I find myself scratching my head, half-amused. What does one write in a blog of this sort? It seemed like such a forward thinking thing to do at the time that I made it. The book is out. Purchase a copy. Any questions?
Since finishing The Turing Test, my focus as a writer has shifted towards much shorter works, primarily poetry. So then, the question stands as follows: as a writer continues to write in such a manner, how does he move forward as an artist while giving due credence to his more robust past work?
I'll be honest, and hopefully this comes as no surprise: I'm awful with computers. I don't like them, despite their obvious utility. One of my goals in life is to forget how to use them altogether. If, on my deathbed, I can legitimately say that I have learned to live in the 21st century without constantly consulting the glowing screen and tap-tap-tap of the keyboard for every little thing, then some remnant of primal humanity in me will have won out over the times, and I'll know that I've done something right. That kind of environment - the sting of fluorescent lighting while hooked up to some sort of life-support apparatus - should be reserved for those who are actually dying, rather than those who sit idly by letting life slip away from them. But then, maybe there's little difference. (The Onion posted an interesting story about that very topic, as a matter of fact.) However, and yes I realize the irony of it, I like the way this site looks. I think I'll keep it for now.
By the way, I still don't own a smart phone, and I use road maps on all my road trips. But, I digress.
For the time being at least, I intend to use this page as a platform for some of my poetry. If you like what you read, please consider supporting my work by purchasing a copy of The Turing Test.
The following is a poem about Emily Dickinson, one of my all-time favorite poets.
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Emily
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Eternity is always now (time
is just the future:
the top of Dad's bookshelf,
a thousand weathered silver-
trimmed pages we'll never read -
or maybe someday) do you see it?
It's hard to reach.
I know a thousand amazing graces
at the top of (anyone can sing
them) notes laced in silver,
echoing backward to before the
setting sun Death
hides behind,
growing mushrooms.
She prays naked,
locked away,
dressed in white
before God and Death.