I am a slave to the written word, sharing my first love of horror and the unknown with the Vocal community. Danced and performed. Worked in books and museums. Today, I am writing in my purple house in my corner of Los Angeles.
The Melvin Singularity
My mother told us stories of the old world, when everyone lived on the surface of the planet. The oceans had tides, families played outside in the grass, and traveled in airplanes. Moments captured on camera and old movies stored in the archives are all I have of the surface now. Did you ever hear the saying, maybe the universe is telling us something? Well it started speaking, but humans only have a microscopic understanding of its language.
Appetite for Words
I love shelving books. It’s meditative to float through the alphabet and institute a preciseness that each title deserves. There is a symmetry to it and an art to the spine-out, face-out flow. I smell each one and feel its texture. When the moment is right, I dive into the words to satisfy the craving. Everyone has their indulgences, addictions, but it has taken me time to embrace my unique abilities. Sometimes they scratch my skin, squeeze my windpipe, or even burn layers of skin. For too long I wondered what was real, the world inside their pages or the one where I actually breathe. The routine of keeping the books contained on their shelves keeps me grounded in this reality, even when I crave to be inside them.