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!

What Kind of Butterfly (Final Correspondence From The Cocoon)

Here I am, on the precipice of my chrysalis. Pressing against the dried, transparent walls of my cocoon. Can you see my coloration? I don't worry about what shape or decoration I will take when I emerge but the shape of the world I'm emerging into. But then again, just as all acting is reacting, I don't actually give a fuck about what shape your petty, fetid world is in. It is not mine to control, so what matter should I give to my mind over its form? I guess the tables turned, the facade is down: I do truly, actually worry what shape I will become. How I will be pressed and molded as I molt and shed, poked and bled by this greedy machine of consumption. I'd hope it's "as an avenging angel doing the work of God." But how do I guide that hope – that intention – into practice? Such notions make wrestling matches in my mind, the spectacle of thought.

If I haven't stated it so clearly before, then here: This world was not made for me but I belong in it.

“Are you still in hiding?” (Correspondence From The Cocoon)

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