perhaps as time taps along on a day brilliant with cold an orbit awakens a ballet-lift into the heart of the universe and perhaps a single petal is all we get swirled into the fret of the wind against any blue and perhaps the sound of the world laughing is worth it

[#2025dec the 19th, #wander]

into the soft grey, awaiting (they are swans) fields flocked, golden straw a scent beyond the scarlet dawn

—and here! found! something glimmers a crack in the chest

would that the ink and rosewater (a flavour beyond despair) soak seeds without potential instead, invite

how then? the ripeness and depth? not clutched but brushed —

an open passage, sailed (they are starlings and robins) while fibre and bark mix threads to warm the hidden cover

[#2025dec the 18th, #wander]

libra star, pierced the ages 'fore crystallise patterns into rings scales adjusting: what betrayals come to pass?

yet

rings will spin and splinter dark the spear haft cleanly through three times three times three more eons the elder you, a kind of current rivers do —

again.

panic i will not, then to see another wound and trust a misted trail rumbling against the orbit:

(again)

[#2025dec the 12th, #wander]

welcome to sun scriptorium! a little place on the internet featuring poetry (tagged #fragment, #alchemy, and #wander) and probably essays/freerange thoughts on writing (tagged #craft, #praxis, and #wonder). later on, there may be a chance i monetise some posts for serial novels/novellas, sharing some #fantasyfiction, #cozyfantasy, and #animistfiction as i write their stories (currently worldbuilding and working on one story within each of the aforementioned tags).

for your orientation: as i snake my way through this pixel universe, it is helpful for you, curious reader, to know a few things. my stories are abundantly queer, neurodivergent, and animist, and wrestle with the overculture of the so-called american west that forces a central perspective of its own importance on the rest of the world. as a human person, i endeavour to extract myself from views and legacies within the genocidal capitalist structures of empire, acknowledging their influence like invasive, strangling weeds, so as not to fall tangled, but focus instead on the light in the trees, the breeze pushing clouds, the wax and wane of moon and tides, the grit of sand and loam of soil, the joy of mushrooms and birdsong. what i mean is: my fiction is speculative, imaginative, food for worlds co-created and carried forth by long legacies of humans in diverse cultures who have thrived, partied, sorrowed, and loved long before capitalism, the state, genocide, fascism, or the individual mythologised, and will exist long after these weeds have been pulled up by the roots and burnt. i'm sure if these perspectives and tools of mine are upsetting or unappealing to you, there is a vine somewhere already swallowing your heart. be content and compost, then, and leave those of us with weather-stained hands to our delights.

this is the barest of beginnings, and some things here will likely grow and burrow, as creative processes do. this post will likely serve as a small #map and be updated when it seems necessary. know my rootedness in queer joy, disabled joy, the liberation of all lands and peoples from genocide, and the downfall of all empires is steadfast and linked with ancestors, peers, and descendants who root the same. may we wield hammers to build, plows to sow, and hands to care in the worlds that have, are, and will create through it all.

on the wing, mage, #2025dec the 7th