Bring me to your leftovers

Oh yeah, and you thought Thanksgiving happened only once a year.



For the record, that's cranberry juice. Yep.

This is the dark part of the year. With Thanksgiving over and the next holiday being mass marketed to death, I find this time of year useful for one thing; hibernation. My cats don't care if I want to stay in bed all day, so why bother? If being a human didn't call for having a social security number and required a paycheck (in part funding my netflix addiction) at this time of year I would be positively bedridden. That's not to say I haven't been getting my fair share of things done. It's mostly just prep work though, and I am in a prep work induced torpor. Maybe it's all the starch and turkey I've been eating.

So, What is the Rainbow Vortex? Well, it's a land carved by a bike trail, near a county highway in Burlington, WI where you leave M&Ms for the faeries and the elemental guardian spirits that dwell there. There are giants, too big to be seen, and ghosts. There are also angels, aliens and sometimes, if you're in a state of rare luck, the devil stops by just to say hey. I know how this sounds. You think "a $25 flimflam fest into the woods so some hippy freaks can blind you with repetative camera flashes and shout at you while you freeze your holy parts off?" Well, skeptic, I say onto you, can you explain this?:

Lies, Decit, and Updates

Another notch in the unfinished category; I absolutely bailed on nanowrimo (or National Novel Writing Month as the gifted call it). It seems forcing myself to do something is no way to get it done. On the other hand, I've managed to post two blogs this month! (The first says it was posted Oct 26, but it was Nov 14, this being the second) Experiments with pace shall continue. I did, however, find an interesting relic yesterday while I was rummaging through my art stuff I found a notebook from about two years ago, full of intriguing ideas. Not much of it makes any real sense and yet, it's probably some of the best stuff I've written so far. Makes me think I should try poetry, except I hate poetry. And painting. But these things are beside the point. Here is a sample from the book:

Heat, buzzing and pulsing with streetlight and insect wings. Luke-warm beer, the unmistakable lake funk of algae and refuse. Surreal darkness beyond lamplight. Out across an unfathomable horizon a series of lights drawn together hovering in the darkness just before the vanishing point on the horizon. Sedate churning of waves. Occasional nocturnal disruptions. A conversation on the edge of not existing. Two characters in search of a setting. A moment outside of the self, reality, perception. Dreamlike. Metadream. The gross thickness of warm bitter beer. Two isolations waving at each other across the void, two people isolated in thought connecting in a dream-scape unobserved. Disconnected. Isolation breeds familiarity. And there's rocks.

Now, if I could only figure out what the hell I'm talking about and why I wrote this I might be able to claw myself out of this hole.