12.18.24

Fang’s been inhabitable for two months today.

Releasing it feels entirely surreal. A lucid dream, fading. One I’m wrestling how to retell.

I’ve wanted to share more about its process, its pedals, but our outer world’s needed love more than ever, and my inner world is good at waiting.

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Beyond its own story, I feel there's room to preface through its autobiographical, metrical context, too.

This is the first time I’m truly able to outwardly wonder at it from its newest angle: shoulder to shoulder with anyone else.

I’m enjoying taking intentional time, standing back, beside myself, to thank what my past and I have made.

To thank its love’s longing to be here. To remain. To say ‘there was,’ and ‘there is more.’

The album’s an outward celebration of that succession: lighting a next bearer’s torch and inheriting its cumulative shadow play.

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The soft-reveal’s been unnerving, though predominantly, truly, enlivening.

In some ways, the weight of its great burden - or the great labor of my devotion - feels shared or lifted: a sense that what I’ve owed to it feels served.

A promise, fulfilled.

I wrote a letter to the record, or to my future self from it, that you can read via afangintherough.com, or from case study files via The Desk.

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Fang started as a few progressions. A style in melody. A general tone.

I remember its leitmotif announced itself over a college summer, thumbed out of my old Guild in my mom’s driveway. Everything different then. Trees creeping in. Humming with a capo on.

I started having fun working it into an oddball batch of new and different-feeling songs: all chord and melody. I’d murmur out half-lyrics I called ‘fake words’ and felt out consonance and vowel shape, trying to find my way and stretch out in the arrangements.

Like working backward and forward. Like trying to plan and then recall a dream.

A few tracks in this precursor era survived their own evolution and eventually formed their own collection.

I thought it was an EP. Maybe its own thing, outside of the music I was playing through undergrad. I called it ‘Homebody.’

-

I toured around with bands of best friends and was in and out of love that would work its way into my growing soundtrack to it. It was 2012.

A post-everything combination of accidental pretension, I’d studied English and Recording Engineering, taking music and myself woefully seriously:

Enraptured by Tennessee Williams, Ginsberg, Marquez, Cheever, overwhelmed by the endless backward glance, the feeling of catching up to the moment by its heralds that revealed me to my own.

A squall of smoke, then. Another fresh essay huddled beneath the perpetual rain within the courtyard of Peck Hall. Maxwell House and campus coffee, regrettably fitted denim. Pacing and pining all the way to Mass Comm.

Myself, a corridor: between my youth and my young adult life, struggling to feel seen and knowing how to see. Errantly slamming the heaviest door, darkening the whole hall.

My grandparents moved to Murf around the same time, and that era of their house in The Boro will always mean Hershey’s with Almonds. Jeopardy and early quiet. A hammock between its birdhouse trees. My Geo Metro my friends and I could carry. Some memories I have to myself.

-

Family would pass, my friends and I’d move or move out - growing up, growing out. But there was gravity between us and what music we made.

Revolving it, we kept writing - playing college towns and house shows, recording demos in an empty living room on SE Broad, sunburning in the south, drinking till dawn, surviving to keep surviving by the next word, hunting like mad, painfully in love with the craft, in painful awe of what we couldn’t know would change, waxing in the fits of its romance like we knew it waned - my dynamo daydream of it now anyway.

When I remember the eyes-closed imprint, the nexus of ‘the college experience,’ I think of how contagious my community’s momentum felt.

It was physical, amplified, inertia: a potter’s wheel spun by the passions of my peers, the altruism of so many professors.

That velocity spat us all across the rest of our own lives, and dispersed any sense of myself I found or designed across those years.

Of course, everything changed; every world expanded. My mind felt brand new, over and over: each state of revelation more embarrassed of its last as I’d take my first trembling stride from its husk. Like early onset. Rebirthing like amnesia.

Through its striae, I hoped to abandon any pursuit of image as everything drifted, every one of my moons having counted down and let go of whatever moored them to me at the same time, but ‘Homebody’ remained; its call to me, or my own to it, tethered us to each other. Clinging, clawing for our shared anchor.

All the madness in love folded into my flecks of clay, my workable earth.

I devoted my whole mind to it - much later, unironically becoming what it foremostly sought to dispel.

-

I suffered through those first post-college years by its harmony and movement, hunting what its stand-in lyrics might mean or point to, what the Song and greater movement was intent to reveal, and carried its music for an agonizing amount of time before ever understanding what it meant to show me.

__

Those first years, ’12 to ’15, were all guitar, all vague narrative concepts, thinking of a top-down view of a world and its characters, their conflicts to conquer and how I fit in.

For the first time, I was writing as someone else. At least in name.

There was a train. There was a forest. A closed track I knew my characters spiraled, a heartbrokenness to earn and learn like the siren they followed, like the call of my own hunting, wound ‘round a concentric circle, converging.

I tried to build out their dramas, reflecting my own relationships, my own cycling patterns, self-denial, the repetition of generational traumas, wanting them to break free, romancing the idea that one character would help the other escape a tightening trap, even at the cost of himself or his freedom.

-

It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of that era’s specific view, of that incarnation, its telescoping ambition from a now ancient vista, but ‘the seed can never rest in its own shade.’

Its concept developed a device that would survive, but the arc itself would slink into just one of the foothills in the shadow of the record’s penultimate climb.

As new Love crossed me in life, whatever focus and greater connection I had drawn would change shape and meaning, pivot or fall away as my enthusiasm for loving outgrew my comfort in longing; the spoils over several years of mining would reduce to rubble, after reaching the top of one mountain that revealed a range of greater mountains.

The series of analogous, pivotal events I thought were destined for the story, would condense into a single song, or a single line.

The power of that compression, the palpability, the summoning rites of each word, rife with meaning, grew in me a responsibility to its precision.

All my calculation and metaphor-mining would enrich my writing, though ebb and flow and recede and reform over several foundational and impactful relationships, and completely strand my sense of protagonist as he multiplied across these eras: each new identity, discerned by the mirror held up by his partner. All of this: without a language. Only symbol. Only movement.

The lyric would evade me until I marched the mountain to the ground.

__

Self-defense would give way to selflessness and ask that I hold on.

Deep love would deliver me to deeper love and ask that I let it go.

-

A great tree would cleave my childhood home in two in 2015, and the lyrics to F I N A L L Y would happen that December.

Quietly, privately, I recorded them on a laptop into GarageBand in my closet at 5109: the West Nashville house of friends and creators that still stands in our hearts.

That scratch-take demo’s guitar track is faintly present in the final published track.

-

I spent ’16 and ’17 writing beyond my ability; my ear demanded more of my playing as its exacting taste defined more of the growing tome’s arrangements.

These were the advent of my motorcycle years.

I think of their wing span and can’t believe I ever landed:

Reckless. Fun-loving. Saying yes to everything. Hungry. Broke. Bulletproof. Hopeful and drunk, growing. Honest and softer and hiding and harder. Sad and grateful and saying so.

Embarrassed of the presumption of my own appearance of incompletion: a phantom project that couldn’t be shared.

Mourning the loss of a great love that had yet to become its great light - all while privately, intermittently, tending to my mother’s crises.

My grandfather passed, and my mother’s sufferings would take their first medical turns in the fall of 2018.

And despite my defenses, again I fell in love.

I left my job to pack and move my mom and our ghosts from our house in Forest Park, and leap, for the first time, toward music as my primary focus, writing through the winter about music, what its Homebody had grown in me.

I laughed then, haunting my own house. Growing my new ideas on top of old memory, sewing them together by the act of remembering. Holding up the evidence of an old life, after saving it to remember, realizing I was standing in the moment it hoped to ensure. Pressing it to my chest.

I wondered then, if, as a child, I’d ever glimpsed myself as a man in those woods, in those hallways, holding a book or a bear, dreaming a dream as real as its feeling, wandering from room to room, remembering.

That dialogue intrigued me, and I found myself interested in who would speak and what they’d say.

I wondered how many more ideas of me might wander the halls of someone else’s memory.

Some versions, alive: my best moments, surprising lovers, thoughtful comfort, sentimental triumphs.

an unmarked file in an unopened room, a scribble in the dark of a moonless night, a fear paraded as anger, unrivaled then and unwelcome now.

October turned blue, and the new buyers were stripping the time-frozen wallpaper before I’d shut the U-haul door.

__

In Nashville, my friends and I would sorrowfully prep to leave 5109 into February 2019.

-

Life by then felt listless. Another Place Memory displaced.

And yet, only after exiting that brave era, I was stricken with a clarity in the project’s language, the language itself as the oar and the anchor: the conscious means to reconstruct and re-inhabit memory.

Collaborating with how deeply I’d paid attention, paid admittance, to the unconscious words I’d already enlisted, I began to chart and call and recall myself to embody them: finally incorporating myself in the writing as its writer.

I remember standing in my open wound’s kitchenette the day I’d moved everything into storage, wondering what to do next, where to work, when to finally yield to the improbability of the album’s actualization, how my new chapter fit into its story - and that it didn’t, finally sequenced all my ideas around Homebody’s protagonist into its series of successors, meeting and leaving and retrieving himself:

Woe begets.

-

R O G U E and then T H E M E came. Interacting with the lineage, pulling it forward from the clues thrown ahead to me from its past.

I wrote on Monday mornings, coffee with two cats(he/him) and a dog(master/commander), before taking daytrip sojourns that cycled Hidden Lake, the Warners, Beaman and Bells, talking to myself across every trail I could cover and recover.

The rest of the album would somersault me through new work and new strife, one event revealing its next, to its finale the next summer, having learned and disciplined a translation: an open-eyed focus for its story I felt had happened, or continued happening, atop my happening.

Living life as it moved forward, while watching a series unfold in reverse, played from its ending to its first episode, re-writing its script from the middle.

The album’s greater world amalgamated a variety of preoccupations and honed them, sewed them into its tapestry, drawing everything but the string to its narrators parachute.

If I knew how to bottle whatever that fury was, I would’ve shared and we’d have never left the bar.

__

Across loss, I’ve found comfort in the sentiment that grief, regaled, is an abundance of love unable to reach its destination, without its place to go. I suspect my grief, by then, spanned a small lifetime of places, people, eras, my inability to return, to rehabilitate, and mourned their inaccessibility for re-entry, to finally evolve into its song.

Who knows. It felt, after all that time, on time. I feel that still.

To bypass a great deal of deep feeling, feast and famine, earth shaping and shattering - I refined and finalized the lyrics, further deepening and understanding the layers of narrative well into 2020.

I’d worked out the many echos of the catalyst in writing and called my characters by their names for many years. Names denoted by their own eras, denoted by their focus in love: by who held their mirrors.

It felt I wrote in concert with them, finally allies across time, breaking the pattern of self-severance in the name of survival. Opening my own corridor’s doors.

More than I could’ve known, I would need my strengths, my best selves across love, their acts of love, to reassemble who I’d instinctually forgotten before the coming years of new and treacherous terrain.

-

Many guitar pedals later, and after several failed attempts to tap into the sound, the ‘band’ I’d imagined for so long, a first true demo took shape in December of ’20 and inspired me toward the next in January ’21, and so on - recording sequentially through the album like I’d divined its writing.

The last lines I’d write for the album, the final stanza’s in the bridge to P R A Y E R , finally allowed themselves to me, nearing the end of the summer of 2021.

-

I’d work around work, taking another giant leap away from a job to finish recording the much-to-be-desired first round of demos, and try beyond might to embolden any means against every madness;

My mother continued to slip down the rungs of her own ladder: its spool, disappearing above and beneath her. Her grip diminished, though her best days still clenched the braid of her children's names.

-

To further abbreviate the dark among the difficult, I clarified and re-tracked the demo state through the Fall and early Winter of 2022 until shortly after my mom died.

Then I left it alone, a little over half of a year.

-

When I finally got back to it, I approached it from the ground up. Making significant changes, entirely re-recording a few songs until I started to see the final state near the end of last year.

New Year’s Eve of ’23 saw me post a sentimental teaser accompanied by the wondrous scale-model work of Devin Drake.

It was real. It got real.

I challenged myself by its accountability, and began to explore the visual execution of what would become The Corridor series outloud:

A Park Ranger style cabin where the interwoven details of the world in each song - sketches, notes and maps, coordinates - would evolve as the evidence of the implied character’s study progressed through his exploration: his charting the album, mimicking my own writing, working with and from the past.

Without spoiling parts of the story, that idea evolved and stayed fairly true to form, and it chiefly influenced the second of the three pillars that make Fang complete.

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After finishing recording, I entered another metamorphic period of deep and holistic isolation, and almost immediately began writing A D E E R B E T W E E N D E A T H in January of ‘24.

All the years of accumulating, hunting and gathering, collecting and re-collecting and recreating with my own memory, devising Fang’s subtextual narrative(s), its critical devices, its finale, its fourth-wall crumbling inextricability, finally took shape as words on paper, like the love in grief overflowing: the internal fabric between the lyric.

With Deer, I felt I’d finally realized the vision for Fang I’d imagined: The Work that shows the work. The love letter and the lover.

T H E F O R E S T P A R K W I L D L I F E C O R R I D O R is its third pillar, that will continue to reveal its design as listeners digest the album, the story, and revisit its visual chapters as another analogue, evergreen counterpart.

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What began in me as a record, in the sense of preservation, to reconcile my own losses, to attempt to answer what stays, what you keep, what in love remains through its transmutable joys, surprises me, even now, as a gift I hope to understand and receive from my past in my future.

By untangling the knot, unsnarling the animal in the scrawl, I was made able to reassemble my own splintered pane, fit to offer my own mirror to and against my own life, my own world.

Standing on the shoulders of my past selves, I’ve gotten to love their love, their hope in hope, again and again, from the groves beyond their graves. And again, every time I sing.

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Although their narrative identities are refractions of relationship, translating their existence as errant, wandering grief over their destination’s dissipation - a love ‘left over,’ as if it was so tethered - is symptomatic of the malady of self-severance.

The Great Extroversion, defying The Introversion(re: 10.18.24), is the dispelling of that very idea:

Not to defeat grief or its inherent love, but to dismantle its confines, relegated to inactive memory, and celebrate its immutability across every era: one informing and enhancing the next, a cycle of increasing gravity and gratitude, making the deathless spiral an engine, another potter’s wheel spinning like a top.

The love and lovers of Woe, Woebegone, and Wild unwound, their flecks of clay freckling my mirror: a part of my reflection.

-

Having emphasized the severance in perseverance, I’ve had to re-collect my own life.

My triumphs. Details, small and large. Eras, near and far - all memory bleared by exhaustion, vigilance, survival.

Writing restored to me a narrative in loving and reforged a comfort in access and abandon.

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This record, in combat, has excruciated that suppression of memory, the rolling blackout across time and mind, that’s erased me from myself.

By remembering who I have been by how I have loved - bereft of accolade, achievement benign - I’ve retraced the map of me: the topography and convergent boundaries of love as important as the subductions I mourn alongside my many failures, my own mistranslations, learning what path delivers me from how many coordinates were drawn in blood.

The Generative trailblazing in the creative act has been a direct means of survival, and a result of a thriving I promise myself exists, despite the oppressions of dread and doubt.

Beginning(again) is the antithesis: the antidote to ending.

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The Great Extroversion is the defiant act of creation; its resistance, its celebration, is a holy, righteous ‘fight’ against ‘flight,’ but that hyper-vigilance has taken its great toll.

The characters’ love, their objects of affection, continue in love, and remain in the album - but I, from them, go forward.

Where they exist in perpetuity, I, in their image, can no longer mine: malleably suspended in the present.

I’ve curated and corroborated their stories, but I’m no more an active co-creator.

To continue in them as more than their steward would further dilute or mistranslate the honesty in their capture, and so I mourn them, too, to some degree, and must remember the words to my own belief ritual and ask for their company against another chasm’s roar of silence.

I still listen for their train whistle, and know who’s writing this now will join and celebrate their endless wake.

__

The tragicomedy in loving and letting go, is in love’s endless, inevitable return - however unknowable the cavalry in its reprise may be, before we offer ourselves to its altar - a majesty transformed through the evolution of the very same loving: a portal that multiplies its company, coming and going.

And so, I feel you, there, a phantom limb’s spatial awareness, across time, across our lives, and wave out for entire years by the mineral scent of your makeup, the softness of your cheek, your speech.

Glistening. Snow drift caught in your eyelashes. A glass window fogged beyond our paper coffee cups, a first date in the Village when we don’t kiss but imagine your first name and my last name and what we’d call our mountain before realizing it slinked beneath a February night’s horizon.

If one of us stood still, we’d’ve seen the other streak across and white-hot-tear into nothing.

But we moved together, and the world spun beneath our meteor. There’s an asteroid belt in the snow globe I row, the galaxy of your eyes. I want to wind the lever and play your song again.

I want to hang a lazy hand over the archer’s canoe and graze your comet’s tail. I want to offer my other hand after burning the first, lapping along the ink of every February night. I want to roar against the nebula of collapsing star. I want to hear your voice echo back.

-

Homebody didn’t fit anymore.

I broke the word open, apart, sure. The album had been at home in my body, a body that homed several lifetimes, was my home base, my point of origin, my original body, maybe. I became a recluse, sure. A lot of time at the desk, on a trail. Homebody was a character, an inspiration, a suffering, but it wasn’t Homebody’s story anymore. Not alone, not by the end. That at least served its original purpose.

-

That everlasting, ongoing conversation across what became A F A N G I N T H E R O U G H is still a great salve, and one, across every departure, in which I’ve found solace, but my love for and with and beside you is its final incarnation’s progenitor star.

Stationary, connection across our most present-tense is painfully vulnerable to misinterpretation - as one or both parties talk backward to ideas that were.

Conversely, by carrying this music as company, I grow with the ideas of these lives and their desires, their highest moments are.

Their memoriam in song is mercurial but housed. Not unlike the life in this writing.

And so, they remain: habitable, vital, conversational, multiplied by the shared idea of them, deeply cherished as a defense against defeat.

To sing - to write or to share - of ourselves is to bridge our whole heart: a library of our own learning, awaiting entry - as long as we build its door and beckon from both sides of its threshold.

A love, alive: transcendental to our relationships with ourselves, across ourselves.

Our sum of many parts that we traverse and embody.

A power we, as creators, must crusade: that honesty, offered to the human arena, is vulnerable to its own transfiguration; that our own memory, and our collective imaginings of love, grows larger in legend: unconfined by our own ideas, unbound by our own time, unrestricted by our own stories - or songs.

Our myth in memory, to be again in its love, is habitable to savor and summon.

Across that eternity, we traverse and embody our many selves, and The Extroversion heralds entry and living re-entry to the love across our many minds.

__

Fang borrowed its name from a line in the song A (F R A M E), after a brief stint of semi-final demos I exported as F O N D E R. Absence making the heart grow, etcetera.

A’s lyric-specific nod is still exciting to me. The character Wild directly addresses me, my writing, and turns outward from his spiral, its writing, saying ‘come get me,’ and ‘You’re next.’ and ‘You too, in time.’

His physical turn bewildered and invigorated and humbled and spurred me. This was the mountaintop asking to be left alone. ‘Leave me here.’ ‘You go; I stay.’

-

From their beginnings to their autonomies, these were songs I needed.

To hear and speak and sing to myself. With myself.

To learn to say to my future: ‘You go; I stay.’

Letting them go has hurt me in ways I knew it would and in some ways I’d hoped it wouldn’t, but they welcome me today in new and wildering ways - with fixed, and living language. Imperfect and alive. ‘Come back. Don’t forget to write.’

Funny the courtship, execution and delivery of Fang has spanned so much time and already feels so far away, that even today, as bittersweet as it is, I’m baffled to find myself in it: hunting and finding another new light, another refuge, another defense against despair.

To make something like this came from a need to move past and through it, to deliver it, to be delivered from it, to mend and move its mountain, to climb and interpret and give it away, to relinquish as many minds as many times as there are ways to divine and discover and rediscover the summit,

to howl as it spirals beneath us, as soon as we’re determined to hoist up the next better view

to who’ll soon arrive to meet it,

to tilt our shards of candle, our uniquely freckled panes, that catch the angle of our moment, the borrowed light of our suns, all our blinking reflections glittering back to us, following our vanishing meteor, our blistering arc across a vanishing life,

to ask and answer what we were,

to hold you up, to write you down.

Classified

Visual Treatment - Exclusively Read Upon Completion of AFITR & ADBD

The Desk waits inside The Drawing Room: A boundless space, host to documents that litter a central, warping work table.

Artifacts from the world within a written work entitled “A DEER BETWEEN DEATH” and documents recovered from its parallel aural environs - a series of ambient distress signals categorized under the file name “A FANG IN THE ROUGH” - populate its surface. Its steward is never present on screen, though his evidence suggests his study.

In each sequence, Camera sails toward a focal, chapter-integral totem.

A worn, manila file folder is added to each new scene.

Within each file are paper-clipped photographs, sketches, and the entry’s Lore and Lyric lay bare. Penciled notes and underscores mar their text.

Camera cuts, to the sound of a View Master, and hovers over The Desk’s recurring foundational items: a tape machine that plays chapter-graduating recorded entries, a typewriter as an implicit medium to the collected reports and writings, and an old radio through which we hear sample, as emissary, of the counterpoint song - portrayed as ambiance in a separate, static capture that serves a secondary moment to each post in motion.

Beyond the addition of each core item and chapter file, maps and letters amass across the desk, multiplied upon each new entry.

Across the first two arcs, leaves slowly, subtly collect until green vine begins to reclaim and cover the desk.

The metered nature of the collected study grows hungry, manic, made evident in its gradual disarray, and follows, to absence, escape, or abandon, alongside the vine’s reclamation timeline.

These events coincide with Wild’s conclusion in the Lore; after which, we return to find the desk with a markedly ordered, methodical level of design: straight stacks, columned rows and catalogs, chair returned upright, seals and stamps under the care of the seminal FOREST PARK WILDLIFE CORRIDOR.

Each sequence is intercut with a representative natural scene, escaping the Drawing Room, alluding to the summoning power of the written word.

The Desk, and The Drawing Room itself, is first discovered in ADBD by Wild in its Cold Beach sequence. It’s revealed after the assimilation event in “Go” that all prior events have been relived by reading from The Desk, delivering a written past as a practical act of summoning.

The Trail, or Corridor, is discerned, understood and assembled in sequence by its own timeline’s future: designed in hope to interlink, to knot.

The author, like his allegorical mirrors, is a fracture, one of as many meanings to his mountain as there are routes to climb - until by reading, he resumes and inhabits the propagation of his own story’s cohesion, recreating in concert with his forfeitures, and inadvertent preservation, of the past - writing.

a.) Woe begins to structure a cycle, inherited by witness, of self-severance in the name of its survival.

b.) Woebegone, a gear, a forward-cast clue, unwittingly repeats the cycle, forgetting himself again in penitent escapism.

c.) Wild’s arc sees him suffer, experience and irrefutably discover his narrator’s convolution, catching his own tail. He faces outward, onward to his writer, standing at cliff’s edge, a period at the end of the lineage of revolving nomenclature.

One ushering salvation to the other, Wild suspends himself in his own allegory, awaiting the writer to reconvene: by crossing trauma in Life to unearth and recover the series of neglected fragments of himself in Lore before re-inhabiting it.

Life sees the disappearance of life, love, place and person, and in the attempt to preserve re-admittance to memory, the writer collects himself, his charted remnants, to cradle the ephemeral. The net of binding tie must attach its loose end, or the parachute fails.

The Man, the author, who sits behind The Desk, alongside his middle distance, his allegory, retrieves his deepest past by nurturing its re-telling, rewinding the unspooled kite by its cord.

The Drawing Room is a Port, The Station, and From The Desk, The Man entwines both ends of the coiled track, between the The Boy and his kite and The Parachute with Woe - one signaled for rescue, the other heeding its call.

From Woe to Wild and The Mare to The Stag, The Boy’s characters are all designed to rescue him, all imagined in broader, stronger ways, all forecast as a means to salvage himself, through semblance or severance.

The Man is made to shepherd the dreams of his sleeping animal: a wounded, but lasting warden.

As The Stag survives The Arrow, The Man survives the sufferings of the Boy, and, through their tempering, divines the strength to carry himself (as The Fawn) to safety.

_A Final Act

By converging these points inside the narrative coil, TFPWC emancipates all its characters to and from its author, finally able to leave The Desk, The Drawing Room, and the fells of Forest Park with its conservation concluded.

Disc III’s chapter iterations in ADBD are condensed in numeral to their representatives in AFITR, though their sequential heirlooms appear and remain as pivotal on-screen distinctions in the FPWC visual sequence.

On The Desk, as in ADBD, the visual series ends with the open pages wafting in the breeze, welcoming entry and escape.

In both ADBD and AFITR, collateral images include several locational and relational reimaginings, though the narrative devices of both trees are practical and autobiographical.

An Oak stands warden to the home and hall atop the hills of Forest Park in Life, and in 2015 a Sycamore cleaved The Great Room in two.

The animals’ allegory within the nomenclature overarch, is analogous to the act of writing allegory et al; Sketches and imagery of the wildlife pervade The Drawing Room, because the characters within its Lore experience the mythology of their own.

Their wildlife counterpoints are distal deities, just as The Man crafts division and divinity between eras of his dissociated pasts.

_Mediums of Study are explicit as follows:

A Deer Between Death - A Written Narrative Chronicle
A Fang In The Rough - An Album of Music and Lyric
The Forest Park Wildlife Corridor - A Serial Visual Immersion

_Fractal Reading/Listening/Viewing

1) A first, topical read/listen is romantic, relational: an experiential evolution of life surviving loss, the transmutable creation of echo, reflection upon reflection, its transitory and gilding reverence, growing self-reliance through self-forgiveness and expression, and the everlasting quality of what is gone by what is remembered.

2) A second read allows the lyric its language: the allegorical lore refracted as observed phenomena through magical-realism. This read allows all identities within the Forest Park Wildlife Corridor to indefinitely exist, cohabit and pass the candle from one ideation to its next imagination. The construct of TFPWC exists as the most current host timeline to the writer of AFITR.

Upon exiting the topography of the written lore’s spiral, (yet)Another Wild, beyond the distinction of titular distinctions, returns to The Drawing Room:

A quasi-liminal space between the allegory’s ache and The Great Room of Forest Park Rd., through which he, under the agency of TFPWC, assembles his identities across love and time and deciphers a means to mend and rescue the center seat of their oldest wound.

3) The third hybridizes the aforementioned, with a focus on the loss of life by way of a malady known as Homebody, and was the initial inspiration for all works preceding the broad works’ actualization. Reflecting on the internal divergence of the maternal character and the didactic mis-navigation of her withstanding, avoiding and identifying as injury, this read serves as a chronicle of suffering into social silence and its exacerbation of introversion to the point of death.

By the author completing these works to extroversion, before death, their exposition served as a map in exaltation, reunification, as a means to escape Homebody’s furrow and rehabilitate from its malignancy while living.

After death, they serve that same purpose.

The Desk is a proximal anchor that centralizes all points of the narrative by relation to their distance in time across the plots of its map, and illustrates that Craft is core to the experience of love, knowledge and eternity.

The Desk itself was built by my father, a first life’s dining room table. The photos are my mother’s mind’s eye.

The dagger, my father’s father’s.
The typewriter, my mother’s mother’s.
The tape machine, my mother’s father’s.
The lamp, a gift from a lover.
The sound and the word are by hand, ear and eye.