For those of you who have been interested in learning a little more about the rings Alicia and I commissioned from Green Lake Jewelry works, see these images below from the March 2009 edition of the MJSA/Journal. Read the rest of this entry »
The Language of Game Development, Spoken Here
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It might have been in those many silent days that we sat still in snowfall that I first caught hints of something quietly changing inside.
Interior thoughts, restructuring, brain maintenance, all make some type of neural noise, but culture’s outrigger pace and frantic combustion mean you’re trying to hear in a hurricane; a watch tick in the howl and clang of an oil-bloody factory.
What does a thing need to do or be outside of the everyday to be horrifying? Not much, as it turns out. A particular value of horror seems reserved for the ubiquitous. Read the rest of this entry »
Evidence of the winter seems to be vanishing. The only remaining snow piles are huddled together in unapproachable, dirty little forts in deep gutters, hard and geode-like.
You can see a rogue’s gallery of formations still standing. Many parking lots still contain eerie termite mounds of immovable, asphalt-black snow. Insulation is conservation, and in this case, conservation breeds community. Read the rest of this entry »
Unsurpisingly, I’m having a bit of trouble getting into the once-a-week rhythm, but it’ll work itself out. Got a small one for you while I try to find some time. Read the rest of this entry »
What’s up, Pawkeegan! Equally spurred on by the spirit of Sam Neill’s grapeblogging enterprise (complete with him headbutting goats) and by the realization that both of my blogs run the risk of rotting away like overripe pinot, I’m going to try for an at-least-weekly serial. Expect less polish, more frayed ends, and random topic shifts. In other words: the Internet. You kids like that kinda thing, right? Read the rest of this entry »
I’m getting worried. I can’t walk three steps without realizing that, on the twisted, creeping path to my turning thirty, some piece of my brain – usually a piece I rather liked – at some point had stood up and wandered across the aisles to take a different seat in the auditorium, or, worse yet, simply tore up its ticket and left – no refunds, and no longer a fan of my ongoing mental concert.