Jakob’s Notebook. It was all there: the dreams, the schemes and all the details. Jakob kept the notebook meticulously. He rarely went a day without an entry in a fine, elegant hand; always written in ink and the pages, as Shakespeare’s were said to be, without blot. There’s no hesitation, no additions or deletions; the notes and thoughts were set out uniformly, accurately to the best of his ability and without thought to posterity or readers of any stripe.

Jakob’s notebook was the history of the universe, the universe that Jakob inhabited, ruled over and was sole arbiter and dispenser of justice for. It held his judgements and detailed his triumphs; it was a study of secrets and the bible of all things that had existed. It did not, however, venture into what would be. The future was for Jakob to decide, its outcomes to be recorded within the pages; but the future was not to be trifled with.

Jakob was not superstitious. To be superstitious one would have to accept a power outside of oneself. Jakob merely knew that while a future had not yet arrived, it could still be twisted and shaped by Jakob himself. Thus to attempt to presage or predict any outcomes would lead to a loss of control. And a loss of control was not allowed in Jakob’s reality.

Thus the notebook was a record of what was and though Jakob — and now Haid — worshipped its contents, he never made the mistake of allowing access to the notebook to any but his servant. But the notebook was more than a record. It was a map, a guidebook, a treasure house of knowledge; the notebook was the only thing that was of Jakob that existed outside Jakob.

And in the end, it was all that remained of Jakob.



Beginnings are never easy. They aren’t pretty or charming or sweet. Beginnings are messy, chaotic and always treading on the razor fine edge of disastrous.

We like to think that that’s not true, to fool ourselves by rewriting our own histories to make the starting points glorious or beautiful or simply charming. But that’s what’s easy about beginnings: rewriting them. Looking back and saying in a sappy little voice “Oh my goodness, that was so easy, I have no idea why I didn’t do that earlier…” And it’s completely natural. No woman would bear another child if that beginning was really that fraught, no love affairs would spring up if the insecurities and fear were the lasting impression.

We never forget, but we remember our beginnings differently. And we see others fits and starts through the black lenses of a welders helmet: protected from the pain and soul-burning glare and thus able to judge the merit and quality of the new thing without scars.

But not all beginnings can be rewritten. Not all scars can be whisked away or masked by the medicinal properties of time. Sometimes the pain never goes away. Sometimes it is impossible to forget.


I remember the rain, the sound of it hitting the ground, the feel of it running down the back of my neck. I remember thinking that this was the bottom. I had hit the bottom. There was nothing or no one fucking lower. I remember the cold, and the icy wind, and the look on his face.

And that’s how I knew I was lost; because I wasn’t afraid. I was so utterly lost that I couldn’t even feel fear. And I knew is held be afraid. Anyone…any thing, would have been afraid of lie behind the sneer. But I wasn’t. I was just lost.


A Song for Time

And the note begins before the music
And the music never ends

I’ve loved the music in your voice
And your gentle sounds of silence

I’ve dreamed of the whispers and sighs
Of your lonely lows and gleeful highs

Oh the note begins before the music
And the music never ends

When I close my eyes and listen hard
The melody flows through my mind

Of gentle touches, graceful brushes
The quiet rush of my heart songs trills

Oh the note begins before the music
And the music never ends
And though my ears won’t hear the music
The music never ends



No, he hadn’t asked for it, but now that it was there, he might as well use it. Using things was really what Jakob did best.

First things first. It needs a name: a label. Hard to dish out orders if no one is listening. And you can’t guarantee they’ll be listening unless you take matters into your own hands. So. A name, a label, a title as it were. Several options twisted silently across Jakob’s tongue until one dripped off the tip. Shithead. Short, to the point, and useful as a reminder. Haid for public consumption; something to twist the blade and yet offer some small bit of hope.

Hope was also something Jacob understood. He had never encountered it; in fact, hope mostly felt it a mythological creature always spoken of in hushed tones, but never quite there, never quite real. But hope was the whip that drove his will over what obstacles the universe tried to throw in his face. Hope was the dream that could be used, crushed and then used again. Hope was an unending source of power to those who used it and an unquenchable source of weakness and espalier to those who would be used by it.

And hope is what would serve best to break this new beast of burden. A thorn bridle with velvet ties: unending pain with just enough softness to inspire an imaginary surcease.

Haid. It was done.



The Past
Jakob had not asked for an heir. He neither wanted nor could tolerate children. He asked for no son, desired no ward; he wanted no children, no students, no lover, no companion, no wife, no sister or brother, no parents, friends, cousins relatives of any sort. Jakob desired nothing from anyone. Jakob wanted to be left alone, and in the normal course of events that was a situation he was well capable of creating without aid or interference from the greater world.

For Jakob knew beyond any doubt that he was alone in a hostile place and nothing, not anyone, existed with any ability to change that. Not even Jakob himself could twist reality to accomplish that particular miracle.

And Jakob was a master at twisting reality. Because Jacob knew beyond any doubt he was alone, it followed that his reality must therefore subsume any other. And if it didn’t, well, there were things that could be done if one was determined or ruthless enough. The moon and stars revolved around Jakob’s whims, and he dedicated his unending struggle to keeping it so. And he always — always — won.

But in one small, tiny instance, in one unexpected and unforeseen turn, Jakob was forced to wrestle his reality to accommodate … a change. Jakob had not asked for an heir and he desired no student; but Jakob was going to make sure that this … anomaly … would be turned to the greater good of Jakob.

Because that’s the only thing that truly was real in the world that Jakob endured.




Hickory dickory dock
My eyes can’t stand the shock
The clock flowed down
Its face a frown

And exclaimed quite loudly
What the fuck?

Higgledy piggledy math
No victims escape its wrath
It all added up
No murmurs of s’up

We were so deep in it
We had to laugh

Hippity hoppity boo
There remains but one thing to do
If we flee for our souls
We might escape the coals

Before any of the hunters
Manage to


So. Shall we inhale … breathe out … and go on …?

But what of the missing story? What of the parts that exist between the narratives? What of the stories yet untold?

Shall we not delve into these spaces, into the moments between inhalation and exhalation? Because what lies between is often the key to what is to come.

But no. These interstitial spaces shall remain untouched for now; let them reveal themselves in the currents and flows of the existing stories. The pattern will reveal itself in the weave.

What is important is the power behind the story: the engine that drives forth the narrative. And that, dear reader, is the past. What comes before of necessity shapes and forms what will be. Let us the look back and see the beginnings of our tale. Let us peer into the past and reveal the cauldron that has spit forth the life of our story. Yes, let us.


Ah, intermission. Or … Well, what do they call it in books? An interruptus? Interlingua? Intertexuality? Maybe a caesura … no, that just sounds awful. Narrative delay? No, that’s just pretentious and annoying. Let’s see, how about … yes … a Dramatic Pause!

So, shall we pause dramatically? Shall we interrupt the flow of narrative once more and examine our reasons for this grand project? Shall we recap and review, retake and reconsider? Shall we? Shall we?

Ah, such is the role and glory of the narrator: to create such moments and gather the collective breaths of readers one and all in the palm of my hand and to slowly, so slowly, allow them to exhale; to breathe at my will for the very soul of the story’s flow, for the fleeting, momentary, exquisite pleasure that comes from a well-paced narrative. Yes, such is the great burden that I bear for the sake of you, my readers.

And I remember. I too was once a mere reader, caught up in the web of some author’s whim. I too experienced the rhapsody of intricate pacing and methodically played-out moments. I remember and thus I bring to you all the joy and wonder that is in my grasp to give, and I bid you take in my tale and experience the sweetness of the wind that I evoke from the plain and simple words before you.