Handprints and Horses

I think I need a new project.

Should probably ditch Drupal on my music site. It’s nice, but shitty on a shared webhost environment. Too heavy.

Maybe go back to static HTML files, like in the stone age. Fastest way to see cave paintings.

Drupal, see, it’s like going to the cave and asking the tour guide to go back to base camp, find a picture of cave paintings, bring it back to the cave, paint it himself on the wall, and then show it to you piece by piece. Maybe the tour guide gets sick sometimes, and the tourists catch what sickness he has just by walking past him while he paints. So you constantly have to keep the tour guide updated with all the sinus medicines, vitamins, and face masks just so he doesn’t catch anything. And God forbid someone go up to him and make a nasty comment; he just might go and tell everybody.

Tour ruined. Please exit through the Gift Shop.


A problem is that I don’t surround myself with enough people to tip above the critical mass where finding companions, partners, friends, comrades, lovers, is an imminent probability. I’m living as though I have a cabin in the middle of 200 acres of prairie, and I only go in to town to visit the general store to pick up my supplies before retreating to my cabin to wonder where all the people are.

Work. Cafe. Home.

There is more to the story than what is in the text.

Panos Solis

Eighteen. That is the number of days that I have eaten alone. The count of time since I shared a meal with other humans and not a screen, a desk, an ergonomic chair.

Companion: a person who is an associate of another or others; comrade. Latin roots: com = together; pan = bread; -ion = condition of being. Literally, a companion is one who breaks bread with you.

Eighteen days since I have had companionship. That is a condemnation, a statement that I am living my life wrongly. I could say my shift job is to blame. I would be wrong. I could say my shyness is to blame. I would be wrong. A smart man would have predicted the solitary season and would have made plans to continue to be with others. I am not with others. Instead, I eat alone. The most basic communal rite, I am doing wrong.

This is not right. In this season of feast and reflection, of standing at the fire and passing the bottle with a tale, I should not eat alone. I should not be alone. But I am alone. This is wrong. I should have avoided the oncoming solitude.

This is wrong. Wrong.