Oi, me.
I'm 36 and possessed by wildly absurd and indefensible ideas of humanity and the world which mostly make me smile but sometimes make me cry.
I live currentlyin Seattle in a rickety old house with a pirate flag hanging from a balcony. I'm sometimes a musician, sometimes a writer. I'm both a druid and and an anarcho-socialist, quite pagan but also quite marxist.
I work too much, but it's good work. I'm a low-level social worker for an agency that thinks homeless people shouldn't have to sober up just to be out of the cold. It's damn hard sometimes, but much more rewarding than anything else I've found to feed myself with.
I write. I've written one unpublished novel and am mostly through a second. I desperately need an editor.
I drink a lot of tea, listen to too much medieval and european folk music, arrange mirrors outside to re-direct sunlight into my bedroom, make probably the best garlic bread you'll ever eat, steal lightbulbs from bars when I'm bored of drunken conversation, and look and dress like a thug because I'm not.
The title of this blog is a line from my favorite poet, W.S. Merwin, the works I of whom I became introduced to by a damn good friend who probably doesn't read him anymore.
I'm also found here.
