a twice-told tale

It always seems to end like this; a time full of solitude ending with a drive to Atlanta, resulting in a Sunday-morning urge to write before the wakening of the house disturbs the morning quiet. Not a bad thing, really, for someone who has been suffering from something that, from the correct angle, holds a distinct resemblance of writer's block.


It starts nibbling at you around track 5: he's building up to something here, but you can't figure out what it is. It doesn't focus until halfway through track 6 of CD 1; probably because you're busy and not really paying much attention to the sonic hints he's giving.

Casting: driving from home, to home

We head for home in approximately ten hours. I have been here since one a.m. on Saturday morning, and I've come away with the same feeling that I always have when I visit here: Tull is my home in a way that no place else can ever be, but the chances of my ever living here again are very, very small.

Undertow: strategies for life

The answers are: nowhere interesting, nothing much, thanks. How about you?

I've spent a couple of days buried pretty deeply into the greymatter hacks/mods portion of this site. Seems like every time I do that, I come out two days later with no desire to touch any kind of HTML for a while. If nothing else, it's subsumed the urge to create new designs for at least a few days.Since Tuesday, I haven't touched any kind of design. I think that's the strongest evidence of how much the events in New York have shaken me—they've stopped my creative process for the time being.

Sanitas per aquas

I love that phrase. Always have. I came across it when I was a child—I think it was the first time I learned that a language such as Latin existed, and I became fascinated by it. It has stayed in my mind ever since.

Water is a refuge, and my refuge of choice is a boiling hot shower. Andy and I share opinions in that regard: we both agree that coming out lobster-y is the best way to go.

And this: these are the same eyes

It always comes down to this.

The thoughts, they always come, in pulses and gasps and stuttering flows of intuition all at the wrong times. The attempts, futile, to pull it together, to make sense of the images and flashes of thought that come at me when I'm more interested in attempting to live my life: the images that stay with me when my eyes close at the end of the day.

How I see the same things in people, over and over, as the years pass. The names change, the people change, yet these are the same eyes and the same mind still looking out and observing, the still point of onlooking that can't seem to look away.

The intellectual part of my mind registers the differences between people, knows their intrinsic differences that make them into different people, but there's still the less cognizant part of me that still comes to a shuddering standstill when confronted with inexplicable strangeness and similarity.