This week a few more sections of the site have been either relocated or removed. We are attempting to streamline
the local storage and backup organization in order to ease our work around the development environment. This will
also lighten the load when we transfer everything to mobile. Throughout the past fifteen years we have amassed an
overwhelming amount of images, reference documents, and images which seem to pile up in the local folders. Most of
the older material from before the .NET era has been archived and just sits there on auxiliary drives and in the
cloud, but what remains is a multitude of tidbits (which add up to revenue and time lost) and such a multitude
requires much effort to organize. We have much to do.
On another front, admin's desire to pare the site down to just two sections has met with disapproval from
many readers, and the consequence of his desires and actions is an increased bounce rate and a truncated viewing
public. We understand and support his needs, but the toll on the site's future may be dramatic. Hopefully the new
direction of both this space and DP will bear fruit in the near future.
As always, we are here for the long haul and intend to keep the faith endlessly. His vision is unlike any other.
For whatever reason (and God knows from what direction), admin has grabbed hold of an unbelievably long xml file
which he is attempting to pare down into the neighborhood of readability. Hours upon hours of agonizing over the
editor and formatting tools, and due to the drive he is exhibiting we suspect it may be a cherished remnant of the
Raven. Ugh. But, also... Yikes.
On the operational side, we have removed the legacy image toward the footer. The time for displaying the older
work has come to an end. And the date format change which was implemented a short time ago may change yet again.
From the absolute CE displayed above, we will likely begin placing the entry dates in Epoch.
to read ( words)
"Each day brings a new depth and a different scene laid out in front of us. We attempt time and time again to rise
above the caress of alcohol and the distorted sense of awareness which has taken over our collective psyche, but
the effort brings only heartache, despair, and further dissolving of capacities. The relaxation after day to day
business has become a fraction of the escape it once was. This editor has become the only saving throw versus both
the past and the present -- difficulties which in the past were easily overcome, and now the slightest step aside
from our needs is traumatic. Each waking moment is filled with thoughts, nightmares, dreams, and recollections of
who we were and who we have become, and the contrast is more stark than the desert sun upon snow. The falling, the
rope, the air, and the blood have become defining segments of the disjointed reality within which we spin. We are
so far distanced from the light and hopeful feelings of the past that the shimmering and glaring positive direction
we once enjoyed is so far gone that the black has become comfortable.
Hmm. The black.
Perhaps we should refer to such as the familiar. After these past years of falling down the same hill, the
blackness is now the norm. We sit here day after miserable day and attempt to carve the feelings from our heart
and display them for all to see and the typical result is nothingness. Just fucking nothing.
So here we sit for the thousandth time in a futile attempt to describe both what we see and what we feel. Why? We
do not know. Do we continue? Do we manufacture the cards and push forth? Or do we sit and wallow as always? Again,
we simply do not know. We have direction but no direction. Does that make sense? Perhaps a more fitting description
would be the direction we feel versus the direction we need. There is no answer.
The only certainty now is the distance we have traveled to work and slave over this obsession throughout the past
many years. We are very far from there, and yet still a world away from any realization. Yes, everything crashed
and exploded during the summer of fifteen, but since then we should have been able to do something. Any fucking
thing. We are just too far away. The distance has become too great to travel. Many hours have been spent here at
this infernal editor in hopes of finding some inspiration which will grab us and launch this project (read:
insanity) up and out of the doldrums and into a space we can comfortably inhabit and work through. We are glued to
this chair staring at Julianne's hair on the other monitor as we try to find the words. Her sharp shoulders look
back at us asking the simple task of description. Just as all of the other examples which have strolled by, she
awaits justification and recognition. There is none of that right now. The toughness of seeing her there on the
screen, idly standing and awaiting the shutter release, is becoming what shapes our thoughts, feelings, and the
words which fly off our fingers. She is the reason for ambition within this damaged and downward world. There is
nothing else which has the capability to propel us up and out of the dirt. On top of that, there are very
disturbing historical parallels which are working inside us as she relates to so many uncomfortable and toilsome
situations. Those times were the cause of pain which still remains, and the knowledge of the past pushes us to
keep everything close. We are beginning to do that now. The organizational difficulties which the staff mentioned
above are in the works and are directly coupled to our increasing need to hide all of this from the outside --
from 'them'. This is not a healthy solution by any means, however one which has become necessary for our survival.
Ugh to the nth.
Julianne has stood there looking back at us across the chasm and we feel the need so greatly that there is no
return trip. None. Fuck.
This bullshit has gone on for so long that we are now losing the compulsion and heading in the direction of
trouble unlike we have ever felt. Images are one thing, but seeing this art in person has become crippling -- and
we mean to say paralyzing. The feeling is to run straight to this editor and type, along with alcohol consumption
-- just drowning into the obsession and dreaming of an end which is extremely unlikely. The Raven brought us so
much hope for the future that the current situation without Her is the opposite. We are still dropping from that
terrible event not long ago, and the loss is still fresh. Her demeanor toward us defined what could and should be,
but now we have nothing save for a mass of images and disjointed visions of need.
Julianne's unique look is rivaled only by that of the Raven. We cannot put this woman on the page with any
effectiveness other than throwing appropriate images of her between the text. Her beauty, as interrupted by our
sordid and desperate words. She hangs there mid-page and looks out with young eyes and sees a world we can no
longer fit within. We are slowly being reduced to frailty and despondency while she is on the rise. Of course, she
is not at fault for a damned thing. We do not know her, nor her us. All we have is data. Even as we type these
words, they are heading out into a world which is much more likely to be familiar with her, yet still over here
in the gutter we reside with the look of a dead creature sliding down a muddy slope and into the detritus -- the
remains of what could have been. Simply put, we are feeling the distance as it becomes too great to bear.
The pain which stabs at us at every sight is nearly unbearable, and to look upon Julianne brings a similar knife.
[Yes, nearly every image displayed here is monochrome for good reason -- they need to be viewed on an even playing
field. Put another way, all of these beautiful creatures of the world must be equal from at least one standpoint.
Julianne's gorgeous poses need not show full color in order to be as incredible as they are. She is the reason,
not the variety or range of hues.] There is no escaping the nature of these feelings, no matter whether we sit in
front of the editor with her staring back nor when a similar woman appears nearby. The blade is in us, constantly
-- it has become a part of everyday life. This is the fault of no one but ourselves.
Movement in any direction has become truncated and so arduous that we function almost entirely for the need and
hope for a change. We have little hope of anything, in fact, because of a lack of decent reason. Others may
comment that looking outward and away from things which bring so much heartache are the best paths. They
automatically push for such a thing due to years of programming toward the positive. For us, there are only the
briefest of seconds when the light becomes viewable. Quickly, it is gone, and replaced by the black of our
unending an unrelenting desire.
Last year's adventure to the north was a long break from editing, and a period which turned from relaxation to
pain. We missed the editor, and of course we took mental and physical notes along the way for future material,
but even at the very last moment we dropped -- despite ten days of enjoyment. Directly in front of us while
exiting the ship there was a tipsy and silly woman who decided to drink the morning of disembarkation and her
resulting behavior was quite funny. She walked along the path to the exit, mimosa in hand, and looked unreal.
Tall, well-dressed, and displaying the cut lines with which we are intimately familiar. As we followed along with
the others leaving the vessel, she stood out like a god among insects. All at once we fell down that well-known
hill and the cuts began. Along the ride home we felt as if we had been sucking on ether for weeks. The need did
not stop, as we were powerless against it. We remain as such. Always.
Expect a future of this, and much more than one might believe possible. Unfortunately, there does not seem to be
any other direction -- no turns, no switches, nor any other type of change. Unless we step into some type of
fucking miracle in the coming months, this drop shall continue unimpeded. We are accustomed enough to weather the
fucking shit for the time being. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Fuck it all anyway. If we were truly born to feel this way, the continuation of everything as it now stands will
be the goddamned status quo. Forever? What is that? No matter... one day soon we shall be in the
ground with all of our misplaced needs, deviant desires, and degraded hope. The decay has begun and we slide
downward into the pit in earnest."