Chapter XXVII.

In which our hero returns home. Many beverages imbibed. A quarrel at a tavern. The moonstruck sirens call, far away. A yearning not entirely understood. A collection of his families history found wanting. The frayed edges of a thousand old photographs. Faith in mathematics and logic. The death of the idea of death as part of whatever inner coma. A reservoir. The warm...
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I apologize to anyone I haven't kept in touch with. Things have gotten busier than normal. I leave for New Orleans in two days. I've packed a few changes of clothes, two cameras and more film than I can possibly shoot off.

I suggest listening to Ladyhawk and reading Watchmen. Not at the same time.

I can't find my way around. I feel like I'm 90.

Charleston, SC.

Lowlands here I come.

I really hate flying.

Things

I'm trying to get a shipment from UPS. A lot of slides from my grandfather and the ingredients to start making my own tintypes. I really just wanted to update. But had nothing good to say.

Danger's my maiden name.

Short

I need to get on printing and submitting artwork for a few juried shows that are coming up. I've got these mural prints that look fairly nice, individual grids with color toning and what-not, but I just can't seem to finish the fucking things. I need to mount all of the individual pictures onto a larger board/canvas and then shellac everything, but I can't...
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