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A pilgrimage to the city of Trang-Un & a death in the mouth of a cow. Mercury & Prometheus, among other guests, ride along.
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Digitalize Me

Posted by Eric Westerlind (Creator)
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Alright. Look, Eric, sometimes you can’t get every picture off your iPhone, because your iPhone wants to keep all your photos for iTself. 

It's okay, Eric. Even robots can be selfish that way. 

Just remember when you were last selfish. You ate all the pickle chips and didn’t leave any for Alyssa.

She doesn’t like pickle chips. That’s the excuse I tell myself. And I excuse myself because you’re here. 

In my head I’ve gone over selfishness already. But sometimes, I put on the right music, or the wrong music, and it makes me go over things again. Selfishness. Sadness. Jubilation. Everything. That’s what’s magic about music. My little ears get moved and they move my little brain and my little brain in its wiggling sends me like an emotional spacecraft—whizzzz—through memories and memories and memories.

Welcome back, fam, to this old thought process.

I’ve got news: I finished typing the book.


Don’t get too excited, Eric. Some of the paragraphs are bolded like this:

There’s maybe a hundred or two hundred of those, often with notes like more body language, or, more cryptically: why?. I have to go make the bold go away now, answer my own questions. 

And then there’s the red marks.

Those are simpler to adjust. That’s just typing looking away from the keyboard, and a good portion of the time, I kept my hat on straight and checked periodically to make sure I wasn’t pulling a ‘wandering typist’.

So it's done, but needs a combing? EW, how long is this thing?

82,710 words. 201 pages, Times New Roman, 12pt, single-spaced.

Are they all good?

All words are good. But I admit your question suggests did I use all the good words good? and the answer is no. Which is why this is going to editors next.

Remind me?

Johnny ‘Badheart Wolf’ O’Hanlon is the first stop for his thoughtful eye. I’ll ship it to him down there in NC.

And he’ll do what? 

This is a bad question. You know I don’t know what he does.

Sure, but guess. 

I’d guess that something happens when he passes it hand-to-hand wherein thirty or forty pages fall out, in the way a magician your mom hired gets your chosen card to drop into your birthday teramisu. 

And then he’ll give me the deck back and say now isn’t this fine, skinnier thing better?

Are you talking about body image? 

Damnit. Stop. Your body is great.

So it was about body image then. 

No other questions?

Are you satisfied? 

I cried several times writing the book and I cried several times typing the book.

Will I? 

Unlikely. Maybe though. I’d love that.

When do I get to read it? 

Brrrsrsrsrss s—— I’m not sure. It has to go to North Carolina, sit there for awhile, then come back, change a bit, then go to Boston, sit a bit, come back. Then it’ll be at the printers. This is all new to me!

Woh woh woh. Don’t add critique to question, EW. I only ask because I’m excited to hold it. Do you, bud, in your own words. 

Thanks, fam.


I’m going to put the briefcase aside. It’s been a month and a half. We ought to snuggle up and share the secrets, yeah?

March 2nd I finished writing. April 18th, typing is done.

Between then and there was all manner of things.

For one, Spring. Welcome, darling.

Lys and I celebrated the arrival of the Season of Buds at another house: the House of Lemmy and the Cats.

It was a fine house (and still remains one) with an electric lock and a huge walk-in shower and CBD bath-bombs in the drawer, Cinammon Toast Crunch in the pantry, unopened board games to try.

May I strongly recommend Scotland Yard. Apparently it’s made by a puzzle company. I’m not sure if that speaks to its … I’m not sure what that speaks to. 

It’s excellent and induces wild adrenaline. A simple enough seeming concept: Player A, ‘Mister X’, seeks to escape Players B - F by way of various means of London transportation.


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We were there for greater purpose than gaming boards however. This was the House of Lemmy and the Cats.

One Cat of The Cats
One Cat of The Cats

Alyssa and I have found ourselves— childless & caring— as somewhat consistent dog watchers. In the Age of Sell Your Spare Time (or perhaps this is a characteristic of every age), we’re regularly in the company of these little aliens.

We decided to call it something, our little partnership, me and Lys. There’s this symbol: Æ, which—how perfect—is made up of our initials. 

It’s not pronounced like we expected.

“The letter æ was used in Old English to represent the vowel that's pronounced in Modern English ash, fan, happy, and last: /æ/. Mostly we now spell that vowel with the letter a, because of the Great Vowel Shift.”



We decided to just pronounce it how we saw it, and we always call each other ‘Bean’, so we stuck it in the middle there, and have a little photography studio now we call Bæns. Tagline: Like How They Say in the South.

We’ve done product photography.

Lemmy photography.

What else? Man:

I’ve been an extra in a commercial for a barber-shop, and got a free hair-cut:

That's not me. It's Lady Krishna, a celebrity.
That's not me. It's Lady Krishna, a celebrity.

I’ve turned down a landscaping job:

I’ve been doing a lot of short story editing and novel editing, and I read the first in this series! (Wild visuals and dark plotting.)

Wild visuals and dark plotting.
Wild visuals and dark plotting.

Joseph Spece showed in our fair city.

Alyssa’s done dishes, and she still sleeps sometimes.


We pulled all the art off our walls and re-painted and re-decorated.


And of all things I could get addicted to in the middle of transition to all-sun days, this person:

Got me hooked on snow-shoeing.





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I think that’s it!


In the interest of closure for this series of pictures involving me with the Great Blue Binder,

Cya everybody. More updates to come.

Love, -ew

Danielle Fulton likes this update.


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