The resident writer and musician survived another of nature's assassination attempts.  One can expect a few problems when having epidural abscesses, meningitis and endocarditis at once, and this case fits that bill.  At this point my arms can't be picked up above chest level, and moving them hurts, to go with the mind numbing back pain and sciatica that was already in effect. Not to mention the new thing I discovered spondylolisthesis has to offer, which is dropped foot (ojoy).  But I am still alive, and so is this site.

There won't be any new music for quite some time.  The resources all evaporated in the face of physical adversity.  Until I breathe no more, however, there will always be a plan for new creations to be brought forth again.

The blog will be devoted solely to writing until such time as I can set up music production again.  This is a good thing.  I owe the world a good novel, or, well, a novel that I feel is worthy of the world.  Of the novels I have written so far, none of them fit that bill in my opinion.  It is very nearly time for me to put one of those out, however, and so expect that.

I remain your devoted observer and fan, oh you people of the world.  Nothing fascinates me more than humans and human culture.  While I may have taken several steps closer to death, and become even more of a junkie than I was before (if that's possible), that does not change my admiration for the insanity and majesty that is homo sapiens.  Carry on, carry on.

Nan O.

This song concludes "A Null Leak Age."  Work on the next album is well underway.  26 years later than ideal, my new music will feature lyrics and vocals.  That's not to say there will be ballads and love songs, as anyone who knows me would find as laughable as I do, just that my poetry will become a part of the music.

"A Null Leak Age" Continues

The Overnodes

I have three more songs left in this album.  Two of them are within an hour of completion, but the fourth will take more work.  After that my only plan is to keep on keeping on.  Maybe I will do the whole vocal thing, since I am really a writer and my music has been sorely lacking in words.  All I have to do is overcome my hatred of my own voice...

I checked this out a little while ago.  It has digital artifacts and mid-ranges that get way too high in the first 2 minutes.  It's pretty crappy the way it is.  The last few minutes are okay, but I am disappointed I let it slip through this way.  When I get back to the production computer it will be easy to fix.  It's too bad I can't do it right now.  (Tuesday, December 16)

Quick Reviews

I really only logged on to fix another glaring error brought on by early onset senility.  Before I forget something else I figured I should review a couple of things.  I have not seen any new anime, sadly, except that Hellsing Ultimate is on AS; my how times and attitudes change...  There were a couple of good flicks that caught my attention recently though.

November Man was enjoyable, if slightly unbelievable.  The Prince sucked.  For the Emperor (Korean) was quite good for a Korean gangster movie, although it was somewhat the usual fare.  The Giver seemed like a misshapen twin to Divergent early on, but became a good movie before it was over.

I said the reviews would be quick.  I forgot to write them before I left home, and now I do not have the time to do them justice.  I never know when I'll be back online, so here they are.

Oh Joy

I quit discussing politics as a general rule, but I just couldn't help but say something today.  Active voting republicans everywhere are happy today.  I haven't felt this sick at my stomach since I mixed bourbon with my baby formula (don't tell mom).  I can only hope two years will be enough time for the rest of the country to get sick of the GOP again, but I doubt it.  If the past is any indication, all checks and balances against right wing power will be gone after 2016.  It's like there really is no cure for stupid  (notice I spelled "there" correctly this time).

It's not that republican policies upset me.  I don't care all that much for any of their policies, but I agree with some of their diatribe.  However, there are a great many republicans I don't like, personally.  And that's putting it mildly.

Wow. I actually looked at this web page for the first time in ages, instead of just posting.  It is definitely due for a makeover.  I think I'll get right on that, as soon as I change out my puke bucket.

I have more music to post.  It's a longer piece than the last few things I composed.  I forgot to bring the data with me from my home off-the-grid though.  Oops.

(edit: "do" changed to "due" in 2nd paragraph)

The Storyteller's Curse

A fiction author is a glorified liar.  The curse caught up to me before I ever spent too much time writing however.  Back then I was just a liar, or, well, a teller of tall tales.  I turned to imaginary stories over and over again through the years to keep myself from the boredom death, those million yawns that drag a soul down into the bottomless nothing.  More than once storytelling landed me in trouble, but one time will always stand out as the worst.

While in the East Baton Rouge drug court program, which happened to be in jail, my freedom depended upon my performance.  I did very well with leadership in their AA program, becoming a group leader and helping other inmates to face their addictions.  Boredom considers jail one of its strongholds, however, and it arrived in full force to shove a semi-permanent somnabulism down my throat.  I fought back.

During AA meetings, which the drug court program held around 50 times a day, there was an outspoken old convict.  Every meeting he told stories of his infamy and notoriety.  He was the hippest of all outcasts, the 'victest of the 'victs.  I sensed a challenge to my storytelling.

Before too long I had told stories that very believably made me sound almost as bad a person as him.  None of it was true.  All of it went down on my permanent record though.  The counselor's in that program graded performance based on how deeply a person was enmeshed in the negativity of the drug scene.  With every story my personal satisfaction as a storyteller grew, but my chances of graduating from the program diminished until they were nil.

I went to prison because of my storytelling.  It was not the old fashioned D.O.C. penitentiary system, it was like a little country club, but it was still prison.  And I did write a novel there, and drew dozens of pieces of high quality head art.  The fact remains I sacrificed a lot to tell a story. 

These days I try not to be so believable, or else people might believe.  Then again, I have also written very little fiction as of late.  I'd go to hell and back to avoid another situation in which peacefully telling stories could cost me my freedom.  But come to think of it, going to hell and back is the thing that has worried me recently.  Ah, c'est la vie.
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Related written works at Angelfire, Sex Symbols, Cymbals of Silence.Repent or Die