Inexpressible: expression of the inexpressible a tribute to a song by a favorite band of mine: blonde redhead.

#thought lives matter (and so do writing lives for that matter) both are entwined in a double helix of waxing nostalgic and spinning introspection up in here, up in here.

hello and welcome to this little place and I (spike) am here to tell you all abouts it. What it is, what it isn't, what it might become, and what it might not become. Why you've come here and loaded up my site in your browser and what's in it for you?

this is a:

45% personal niche blog: as such, personal crap flows forth and well that might just offend some person out there who likes being offended about all kinds of kookie shit
65% sketch journal
10% eratta (notes to self, unfinished poems, playlists, etc.)

and that's pretty much it. it doesn't need to be more than this even if it is.

It's my sweet nothing and my beautiful everything.

About: the author

the name's spike (online and sometimes off).

sorry but I strongly disagree with the Facebook/Linkedin model of using real names. and besides, I'm a spy so I can't.

and why no, I'm not in fact an international male model. Thanks for thinking that I was. I just play one in real life. I might of been a teeth model since I pimp A1's (the highest order of teeth whiteness level).

so you're here to hear something pertaining to me, why I exist and how I exist...my crazy thoughts, my misadventures, and my...well there isn't much else. My story is lengthy and sometimes detailed, but I won't go into it much. You can read my origin story if you're seriously looking for one to read. I try to keep it to the point and minimal so as to not be overwhelming or annoying (and I can be).

I grew up in Chicago just a 10-minute walk from Wrigleyville, in uptown. My fam dwelt in a huge vintage craftsman-style crib most of my formative yrs through teens and early 20's. It was a beloved, beautiful home full of history and memories good and bad. I look back on these oftentimes and miss them, but seldom. their remembering brings such strange nostalgia and melancholy within me. The kind that is like wine to my poetic soul, and wine that isn't the cheap shit either. Being inebriated is too costly and rips open the exit wounds in my inner regions. Places I've only begun to boldly go where I've never gone before.