on the narrator

The mind that produces this writing is fond of sound and travel and landscapes you’ve never seen before. Sensory awareness is his greatest concentration, writers who pen in the third person his utmost irritation. Maybe it’s the other way around.

I once occupied my time and focus manipulating sound, and I’m still rather fond of twisting knobs and pushing faders. I’d do it again, just to watch the audience respond and the bands be more at ease with their own creations. Maybe it’s the control I like, but it’s less mature than that: I take pleasure in affecting the world around me, and nothing surrounds like soundwaves – open air is my finest ally, and we have accomplished much together. When the landscape is a dynamic one under my feet, and I am climbing mountains, there is no peace on earth but there, and the direction I’m headed in is North, no matter where I’m going.

Maybe I’m just headed to a place to call home, constantly, and I take my time in getting there, finding passion under rocks and in alleyways along the route, in coffeeshops where poets congregate to change the world one microphone, one poem at a time. For me it often works, and they get their wish, to gather up the tears and all the screams they can fit in their fedora at that moment, and this is what life is: moments in which everything changes, when nothing is certain but truth is everpresent. ever, never, any, every, all – these are constants, and are talked about perhaps too often for my taste.

In the present, unlike the past, I deal with truth because I have violent and sensuous affairs with it and cannot seem to live without it – but I’m not such a fan of concrete facts – they are static and confining, and it is rarely accepted that they are subject to change, just like policies of government and terms of  privacy – I am convinced of their changing force that should be messed with and moved around now and then, even if the Rubix cube has no intention of being solved. Either way, there are things are do not change – my home being Alaska, that august and sometimes toxic, always tragic wonderland full of lust and oil. And that I write, because it works for me better than guns do, more accurately than grenades and I’m convinced that I could not justify with any other art just what it is I mean. I am human, seeking to understand the things that make us do what we do, and to be understood, hoping for someone to blur their eyesight long enough to know that it’s not all between the notes, or lines.