dove A Gli Occhi & La Voiture Va Où les Yeux Vont.

It was Proust who said that the point of any story is to discover who the characters are, or may become, by challenging their abilities, their values, their understanding of the world. This is the only way you can know what any of these things are. This is how you discover who we really are,