cabocalla

Hello, fellow pilgrim.

I’ve reached a point in my existence where I feel estranged to the ways of the modern world. I do not identify. On good days I’m a stranded alien anthropologist. This world is fucking weird. It’s comically, tragically, dumb. Brimming with astonishing feats and cult-y behaviors. It’s blood-curdling destructive. Spiritually confounding. Intellectually maddening.

Its means are artifice and spectacle.

Writing is my way to process. I can express and share what it feels like though the metaphor of Story. And maybe, possibly, hopefully, in some way help this world to steer away from madness.

I dunno. I’m mostly mad too. I write so I don’t become 99.999% solid gold mad.

My magic is a messy process where only perseverance grants the chance to create. I’m stubborn and fickle and reluctant and scared most of the time, and yet I have other facets that have long desired to share the stage. Here is their altar. Here is their laboratory. Here is their strings and wood and brass.

Since 2010, I’ve waywardly embraced the part of me that has long called to write. Had I heeded the call in my youth, I probably would have pursued traditional routes. But for better and worse, I’ve always had a deep instinct to experience the world on my own terms. It’s gone exactly how you think it would in a world defined by rules, hierarchy, and authority.

Ah, modernity and its cages of value, meaning, identity, and purpose...

If my weird dance in the corner speaks to you, donations are always welcome and enough of them will enable me to devote more time to my craft. But maybe even more important, please share my work with friends and online connections. Introduce my work to collaborative creators, promoters, editors, publishers, producers, and secret agents of the mystic arts. Give feedback. Ask questions. Cheerlead. Morale is powerful.

Thank you.