HST is still dead

Been more than two months now since Hunter S. Thompson punched his own ticket and I still think about him. A friend e-mailed the sad news, "Hunter S. Thompson RIP" read the subject line and I checked the news and sure enough - there it was - 67 and found by his son. Jesus. "Why not?", I imagined his last words, then the banner fell and less than a penny's worth of lead destroyed the infinite treasure caves of his mammoth, sagging mind. I wondered about his friends, Bill Murray, Johnny Depp, all the folks up at Woody Creek, all of them left here to continue the crawl without him. That night I had my own memorial, there was loud music and single malt Scotch and toasts to the night sky to all those not present. All those gone for good or going soon, and some still around, but the light's dimmed from their eyes.

I'm still wearing the black armband for that scary old mutant uncle who showed me how to spill the ink and walk with the rabid baboons and play chicken with a lightening storm. He was my own Pope of heavy water and crossed swords and bent nails. There's a bottle of Turkey and a shotgun and a copy of Morrison Hotel gathering dust in the corner. The mojo wire is quiet now, too damn quiet and I miss him.

OK HW

The Weaverwerx Manifesto or Now what are you doing?

There's a box on the set-up page for this blog called "brief description" and it is still blank. I find it difficult to clarify my purpose and when I try, I sometimes fall down the open manhole of my brain into the subterranean deep thought tunnels where I aimlessly wander for what seems like forever before finally re-emerging into the sunlight, confused, but empty-handed. My mind instantly leaps from "brief description" to "what am I doing with my life" and the fingers hang in the air over the keyboard and down the pipe I go again. With that in mind, I'll press on watching my step and aiming for statements of the declarative variety.
(throat clearing sound)
Weaverwerx is... (you can do it)... the funky factory of my life that has produced everything from sculpture to short films to screenplay (one so far, but I got ideas) to homemade chocolate chip cookies. This blog began as an off-shoot from my long neglected web site and was meant to be an amped up "news and events" section, but actually has become another distraction from actually redesigning and updating the site and immediately mutated into this loose collection of musings. Topics likely, but not promised to be explored; film making, art, computer graphics, animation, writing, the mysteries of the creative process, hiking (including blister secrets and the ballad of the broken shoelace), travel, humor, and apologies for failed attempts at humor. My attorney has asked me to say: In the future, I maintain the right to, without warning, notice or reason, add new topics to said "list" (referred hereto after as "list") or remove, redecorate, or digitally remaster any topics or topic-like objects from "list", but there is no expressed commitment that "list" will actually or virtually ever be altered (or printed out and put into the bottom of a bird cage) or referenced either in polite conversation or used as a veiled or unveiled threat against person(s) unnamed (but you know who you are) or compliment or back-up piece of conversation filler for awkward moments or voids in other contracts either verbal, written, or performed.

Glad that's out of the way. Now, where was I?

the empty inbox

I cleared out my e-mail inbox last week for the first time in I can't remember when. There's always a few lingering e-mails, links forwarded on by friends that lead to sites too fat for my dial-up connection or some digest of messages from the Tom Waits group I belong to or the occasional note from an old acquaintance that gets left like leftover Chinese food in the back of the fridge offering promise and possibility, but eventually just has to be dealt with. But this last weekend, I had time and desire and weeded my way through the dozen or so bits and reached that coveted goal of zero. Now the emptiness stares back at my like that white page or canvas or lump of clay, but even worse, this emptiness isn't filled by my hand but by the whims of the great e-mail god (or goddess? yeah, somehow, makes more sense to me that he is a she), so goddess blessing my meager dry little box with the sweet rain of communication, ah yes. But until then, silence and white space.

As opposed to the low energy variety....

Came across this bag laying by the side of the road the other day.

Amazing how four simple words can create a whole universe of possibility.

OK HW