clocks cut

Sometimes you find that something you love with all your dirt-gritty and blood-gravid heart isn’t universally loved.

Fourteen. I was fourteen when I found my music. Mine and mine and just mine (so you’d think, then, I wouldn’t give a damn about universal adoration–but you know, there’s that whole being human thing, brimming full with logicfuck). Not all the bands from that time survived the course I forged from there to here, but some have. Some I still keep with me, earside, and spine- and bellywards. Pain of Salvation is one of these roadrazers, these unknowing companions (roadrazers), as all bands are (and, somehow, ineffably, aren’t) to the listener.


Viscera. Greencoil. Mosswrecked epiphytic interdependency and knee-plunge and hipclutch. Plunge and batter and rust.

I don’t know how else to verbalize their soundscapes and stories, except with wordstreams like the above. Their music, it’s like kneeling in someone’s chest, stealing their lungs and squeezing the air into your mouth. The taste is seaweed and candlefish all solar-bright and a-flair–salt and oil and ash–and it drips down thick, sick, as any other pearlescent bodily fluid.

But–but I was wondering about the universe, and love. I recently spoke to a friend about Pain of Salvation, and found she isn’t fond of their newer work. Utterly fine. However, it lead me to think–about why Road Salt One and Two rope me in probably harder than any of their previous work.

This is what I wrote, more or less incoherently:

Apparently I have lots of thoughts and feelings about these albums. While Road Salt One does spin a sex-narrative, for me it’s more intensely about the fucked up ways humans catch (fire) against each other, the pain and viciousness and just humanness that ignites when people come in contact. There’s a bonus track that I’m not whole-hardheartedly fond of, but I think its last line sums up one vein of the album:

[And I don't know where I need to be, but it is not here inside her]

Sometimes sex is the worst answer. The most painful? The least urgent despite all its gravid thrust?

And then, beyond–I think the album is about finding the spinal, self-machinated strength to just fucking trudge on and not letting the bruising and knee-dirt and bed-bow-and-warp keep you from existing in the world, from walking the road. (The songs Road Salt–and Tell Me You Don’t Know–for context seekers.)

But more than any of it, when I listen to Road Salt One, in the context of its it sonic power and musicianship, the thing is…giant. And purgative. Like some sort of wounded animal stranglehold put to music. (Am I somehow implying that strangulation is cathartic? Dunno.)

And then, more intimately, plain, me? I think of the song She Likes to Hide, because I like to hide. And Tell Me Where it Hurts, and Mortar Grind from Road Salt Two, because–just because. (Quiet.)

So on and on.

Listening to songs like Sisters, even after having heard them too-too many times probably than is healthy, the immersion is still…too much? Part of it is just the edgy, doomy subtly of the music (especially in the Leo Margarit’s drumming–not to mention Daniel’s breathwrenching and terribly vulnerable vocal performance on that song) and then, again,

Sisters, Sisters, Sisters. I’ve never been in love with anyone’s sister, yet it. It. It, the song, is oceanic and huge and so so small. The story isn’t mine (but somehow, I don’t know how, it is, it is) chokes me, but beyond that skin, the catharsis is anatomically negating and I can’t help but just sit and sink when that song comes on. I inhabit it?

I change every single fucking time I listen to the Road Salt albums–especially the first. Like I undergo a premature and quick and bloody chrysalis. And when it’s over, though I’m not actually all that different, in the between time, the friction of middle, the heaviness that falls before beginning and after end, in those places, I’m…something else.

And all I know is that I don’t. I just…don’t.

an obsessive anatomy

an obsessive anatomy

I made a decision at the beginning of high school that changed me forever. I have no regrets. The memory isn’t bitter. At the time, my choice made sense, and it still does–nonetheless, it was a strange decision to make.

From the near-beginning of my life until ninth grade, my foci were drumming, writing, and visual art. I think drawing was the first, it had always been, I’d always done it. Writing came not long after. (I had to learn to enjoy books first, but once my hunger for narrative started in third grade, feeding myself was a quick and natural progression.) Drumming took longer–in fifth grade I started band as a percussionist, but didn’t connect with it in that innate gut-kindling inescapable magnetism till the summer before ninth grade, when I began studying the drum set.

I can’t pinpoint the existential moment I started drawing, but I know when I stopped: high school. This goes back to the choice I began with. Two weeks before high school began, there was band camp. The day it was supposed to start I was wavering: I could continue with music and let it become my own personal, friendly parasite (I’d heard stories of high school band and its tyranny)–or, I could quit, and focus on visual art. (At the time, I had aims of going into character design.)

My mom neatly dispatched my indecision. Her solution: attend a day of band camp, test the waters, choose. I tested the water, chose the drums–and for the most part, turned my back on visual art.

I’m not sure why. It’s not that I thought my percussive center was already folding, that I was groping desperately for anything that might save it–because it wasn’t folding. On the contrary; it was lifting its head. Sniffing the air. But still. Why side with a medium I’d loved only a year, when visual art had been with me almost my whole life? The simple answer is that band was a hel of a lot of fun (probably mostly because it was actually pre-, percussionists-only, band camp). And, undoubtedly, my…interest in a certain unnamed instrumentalist (who I had no doubt would be continuing band) had something to do with it, as well.

My other answer: I’d found my musical heart (metal) a year before, and already knew I wanted a band of my own. Alas, I wasn’t a stellar drummer (still working on that, always will be), and I knew I needed help. Band, and its percussionist director, could be that help.

End-story: I gave up drawing. I kept doodling on my paper edges, but the intensity was gone. I stopped filling sketches, I stopped trying. This lasted for years–a decade, I just realized, looking at the calendar. I was fourteen at the time. I’m twenty four now.

In June, I started drawing again. Not scribbles; not copious, repetitious and embarrassingly sloppy eyeballs. I began drawing with intent. Studying anatomy and form and movement–distilling and stilling it all as I focused on the lines I was making, learning to be dissatisfied again, to see my failures once again, learning shove through them and find even more, because that’s how you get better, you know. That span of lost time has the potential to sicken and frustrate me (just think how much better I’d be now if I’d kept at it), but I won’t let it, and it just doesn’t. I did plenty during that time, and I’m glad for it, and the way I went forth. I wrote and drummed demonically, and now I have a published book, published stories and poems. I have a band (multiple bands) to call my own.

One thing I remembered vaguely about drawing, but didn’t really truly recall, was how obsessive I can get about it. I’m driven and (paradoxically) singular in all things, but with visual art, the obsession is even more innate, somehow deeper. When I’m free-playing on my drums, I can find my flow easy, but if I’m working through a new groove, or focusing on some weird foot ostinato with tricky limb independence over top I have to be awake–and while that wakefulness is sinewy, it can, on occasion, be snapped. Yet, if I sit down and tell myself ten minutes on this painting and NO MORE, I’ll typically find myself still drawing or painting, arting, whatever, three hours later. It’s a dangerous preoccupation, because drumming and writing are still my heart (rather than being a near satellite like visual art is), and lately, it’s been destructively distracting (for those of you nonexistent people who’ve wondering at the lack of blog posts that contain words, you’ve found your answer). The haze is so addictive that if I want to get anything done, I have to keep my sketchbook in a separate room, and my tablet unplugged.

I want to keep drawing. There’s so much I want to be able to do with pen and paper and paint and pencil, etc , whether it’s digital or analogue, so in these dwindling months till grad school, when time will be severely squished, I need to learn how to get things done again (I’m currently not counting making visual art in the ‘getting things done category’). Maybe teach myself to make drawing a treat. Or possibly a bribe.

But until I reign myself in, have some arts/works in progress. Including a new chapter of Skyglass.

the velocity of inwards

If you couldn’t tell from the exponential upspike in fanart production, I started rereading The Silmarillion last week. I’m participating in the Tolkienreadalong on tumblr (Team Angband ftw!), and it’s serving well to feed the fannish hunger I’ve had these past few months. But it’s also been a reminder: I like being wholehearted.  I consume consumption. I have this urge to find new obsessions or sustain old ones. But sometime I have to remember to hold back.

We’re only one week into The Silmarillion and won’t be finished till November, yet I’m already trying hard not to kick through the whole book this very instant. I want to pace myself, so I’m going slow.  What’s the point of participating in a readalong if you’re not actually going to read along? I’m in this for the neck-deep onslaught of intestinal Middle Earth  mayhem (and all the dark lords ever), but it’s the ‘along’ bit that I’m excited about. Being in the same ephemeral headspace as a couple thousand others, seeing the divergent and intersecting bookspawn people create via headcannons, meta, fanart/fic/vid (I mean hel, we already have a booty dancing Annatar–aka Sauron–video)–it’s a glorious leviathan overload of community, and I want to ride with it, not ahead of it.

I guess it’s as simple as I don’t want to be alone. Especially not with The Silmarillion. One, it’s vast, and sometimes silly and wonderful in its vastness, and these are not things that should be bibliomaniacally imbibed on one’s own. For example: it’s one thing to think to myself, Melkor is a metal god, and quite another to see a billion fanartists in pen-and-inked-accord with this thought. Also, it’s been years since I last read the book, but I have no doubt this reread will prove The Silmarillion to be problematic; I’ll catch some of the terribleness, but not all of it. In other words: bring on the meta-tons of destructive criticism. In the meantime, I’m going to teach myself how to slow down.




Eluréd, one of the twins sons of Dior Eluchíl (Elurin being the other twin), and grandson of Beren and Lúthien, + some forest creatures. The story of Eluréd and Elurin has always drawn me; though they were left to die after the Sack Menegroth, I’ve always liked to think that they survived, and lived on, forestbound.

More art to come of the twins soon.



First, new art:


Want more art? Click here.

Then, writing:

I have a short story up at Shimmer: “The Seaweed and the Wormhole.” It’s about a swamp monster and his boyfriend. If you want more about Ebb and Peregrine, the main characters, I’ve posted a couple of fragments from Ebb’s diary. They can be read here.

Shimmer also has an interview with me.

The second chapter of Skyglass is now up, and free to read for a limited time. Here’s chapter one if you need to catch up. Also, Sparkler posted a cast picture for Skyglass. Can’t wait for the last three character designs; it’ll be pretty excellent to see all seven of them lined up together. Art by Mookie, who is amazing.

Other things:

I spent the last couple days going to (death) metal and non-metal shows, running around the Oregon Country Fair, sketching people, eating good food, and just generally getting up to benign mischief. I’ll post the sketches + maybe some video soon.

Fragments from the Diary of Ebb Cederstrom

Fragments from the Diary of Ebb Cederstrom


Me (retrospective—in part)

179 lbs. 5’11”. That’s one small wheelbarrow of fresh seaweed, and about half a thallus of bladderwrack. Once, the sea knew me best. Then, many knew me best from the waist down. Now, a man knows me best. He knows me like the others knew me. But also, he knows me from the inside because I think we share a soul. Which explains a lot. The constant hunger, for one.



Dinner #1

Him: Snails, butter, dill. Three game hens, oranges (zest and juice), mint, sherry, butter.

Me: Salmon, salt, fennel. Fingerlings, olive oil, peppercorns. Chocolate mousse—eggs, sugar, vanilla, cream, chocolate. Wine-soaked cherries. Whipped cream.



The Dead Terrarium

This project took Peregrine two weeks. Before he started, he put a case of bottled water in our room, plus a couple boxes of Kleenex, and a twenty-five lb sack of trail mix (chocolate, raisins, whole dates, almonds, dried habanero). There was also a wooden box I wasn’t allowed to see inside of, and after he shut the door to our room I wasn’t allowed in. He didn’t lock it because he knew I wouldn’t try to get in. After two weeks, he opened the door and waited for me to come. The first thing I saw was him, sitting in his boxers with his hair alluring and chaotic around his face and eyes bruised by sleepless nights. There was an ocean of stiff tissues, empty water bottles, and raisins all around him. Raisins because he’d picked them out. He hated raisins. His feet were pressed together at the soles and he gripped them with his hands as he looked up at me, not sheepish in the least. He tilted his head at my desk, which I hadn’t seen in 14 days. It was large and made out of a door. It had to be large, because half of it was reserved for the trinkets and other things Peregrine brought home or made me. Among the artifacts, stood a large glass jar. Inside the glass jar was a rat skeleton, bones joined by bits of grass. Inside its ribcage were the skeletons of 17 baby rats. The jar had no lid. Instead, he’d taken the rat hides, sewn them together and rubber-banded them to the mouth.




It’s beautiful out. I’d like to go to the ocean—and not gather seaweed, for once, but Peregrine’s turned the living room into a giant blanket fort and has about ten heat lamps in there and I’m worried he’s going to burn down the house if I go out. I guess dinner’ll be boiled pasta again, with a can from ‘grin’s giant stockpile of cream of mushroom soup.




Wasn’t there a time you wanted to be a poet? I ask myself, as if I failed in that regard. I am a poet. I distill humanity with my cock.




Am I okay with self-annihilation? I choose—repeatedly—to ruin myself, but I wonder: is it a choice or a cycle? For instance, this man—Peregrine—who’s just started living with me. He pays to live with me. Is he here because I’m already in love with him (because I think I’m already in love with him), because we have great sex, because he’s familiar and comfortable (because he’s familiar and makes me comfortable with his money), because he’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before—because really, how can you taste yourself?




Tonight is my first night without him since he moved in. I’m eating pizza and watching The Cosmos. To celebrate? To fill his absence? I have no idea where he is or why he left or if he’ll come back. I do know I’m afraid.




Ive been drinking tooo much lately. Like now I gotta a liter of coke alot of rum. In me. Soon just be vomit and me wishing for




She was the best friend I ever had and I don’t even know what the hell she was. She had skin the color of black antlers and sandy hair, oddly long fingers and dirt-colored nails. She always gave me ice when I got my black eyes, even though she lived in a cob-and-cacti-house five miles into the desert. Everything else, all my other memories of her, I’ve successfully drowned in oceans and lakes and occasionally, when I’m feeling especially tristful, rum-and-coke. I saw her every day that summer and never loved anything more, until…

Can you imagine what losing someone like that would do to you?



The more Peregrine clings, the more I feel alone. Why? Because the closer you are to something the harder it is to see all of it. I think we’ve lost sight of each other. I hope this trip won’t be our last. We have something, I really feel we do.



It’s impossible to know yourself, I think. You, a single speck in the everything that’s also you.

I don’t understand anything I’ve ever done.

Twice, I thought I found something different. But I wonder now if they ever were.







Clean boxers?





If you want more of Ebb and Peregrine, if you want to try to decipher these fragments, or find out their brutal end, wade over to Shimmer and read my story The Seaweed and the Wormhole. The pieces above were culled from the piece during a much-needed bout of editing; they diluted the story, but I still liked them well enough on their own to post them here.

There’s also an interview with me, if you’re into the whole process and brain-picking thing. : ) (I know I am.)