In the best tradition of Jaws, Frogs, Empire of the Ants, Night of the Lepus, & Kingdom of the Shatners, nature's pissed off at yours truly, too, but only because I hadn't yet tossed out some bread, & this is why a dreamy faerie vegetable garden tra la la la la is a despondently industrial nein.
Gather round gentle readership & I shall tell you a tale: No, I don't Own a Pair of Sunglasses, Or, Being too Uncool to Sport Them with a Manly Man of Manliness® Suave. Thus, not wishing to add blindness to my ever-growing deafness, I scoured my secret stash of thoughtographs for a suitable solar flare & uncovered last winter chez Randal.
& I thought I was a sucky poet.
'tis a wretchednesse that beats in my breast, to hath compos'd some-thing not entirely dissuasive of the merits of verslie arte (on second read, it's pretty shitty) only to feel the truth drop like a carpenter's hammer: that it can be shown to no one but a complete stranger who will either laugh, cringe, or mashup just as the familiar, but at least I'd never see the former again.
Briefly considered decapitation -- pros: no more Towering Slab, not bearing witness to the likely evaporation of my kids' souls inside a lower-paying, humorless Office Space, built-in Halloween costume; cons: the end of workplace Kynge's Brew epics, no more darkthroning, the fresh impossibility of troo kvlt -- but the PTBs would merely take the cost of cleanup out of my last paycheck.
Thus, self-portrait, faceless, yet with a face. #OccupyInternets
Origin story: the casing was so scuffed, a drunken brah assumed it was copper, thus, au revoir &, dumping the shavings, rolled 'em & smoked 'em on the way to the scrap yard Darryl's not here, skip, now, hit a home run.
This shit would be a piece of pumpkin pie if that most beloved of holidays wasn't so far away & why don't we get a day off for Samhain dammit for what does this nation celebrate more than death, either little, bloody, or both?
Pro, con, whatever technology is, isn't, can, can't do, we're still fucked. I decided long ago to vanish through tunes stuffed in the below, one of a million gizmos full of parts paid for with the blood of third world kids by each & every one of us whilst slow-cook Ragnarok rages with just a touch of mellow smoothness.
Wheelie Bus wait, deliberate movement.
Thus, long exposure? Not so much.*
*that means I cheated via shaking the thing
Supposing I could have, should have, fabricated my own silhouette out of the skeletal remains piled in the basement & a torch, but then how huh? would have been the inevitable bitching about the episode from which the below finds its origin story, the distant early warning of the beginning of the zombification of The Simpsons. All one needs is the first ten, none of that base six crap.
Frankly, I nearly forgot; a silent gloom saved the hour.
Being male, an American, married with children, & with nearly four decades of living existence under his belt, I've got enough crap to choose thirteen things from. As usual, I try & hide the fugly for not just my benefit, but yours. Being the Chuck Mosley of the Towering Slab, I care a lot.
So, after threatening to steal homie's sunset, I contemplated the ramifications of such a crime against the fabric of society or something, & stole an idea instead.
Which is why, as a sun-worshiping non-weirdo, I tend to avoid not just evening itself, but its onset, this great deceiver (twilight, not me, I would never deceive, inveigle, or obfuscate) flaunting its quiver of hues before firing, piercing our heart, leaving us easy pickings for the vampires, junkies, & freaks.
All art is all the same, in this way: once you've been exposed, you've got an opinion on it. True neutrality exists only in D&D. Thus, an editor's note: the photos below are either a masterful use of a point-&-click best suited for natural light closeups, the harsh, hard clarity of the everyday filtered out so the savage beast is better soothed through an audio-visual magic, or, the work of someone who has no clue what the fuck he's doing.
