I fantasize often about being the caretaker of an old wooden theater in the round somewhere deep in the U.K.

There’d be a roll up bed hidden in the stage and unfurled nightly to sleep. I would soak in all the vibration, the intention, the stories of shows gone by in days, years, weeks, months, centuries past.

In a basement or dark corner I’d line the with with bookshelves and tuck in a small kitchenette. Then to ensue an existence of quiet living and ventures out to scour the corners of Europe and beyond for old books and errata. I would accumulate and occasionally sip wine from Piedmont, Alto Adige, and Franciacorta.

I’d sing quietly to the empty theater and add my own timbre to all the accumulated tones of time gone by. Daily I would take an early wander through the countryside and mark old standing stones and byways to memory.


Umm Labrinth.

I am obsessing over the Euphoria score by this artist whom I feel ridiculous not having known until a week ago.

Euphoria blew me away as a whole and the music throughout acts as the sinew through each episode. I am completely addicted to every track.

Mount. Everest. Ain’t. Got. Shit. On. These. Songs.

Go watch Euphoria if you haven’t and just see if you don’t join me in undeniable devotion.


A sense of cosmic dread is upon me this week. A part of it derives from conscious personal angst. Another part feels as if a confluence within the collective unconscious is putting humanity on edge. On top of this there pervades the sense that truth and lies are literally dueling across the terrifying current of the mediascape. AND it all feels as if the future hinges on a single day in the coming week. I have hope. I have terror. I am PTSD’d and I desperately desire constructive change.

In any case. I think this thought train is at the end of the line.


I follow an artist named lordess foudre

Her website is here:

I am particularly enamored of this one:

Lordess Foudre

I’m going to steal a line from a writer and artist I used to love who would say something like the following weekly, and whose participation I miss and who I also (possibly unfairly) feel betrayed by.

Hold on tight. See you next week

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