(As grain spills, rats feed.)

Well, I have to start posting again - writing, again - or else I'll never do it. The problem (if there is one), at least as seen from an outsider's perspective, might be one of focus, of narrative cohesion. Because I no longer have a plan. Or, more honestly, I've never had one. I am engaged in drift, absorbed in the observation of immersion. I feel like a tsunami beacon, simultaneously tethered and tossed, existing in negative space, neither static nor free. There is no (career) path; the notion is abhorrent. I measure everything against my own willful denial. I deny, yet I seed negation. That is my strength as an artist - I implant doubt into nihilism. I splinter the assumption of primacy. Thus, there are no more "moments." Genres develop tics, ritualize gestures, devest themselves of (and asceed to) imposition, revolt against those who define them, and inevitably disappoint and repulse those who deign to suffuse their indefinable essence with fixed boundaries of meaning.

(It's beautiful to watch, and it never varies. Of course, there's no reason to be smug about it. Jazz is jazz, after all.)

Otherwise, I'm up to no good, as usual. Ten milllion things going on at once. (Now I know what Cameron Vale was feeling...) I'll begin a list tomorrow. It will necessarily be random, but I'll try to make it interesting. Daily reports here on out.

Love,

Tom