HOH Magazine: Correspondences from a New Cocoon (November 2024)

back behind the barricade, the barracuda bites at my brain, the buyout of buoyancy to balance a book or two, before beginning to face a bitter embrace. beneath the binary, do I boast or bury in a busy blush. do I block a bruise, do I better myself from break or bend. beckons, the cocoon. can I covertly circumvent context, or do I merely cover conviviality with continual cortex concern. come come, cozy yourself and connect with my disconnected, discombobulated, disorganized dig-down doozy of a dugout.

HOH Magazine: February/March 2023 Issue

First of all, I haven't shaved my beard yet. I am not exactly sure why. I know I said I would. It seems I have grown to like it this way. There's a significant charm to it now, and I know if I shave it off I won't get that back. Not for, you know, another thousand days. I'm not sure when I graduated from tolerance to affection, but I'm letting myself luxuriate in the big spindly bush before I take control of it. Which is itself a form of control.

Anyway, I wanted to jot down some personal thoughts, and hey that's what a blog is for. Why not just cut out the middle-man and publish it? This is supposed to be fun, not work. Let's see if I still vibe with that approach by the time I'm finished writing this, hah!

HOH Magazine: Quarantine Day 900 Edition

We're halfway there, folks! September 2nd, 2022, was the 900th day since I locked down for 6-8 weeks (42-56 days) and began counting the squares on the calendar (900 days.)

I've been on a sort of HOH Magazine haitus. I began, stalled, re-began, stalled, and re-began an issue of HOH Magazine for March of 2021, listing the names of the various humans whose lives were directly, literally threatened by a literal angry mob, and still decided to vote to not convict the man responsible for telling the angry mob where to go to find these very same people and inflict treasonous violence against them. That's weird!

HOH Magazine: New Year 2022 Issue

Same year, new me! It's been two years to the Day (St. Patrick's that is) that I started officially quarantining. That's much, much more than eight weeks guys, come on, what's up?

So it's still 2020, and still 2016 as well. I don't make the rules of arrested development, I just serve my time. A lazy, knee-jerk inclination to alter that opening quip to say "same me" was escorted quickly out of my head, because I am still pushing against the ceilings of evermore chrysalis-tine chapels within me, trying slowly but surely to grow and change. Even if the world emphatically doesn't want me to. You will get your David's worth even if you have to choke on it.

Under A Rock (Correspondence From The Cocoon #3)

Last known photo of me happy. 11/8/2016, 4:02pm

I want to be a care-free person again.