Official First Post

Portrait of the artist as a dyslexic scarab.

I suppose that it’s now incumbent upon me to scribe the obligatory First Post, introducing myself to the alleged visitors of this website. I have been blogging pretty much since blogs existed, though almost everything I’ve written in that medium has dealt with sustainable urban development, often with a focus on transportation, particularly urban bicycling. I have written for blogs entirely my own, for blogs co-owned with a colleague, and on payroll for blogs owned by others. Never before have I written for myself alone, or, in this case, myself and my wife, both “emerging” writers.

Yet writing has been my primary interest throughout my life–writing and reading, or rather reading, and then, from the end of high school, writing. I detoured into photography for a few decades, but always kept some literary efforts going as a sort of pilot light–and I met my wife in the photo world. Now I have nagged her into writing a novel of her own; she is a science-fiction reader and, as it turns out, a most capable writer despite her misgivings. I will endeavor to cadge a post from her for this blog now and then, though she has a perfectly fine one of her own at

I assure you that I myself will use this blog to promote my own novels (“literary noir,” but they are sufficiently described, for now, elsewhere in this website)…but I’ll also blither on about other people’s books, about books and literature in general, and about language and its values and vagaries. It’s a funny thing, this symbolic communication that we as a species are so good at, and so appallingly good at perverting. We make sounds that encode perceptions and feelings, then we make little visual wiggles that encode the sounds, and we use them in mulitfarious combinations not only to recreate primary and secondary impressions of the universe derived in our odd little brains from direct experience, but also to create impressions derived from no actual experiences whatsoever, or rather synthesized from the dregs of intentionally shattered memories, and which, though we know them to be “false” according our intellectual conventions, we find, sometimes, more compelling than what we arrogantly call “real life.”

A fine way to pass the time while waiting for the sun to explode! Still, it’s what we do. It’s what I do. And somehow it helps us love one another and ourselves and this strange crowded emptiness we call existence, so what the hell: let’s have us a good read, and remember that we’re human, and that we don’t really know what that means.

Expect more of this twaddle once a week or so….

The novels, by the way, are written in terser, simpler language. But I’m going to play a bit on this blog. So play along!


Rick Risemberg