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don't know where to begin; it has been a minute since i've written. the again-tour of colorado was phenomenal. wandering around my old home, the house, my old garden; driving those ancient streets. finding everything still in working order, clockwork whirring away, drilling into peoples' lives and experiences. even just skimming around, lightly tracing a finger over all the solidified memories; picking it up again to find a ring of dust circling one's index....this is a profound experience. i felt like an architect, unearthing fragments of a civilization now passed by and trodden underfoot, unseen. what is even more, is that i certainly would be an architect of the highest degree - a specialist in the field, as it were. i have seen pictures of all these relics in the textbooks of my memory; they communicate intimately with me as signs of something alive, a heart once beating, once merging, semiotic and symbiotic relationships calling, threshing, billowing flat-fictioned fossils into saturated realities which i can only hope to edge at with my mind, crowbar into with all the caution of someone trying to to break the antiqued wood-linings of containment. and on some level i am alien, come down to a place which i understand in some respects but which i now have so much more context to offer. i cave through intricate mines, brushing debris carefully off of time-capsules sealed with childrens' hopes. these are things, breadcrumbs, which i have subconsciously left for myself, to be discovered at a time when i had better ideas of what they could mean. they are old perfume bottles once servient as crystal balls in merlin games, spells of the mind arcing through them along lines of refracted and long-gone light.

they simultaneously mean both less and more; it is a dark struggle which i find in abundance these days. they are powerful, combinatorial, world-philosophies and ethical systems. they speak like poetry, spilling thousands of pictures and lifetimes of emotion from mere handfuls of words - and small hands, at that, perhaps covered in too-big and leathern-rough baseball gloves which may, may have a better chance at netting these monolith concepts than all our webs, all our adult intelligences, anxieties, and trivialities. the words of my childhood speak to me like thunder, booming and distant. once i was rod for them, they ripping and shredding me daily, building from the rich resources of naievete my personality, back stronger, faster, muscular....now i am mostly grown carbon, charged metal particles now diffuse and in severe scarcity, stinging every so often like licks of static electricity, occasioning an "oh, what was that?" and mere momentary disorientation. but i try, try to pan this sun-glinting metal from the stream of my consciousness....what else is all this, this here, but an exercise in precious metals? i don't know if the world agrees with my economic schemas, but this, this is my currency, this my contribution. communist if it seems so; what would one like me care for labels~ when i find my true vein, my niche; when that rush of gold erupts to the surface like stored energy, a surge of ball-lightning cracking from my fingertips to these keys, or this pen, or that soft skin, or any application potential to the sphere of influence which daily i spin in ever-wider spirals...

well, watch out - and don't hold me back.