Well, shiver me timbers

Huh. So we went to Beloit tonight to check out Indred Cold's reunion show (it's good to see those boys are back in the saddle with the silver spoons) and ended up playing the first Plumed Serpent show as well, which went over infinitely better than I had thought it would, given how, you know.... absolutely everything we did was improvised right there on the spot.The Overflowing Cup is, you know, kinda weird, butI'd have to say it was a substantially killer gig.

I realized in this past week that I haven't read much poetry in the last couple of months. I've been devouring T.S. Eliot and e e cummings lately, but I'm also jonesing for some Robert Browning and some John Donne.
I wish I was a poet... maybe I can be a critic, at least. I think the best critics are the ones who also introduce their own artistry to the world, instead of simply offering their opinion of everyone else's.

I think I might devote this here into my critical training ground, because honestly... regurgitating stuff that's happened to me is kind of boring, and redundant. If something happened that I think is significant (heck, even if it isn't) I will probably have told you already. There you have it, then. Forthwith, I will dedicate this simply to critical essays and reviews and really hone my art. If there is artistry to criticism. That might be worthy of an essay in and of itself, I don't know, but this sounds infinitely more interesting than most of what I've been posting lately. And I mean infinitely.

The truth is the truth, no matter how many sophists convince the world otherwise, or how they redefine the word "truth" to guide others astray.

Love,
Ian