The movement of the light on the surfaces of my life. Curves, bifurcations, carnivalesque distortions, and reverberations. The unfettered joy in the eyes of a boon companion during that rare moment when the mad whir of time and space suddenly stops in silent moment of pure transcendence of the physical realm. In short, Love.
An honest fun-loving individual who does not hold my mistakes against me. Someone who has no problem talking things through, no matter how bone headed I seem.
Molvanian Folk music; dirges; laments; mazurkas; scrapings of sounds perceived when one is half in the bag in the Greyhound station in a dying rust-belt city and so lonely that the rhythmn of an out of whack fan bearing brings a smile to your face. The Music of the Spheres. Things I have heard and have never heard. John Ashcroft's musical stylings. Nothing I have to pay for, as music should be free.
Anything that makes me feel like I need a shower.
Ain't had one in years. However, I get sucked in as much as the next guy.
I'm addicted to the printed word. There, I admitted it. Books are the only worthwhile entertainment short of ... .
Nestor Mahkno, James Joyce, Peter Kropotkin, Graham Greene, Virginia Woolf, Serena Williams, Michael Faraday, James Clerk Maxwell, Francis Drake, F.M. Bailey, St. Francis di Asissi, Giordano Bruno, Eugene Debs, Dorothy Day, Emma Goldman, Theodore Gericault, Jesus H. Christ, and any poor motherfucker who's stood on the divider of an on ramp on the I-5 begging for compassion.