Travel, so … Broadening. Educational, you know.

Two years ago, was it?–a trip to Silver to live for a while, and the first films were born.

A year and a half ago, coming back from a cross-continental, Anaprim twinkled into tentative being somewhere near the Anvil Rock Road out between the Willows and Seligman.

Upon thanksgiving-time just past, it’s significantly more nebulous.

It’s not you I’m writing this post for, if indeed it is a post at all. It’s different now.

Things have gradually and then suddenly changed.

I traveled to the past, to the singular moment when I was thirteen and nineteen at the same time.

The instant of Schism.

Plus you’ll get all this, too.
A small, friendly group of 24–28 people — half the size of most tour groups
Full-time services of a professional Rick Steves guide and local experts who will make the fascinating history, art, and culture of Europe come alive for you

Steves. Yes. Not for the right reasons at all. For twisted and perhaps even vengeful ones.

I might have to get a job again after all dammit.

I hope not. But I know which very specific one to apply for anyway, if worse comes to worst.

Maybe there are entrepreneurial mushrooms to be leveraged instead.

I know nothing. I am always right, and it never does me a fucking bit of good, and I know nothing.

Except that it’s not a Spill anymore. To spill is accidental. This, now, is a-purpose.

The word to replace spillage is brewing itself like a hot cup of pourover decaf.

En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo.

Fathers. Mine, and yours.

The Son.

The madre, de dios.

Even in splendid isolation, too, he was never an only child. There were sisters before there were brothers, around the corner, halfway around the world.

A father is a whole belief system, unto itself, and passes its selves down intentionally.

Unto the seventh generation.

Not all religions are good ones.

Seven generations ago.

Devonshire.

I may still see it before I die, and doing it or not doing it are both not important.

Nothing is important, unless we choose to invest in it and see it as being part of our Interests.

There is a small house on a concrete lot in a nowhere town, called Compound.

If I never again move farther from it than five miles down the floodwall to the wash, that’ll be alright.

If I, like those in the other shard of family, swing around the whole other half of the world someday, who do you thinks gonna care?

Wait, what, who do I think?

Liony.

He might.

Though we only just got back and so though it’s late

It’s also too early to tell.