a feeling not as fickle as love.

-

I know that I write so that I can make a living, some day. But now I’m worried about my characters. Even if they are real.

God.

Most of the people I write about are real. So when they die, that is that. So I need to write about them, to capture them (if I can).

Most of the time I do that, in my journals. I write people as they are, no shields up, no gimmicks.

Without a single declaration of love, there is no one I won’t try to save the way I save people. Even the people I hate, I save.

Right, back to the work.

I do love you.

You know who ‘you’ are.

I love you, but I can’t say it to your face and will never allow myself that close to another living being. So in the absence of calling it ‘love’, I cannot live without you. Even if you are far from me, there will always be the show of affection. There will always be the place in my heart. A feeling not as fickle as love.

Margin:0.0px or maybe ?0.o?

“  City of Birth

Much of the place is now just a flourish of the mind. Rivers and streets have altered position and where you might follow one in real life and come out at its proper exit, in my mind it turns about and you arrive elsewhere altogether. The whole city is a fading dream, less and less factual as the months wear on.

Except the truth is that I do not strive to remember, the death of it suits me. Rather than not leaving me at all, gradually is an accepted evil. However I lament that it could not have been torn away in one swipe. I wish the whole place burnt away, its ash caught and carried off by a wind of forgetfulness. I wish nothing ill on the inhabitants of that city in its real and present form, but its form in my heart is a solid lump that runs to the throat if I consider it for too long. I mean it not to remind me of my own failures.

In truth the city is merely the scapegoat for my own shortcomings, for my own mistakes. It is a laden creature, cast out and laboring under the burden of blame for injuries I’ve suffered. The city did nothing directly, supplant me and my life to another with the same set of circumstances and I’d be sure of similar results. The same progression of cruelty, neglect and eventual isolation. The same reasons for the breakdown of relationships with almost everyone. My own ego and lack of humility. My envy of other people’s talents and embarrassment at my own lack of courage.

No, I cannot blame a city for what was my own doing. The truth is that I lost my sight, my judgement clouded. Or, more rightly, my vision was distorted by a thin film over the eyes. An idea of how the world looked, except that in that way of seeing I could not perceive the slow corruption of my life. Each time I rallied myself and thrust forward with my creative projects, I was in fact just shuttling along in a blinkered, eager rush. I shut out the distraction of friends and lovers. Then, when I’d collapsed into the sense of futility that seems to run through me like a core, I was surprised that they’d moved on to better things.

It is a great and painful process for a man to learn of his own failings. More-often he might bury the facts under a layer of disbelief. Or else under the debris of the facts themselves; as he picks each apart with lies and self-justification. Delusion is the tonic for most things.

Myself, I’m no less the fool. Even knowing what I do I cannot bring myself to believe I was to fault. I too ignore these things and move on with what I do agree to take with me. So from these lessons comes the genesis of a new self. I do not wish to remember my sins, though I will learn from them. It is hypocritical indeed to ignore the legitimacy one’s crimes and yet still take wisdom from them; though to have the position reversed would be far worse an error.   “

—-

The above is the beginning of the novel I was speaking of, not too long ago. The tale of my life. A way to purge myself of the old crimes and explain how things progressed and perhaps absolve myself slightly through showing how I’ve bettered myself. It will however be ‘warts and all’, I hope – if I have courage enough to paint myself in my true (past) monstrous form. All names altered, no great revelations about the other people involved. I will stay in the bounds of my own head, the things that I saw and thought – I will not attempt to second guess the people around me, nor anything of their opinions of me at that time. What I do not want it to be, is a way of explaining away the evil I have done, but rather to seek to hold onto it – lest I forget – and remind myself of how far I have come so that I do not retrace the same steps. I also don’t want it to hurt anyone from the past, hence the only alterations will be to the unsavory portions of lives of others and not to my own life, wherever possible.

The NaNoWriMo novel is far more accomplished, though I do wish to return to the previous novel soon. I’m a little behind in terms of the monthly goal – though it has proven itself as necessary and so I will be moving forward with it. I’m not all too bothered about the NaNo win because NaNo has been a bit of a joke as far as I’m concerned. There’s been no proper management or communication with those involved, so the community fun was sucked dry long ago. I’m just glad that I’ve got a wonderful manuscript out of it and I can break on through with the knowledge that I can write about 2,000 words a day with very little hassle, so long may it continue. Fuck NaNo.

Nevermind.

I’m loving quite a few bands at the moment.

1) The Bicycle Thieves

2) Cocoon (‘Hey Ya’, ‘I don’t give a shit’)

3) Soko (‘I’ll kill her’)

4) The Thermals (‘Now we can see’)

5) Fresh body shop (‘My artificial sun‘)

And in terms of poetry?

1) Derek Walcott (‘Elsewhere’, ‘For Adrian’)

And I’m reading…

1) 2666 by Roberto Bolano

2) Omeros by Derek Walcott

3) The Book of Shadows Don Paterson

4) Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels (again)

In other news. I’ve made a promise with myself to write a poem, take a roll of photos (34 photos), make a short film and read a book every week from now on.

Further updates will follow.

not happier but doing something

Today is just the same as yesterday in terms of mood, but something happened last night.

I know it is a tired fact that I start a new novel every week, but this one isn’t new.

This one has taken shape in my mind over the last three years. This one I have lived.

So everyone who has known me over the last three years, you might feature in my new novel.

I’ll not be posting anything up. It is far too sordid to do in anything but a clean surgical incision.

Publication is the aim. I have written the outline already (I usually never have a plan).

The first line is a gem. It isn’t making me happier to write it, but it is at least something to do.

songs about me

So I’m still not feeling fulfilled.

I have a great life. No need to work. No deadlines. No stress. But I still don’t feel like I actually can be bothered breathing.

That isn’t anyone’s fault. I’m very happy at a lot of things in my life. Great relationships with people, great deal of success already with my projects.

I’ve taken to making jewellery and that is going really well.

I can now juggle. I can make my funky art. I can write (i’m really producing some amazing work). I can make clothes. Upholster chairs. Sail the family boat. Travel when i like.

I have a 32inch hd tv in my room. Surround sound. Dvd player. Laptop. Camera. Camcorder. Guitar. Typewriter. Sewing Machine. Mountains of books and dvds. I have material things to make one tear your own material to pieces in lamentation.

I’ve taken up photography and that is going really really well – as i’ve been offered a fair few opportunities of late to take photos of all sorts of events etc.

Just to touch on writing again. I’ve written the most exciting pieces of fiction ever recently!

I’ve not gotten drunk in weeks and weeks and weeks. So i know i’m not an alcoholic. I’m just a bit of twat when it comes to knowing my limit. So i learnt that lesson! lol – (On the flip side, due to not drinking i’ve picked up on inherent social anxiety, so i think that is why i drank a lot – to lubricate the old personality and push away the fact i get scared in big groups. I draw a lot of energy from people, but crowds really upset me and get me timid. Hence many times leaving parties and street festivals and declining to go on trips off to outdoor festivals too..  when i then lied and came up with some lame excuse. Least now i’m honest enough to admit i’m just a pussy when it comes to large groups.)

But it all amounts to a hill of beans when even on these bloody pills I still can’t seem the conjure up a will to live.

I had a song written about me a while back and the idea of it was – that Much came “to realise that it is life that you (I) despise.“

I’m sure that isn’t true, as much as it is too strong a thing for me to feel toward life. I’m not crying out for help, nor even really making much of an assertion past the simple honest truth.

I don’t care.

I really couldn’t care less.

With that is freedom and oblivion – but i really have no opinion on the matter of life and its vice and virtue.

The last relationship fell on a sword of my uncaring. I’d given up hiding behind a mask made of smiles. Showed a little too much of what it means to live near me. That there is very little that can stir up a case of genuine joy.

Maybe pills are making me apathetic and i’m looking back on life through these eyes, but i think i’ve pretty much always had this outlook.

She goes on to ask why I “must be so blue.” – It used to be up on last.fm, but it has been taken off now – but it is still a damn good song, despite the personal nature of it.

I really don’t try to be. I’m the life and soul. I’m happy and moving like a blur and i still can’t seem to shake this apathy.

Perhaps it is to give me a little wall between my mind and the worry of death? I used to worry about that a lot as a kid. Death became a sort of monster to me, stalking the land, killing indiscriminately, no proof of hereafter, of continuation. I feared a lack of a thereafter more than anything else. Here i am, several years later – not caring.

Perhaps i got bored of the question.

Unsolved questions will drive you mad – unless you temper it with some disinterest.

I’m quite able to hold myself out of the top floor window in my house and not fear the fall. Is that scary? Should i have vertigo to prove i mean to continue?

I’m not sure. I just get the sense that all these wonderful opportunities and skills and talents etc… are just wasted on me. I’m too ambivalent about them all.

Or maybe that isn’t true, maybe what i mean to say is that i can’t hold on to the joy of it for long? I have short bursts of intense happiness and then bam, nothing.

I don’t know, fuck it. At the end of the day it isn’t important. Except i do ache for a little purpose. I’m considering making up a god and just following that blindly. I’ve already taken up Buddhist meditation. That is too much the absence of God, but it meets with the fact i don’t care a stitch for all this junk in my room.

p.s. I’m still pretty lonely and need to meet more people to keep me entertained and motivated.

deadlines

I haven’t blogged in so long and it is beginning to effect my mood. I’m sitting here working on the first chapter of another new novel – only this one is my deadline novel that must be written by August 1st.

I’ve chosen the deadline because it gives me a focus – it isn’t even that good a story, but I think you kinda have to chose a shit idea for your first novel and do as well as you can just writing the damn thing.

Another step to becoming a writer.

So now, glass of red wine in one hand and the other typing slowly these very words you are reading. I’m getting back to the plan of getting better. Working out which direction I want to head in.

There will be more, but until then I’ll leave you with the idea for my novel.

-=- (Subject to change at any moment)

‘The Travels of Amos Wright: A Man Washed To Sea As A Boy’ is told from the third person perspective. It charts the life of Amos Wright, a man born in the coastal town of Cornhill. Deciding that he has no excuse left as to why he cannot leave the place he has come to hate – Amos sets out.

After many, many contemplative trains of thought and a bottle of rum, Amos decides to leave. In a moment of madness – that one can only reach once one is drunk out of one’s mind – he steals a rowboat and rows out into the bay and away.

Waking in a boat without oars and with only a thumping headache for company, Amos realizes that his life will now drift on, largely out of his control.

It is a novel that holds no value of any kind, is free to be its obscure and surreal self, to be read only by those who are recovering from depression. The overall message is not a secret. Sometimes breathing is all you need to do to be worthy of the life you have.

missing trains but not opportunities…

So last night was one of those nights that I felt wonderful and everything fit together fantastically.

I was at a loss as to what to do and karma paid me for a good deed. I got a bed, no agony.

Setting the scene: It’s 10, or something stupid and Eagle has left me alone with Bluebird and TurtleDove. Bluebird is keeping up a wonderful conversation about how I should be a little more aware of the fact that most women are in need of a certain amount of ego stroking if you are going to ditch them. TurtleDove is making do with twittering about the next meeting. We move on to Magnet and settle our tail-feathers down. Before long it is obvious that Magpie is a little too hammered. The evening ends not long after – maybe 11:30 – I’m walking TurtleDove to the bus stop.

I know full well that the trains have gone – here’s honesty at its finest as I know she will read this – but I wanted to make sure that TurtleDove was ok on her homeward flight. Also I wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going introspective on us. If something was up, I could hear it because I’m a good listener. I wanted to make sure that she got the bus she needed, where she needed it and wasn’t shot at by poachers along the way. Little else to say.

And then.

With the flight of TurtleDove I was sort of at a loss as to what to do. Trains had quit for the evening and its looking pretty likely that I’ll be having to bench-up for the night and write to keep myself warm. I took myself straight on, right and then right at the end of the street to come to where I’d been last weekend. Outside Travelodge.

Can’t help a guy for getting nostalgic. It smacked a little of returning to the scene of a crime though, I was haunted by the wonderful time we’d spent in there and then the awful way that things went after she’d left. She was a great friend. A very smart soul. Still…

I walk along and spot two girls sitting on the steps outside with fags in their mouths and sullen faces. Before they spot me I take my headphones out and pocket them so I can hear if they decide to speak. Because I’m a good listener.

One is sporting yellow shoes, a pink skirt and a yellow top. Two has pink neon tights and a green fishnet top over a black vest. Both are wearing fake tan and have wonderful breasts. The first is Toucan 1, the second is Toucan 2.

“Hey there.” Toucans 1 says.

“Hey, you ok?” I ask, not really caring. (I’d planned on heading up a little to the park next to St George’s and sleeping on a bench after some writing.)

“Yeah.”

I’m not sure what possessed me, maybe a lack of something better to be doing… but I asked the question.

“Do you want to hear a story?” – So I told them how I was a lovely guy and how TurtleDove had needed protecting from Magpie (not that that was true at all) and that – because of my knightly act – I had now missed the last train to my home.

“So, like you have nowhere to sleep?” Toucan 1 asked.

“There’s some benches up there.” I said, pointing to the park and looking at the girls with the most pathetic look I could muster. I know it was shameless, but needs must in times like these!!!

“No way! You can stay with us! Come up and party!” And so the invitation was RSVPed and we were all beaming.

As a little overkill I added “Really??!? Fuck that would be amazing, I’d kip on the floor like – I don’t want to seem full-on or nuthin’.”

I know, I know. I debased myself – my linguistic skills would have worked against me here though.

The most attractive is Toucan 2 (thankfully Toucan 1 has a boyfriend to distract her) – Toucan 2 is all single, owing to an argument that cast her Absent Boyfriend to hell before they ventured out on this trip. They’d been out, Toucan 2 had gotten ID’ed and had no valid ID – so Toucan 1 and Boyfriend (i forget his name, dan or ben or stan or something) had taken the party to the rooms in the Travelodge instead – to make up for the lack of ‘thumping beats’ they plugged their MP3 players into two sets of ineffectual little travel speakers that sounded tinny and shit.

There was ‘always tomorrow night kid!’ anyway. The trip was to celebrate Toucan 2’s 18th. No ID was down to the fact that Toucan 2 didn’t see the point in learning to drive so didn’t get a provisional due to the fact that she aspires to be an air-hostess – (my god, I’m proud of myself for not being very mean to her from that point forward.)

Boyfriend tells me that Toucan 2 hasn’t gotten any good sex in ages. He tells me that I’m “fuckin’ sound” and “well funny”- his breath smells like crab-sticks. I think that any moment he might kiss me, because his little brown eyes are jabbing all over the place, like there are 10 tennis matches going on across the surface of my face. Or he’s reading hebrew or something. Part of me was thinking that it might turn into a foursome, that he might be curious or something. Heaven forfend.

2am or slightly later and I’m being dragged about by my pants and falling over an open pink suitcase in Toucan 2 and Absent Boyfriend’s room. Absent Boyfriend is a stupid dick to have given up on this girl. As much as I would never pick her myself, I can see why any regular joe would relish her. She’s got long black hair, bad tan on, but a great pair that are snuggled up in her top. Her lips are lovely, all plump and juicy. We’ve got dark eyes and straight teeth. We’ve got long legs and hardly a gram of fat where it shouldn’t be. She’s the stuff of nuts magazines. Not my type, but I’m remorseless.

So anyway, I thought I was slightly more sober than I turned out to be. They are drinking the cheapest vodka I have ever tasted and not even mixing (the angels!) – Toucan 2 and I just click and start to kiss, the other two melt away. We move to Toucan 2’s room and my shirt is off in a heartbeat. Belt off and my trousers start falling down (due to all the recent lost weight *YAY*). We neck each other and roll about for at least 20mins before she stops.

Never so embarrassed, my face is bright red as she asks me to shave! She grabs me by the hand and leads me out like a child to Toucan 1 and Boyfriend’s room, before beating on it with her knuckles and asking if I can use Boyfriend’s razor! Boyfriend relents only because Toucan 1 is after his cock (for some god-unknown reason he’s suddenly irresistible.)

Toucan 2 makes a nuisance of herself playing with Toucan 1 as I shave in like 2mins flat and then Toucan 2’s got me by the hand and dragging me to her room again having stolen a handful of condoms from Toucan 1 (to much chagrin).

The rest needn’t be specific – but there was a reason why faces were shaved and she loved the attention.

Slight confession that might blow apart my stud image – but I’m happy to do it really – we never actually ended up fucking, in fact we were both FAR FAR too pissed and ended up sleeping. There was a lot of fumbling, she was worse for wear, so I told her to take a little kip for a bit and she was out before I could change my mind.

Myself, well – I thought about some things that I now can’t remember, script ideas ex-cetera, the room was spinning so I closed my eyes. A bed for the night was secure.

I woke up at about 6 and put my shirt on (trousers are still on me and I find my belt under the bed) I dress with the light from my mobile because the curtains make everything really subterranean. Picking up my bag I just open the door and slink away. I get lost down the hallway until I work my way back and take the right instead, finding the elevator to freedom. I use my last £3 to buy a single to my home station, settle down into the train seat and almost nod off on the way home. Wonderful experience.

I don’t feel bad, she loved every moment. I didn’t lead her on and she’ll be glad I fucked off, I reckon.

the start of things

Chapter One

Re-Genesis

 

 

Reality tearing sounds a little like the extended crashing of cymbals. It had a touch of ‘Revelation’ about it, with great lightening-bolt-like rips running down from the sky in a jagged pattern and, with a rumble of earth, stalactite counterparts reaching up to greet them. Once joined it all looked like a network of veins, or the strands of an epic haphazard web; ink running down a windowpane. The storms, which were a result of the rapid relocation of air, wreaked across the trembling landscape; trees were shaken loose from their roots. Light, too, seemed to change, grew more concentrated in places and in others the sun was eclipsed by the tall pillar-like openings that cast shadows without hems. Where cracks opened and met with the sea, The News showed the water pouring inwards and breaking into vapor that started to glow like embers. Embers that scattered in all directions inside the blackness, until they eventually put themselves out. Anything entering the openings did the same, exploding into a million fireflies that could be seen against the back-drop of black, until they faded out and died. Some cracks were thin, enough that one could circumvent them, like a tree, simply a nuisance to passing; others were as broad as skyscrapers.

 

A country singer, like Captain Wilco, might have described it better. Might just have drawn out a bit more majesty and sang a tune of going home soon, but most other expression pales.

 

Scientists, infinitely less lyrical, spoke like geologists; explaining that our reality had developed cracks along its ‘fault lines’. Announced that these were slowly expanding and that they would make the binding ribbons of our reality increasingly thin. Then they became bakers to explain how, like bread, once the ‘fibers’ of our reality were broken it would be torn apart piece by piece. Last of all they spoke like prophets and philosophers, explaining nothing past apocalyptic rhetoric and idol speculation; about worlds beyond and possible re-genesis on another dimensional plane. In the end it was all just black hole nonsense; nobody sane would believe that there was anything but oblivion on the other side. So, after the first of the ‘jumpers’; who had convinced themselves that what was needed was to ‘break on through to the other side’, most people had the sense not to accelerate their demise.

 

 When civilians saw it there were as many reactions as there were faces. Some wept, some screamed, others began to laugh like maniacs; while Cup Shonee, standing above the little town of Hosannah, just brought the bottle back to his lips and stood expressionless.

 

 fin.

 

 

more to come. 

Floating in the vacuum of space

 

Whatever falls in my path I have fun with it. I’m still not sure what to do with my life, but soon I will need a job. I will again return to the pits. Prepare myself for some personal agony, personal anxiety, and get hook up with a healthy dose of personal apathy to get me through each day.

 

Personally, I think it is rather cheeky to request eight hours of my time a day for the five out of seven, and only give me near-on one thousand pounds for the privilege each month. Then again, I’ve not met anyone willing to pay more, so I guess I have to put up. Cruel and unfair, this world, but there is nowhere else to go.

 

Pause for a moment thinking of the young Jensen floating in the vacuum of space with an ever-increasing bank balance.

 

I see a lot of people ahead of me, not altogether fairly either. I look at their work and scoff and turn cheek. That’s the luck of the draw though, someone must like that tripe, otherwise why would the author have had it published.

 

This week I trust in publisher’s and their amazing knowledge of great literature… or not.

 

Regardless, I have the distinct feeling everyone undervalues. Taken for granted, rather than picked for Granta.

 

I need to focus on writing these bloody stories I have in my head.

 

Continue with The Coconut Stopwatch, Trip, The Pack, The Boy Who Entered Dreamtime and The Formicary. The problem is picking just one to really focus on. I love them all like children and love the pace I’m going at. I have more ideas that I want to start on as well!

 

Too many ideas and not enough time to write them all.

 

I think I’m going to focus on The Coconut Stopwatch, as it is a collection of short stories, which means there is at least fourteen opportunities at accomplishment before the grand accomplishment of finishing the compilation.

 

I have my computer hooked up to the printer, a big yellow folder to hold the drafts, little bulldog clips, a new ergonomic pen. Now I mean business. I’m going to write the epics out. Place sections on here.

Snapshots of greatness

Well things are picking up their toes. I’m working full-steam on the website to accompany my novel. As soon as it is somewhere near half decent I’ll link to it at the top of this page and write a post dedicated to some of the key features.

 

I’ve been quite prolific recently – writing a load more atoms into being for my own little universe.

 

[To set the scene, I should say that at the moment Cup and a little group of people are travelling to Carsonova to save themselves as the tears in the sky become ever bigger.]

 

 

 

Trip – Excerpt – Chapter 6 (as yet untitled)

 

When night came and the sun had put out its final embers on the horizon, they sat around the campfire. Pupils widened, when the world darkened; anything could have been in the air around them, until eyes adjusted to the light level and they learned they were alone, but for each other. Stars were the only things left shining, the moon absent behind the great tear.

 

 

.fin

 

 

For now I just want to give you snapshots of greatness. It is coming along. Steadily.

 

Other than that, I am still looking for a job and should have one shortly – but I’m in no rush. I like the fact that I can relax, de-stress and write.

 

Over and out.

Little else with the presence of voice

Little else with the presence of voice.

 

 

 

22^nd/02/08 – 09:30 – singers and so longs

 

She sings like a female Elvis, all whole-throated and deep, with a gurgle of honey and milk. Wanda Jackson, and her Rockabilly tuneage, walks with me to work this morning. She is screaming in my ears as I round the corner and slick my keycard through the slot by the side of the door. I’m sure a green light flashing is a warning not to try to cross the road anymore; you’ve missed the window. This was to be my last day, half-unbeknownst to me. (I had the pondering that I might be impulsive enough to leave; yet none of the clairvoyance it would have taken to predict the event in detail.) I got to the office and was called to an impromptu meeting.

 

They sat me down, told me that they had come here to this blog and read all about me. They were not as pleased as some. [The rest is censored with the intention of not worsening the situation for the other party]. They told me that if I wasn’t happy at the company I could hand in my resignation. So I did.

 

I said ‘I think it would be for the best’ and then was told to leave that evening, and not to see out my notice. I took it as a benediction, to be blunt. No layer of surface skin missing from me, no scuffs, not a scrape.

 

Regardless, I feel I was, at least, heartbroken to leave the people I have. To leave those that have shaped and influenced me since I arrived. And they have. I’m not sure all have. But some have.

 

Regardless, I feel I have escaped. The only lingering element is that bitter-taste at the base of my tongue, that is usually reserved for the breakdown of a relationship; for that moment where you close the door, both actually and metaphorically.

 

 

23^rd/02/08 – 23:00 – drinks are for drunks

 

I had a night tonight where my guests asked if ‘that’ was ‘the only vodka left’ – ‘yes’, was the only response I could come up with. I was more interested in oblivion than their so-so chatter and sobering sutras about this and that triviality.

 

And so to the future, where I fear we all must follow; except those by the roadside, or taking the long slide. Out of the working world, on to life anew. I will amble along my writing trail, by that I mean write something resembling prose. I will start to exercise and watch the food I inhale. I will start new things. I will plant a new crop to yield, when time has matured my ambitions into bright little pebbles. When I have lost the will to bear insecurity, I will look for other employment.

 

My life will become vesuvian-like to the brimful, an untempered flame to kindle the beyond that is, and will be, ever coming nearer.

 

 

 

24^th/02/08 – 08:01 – the sun is ineffective, cloud proves a second horizon

 

 I close my eyes and can see ‘them’ as they press into me with their eyes. I feel a pressure at my temples. I open my eyes and swear I can feel my pupils puff up. Hangover at dawn. Gravity has me in a bear hug as I try to stand. The realisation hits me. I have no purpose. What could be worse?

 

Thinking about the last few days, thinking about all those moments and now all the moments of ahead – well it just damn upsets me. I still, as ever, have little real purpose to my life. Still just passing moments like gallstones, on and on and on.

 

I’m still not sure what is wrong with me. No closer to diagnosis, let alone treatment or cure.

 

Question. So what should I do with my life?

 

Answers to… jensen.evan.wilder@gmail.com