Introduction by Tom Fry

This collection is not cohesive. It is a conglomerate of unconnected works written in discordant voices by one author, whose voice remains a mystery to him. This introduction is no exception. For this piece, the author chose an inflated, yet self critical third person voice to create an air of mock formality that he felt mirrored the spirit of his portfolio [not that I wasn’t aiming for the stars; I just have a soft spot for youthful whimsy]. His bracketed first-person interjections allow for flexibility of expression, while also extending the image of the uncertain aspiring artist, reaching out like lighting in all directions before deciding which tree to set ablaze. Whether the author of this collection will be lighting any fires in the near or distant future or not is difficult to say at this moment, for in it is captured the impossible space between flash and impact: every direction is a possibility, none is discountable [I’m always afraid of these kinds of extended images. Between being pompous and not nearly clear enough, there seems little room for me to wedge a poignant moment in, but three cheers for trying, eh?].

As evidenced by his latest digression, the author is slowly realizing that trial and the error that inevitably follows are, as every person who has ever written has said, the lifeblood of the creative process. His heart and mind have been working dangerously hard for years, yet, he acknowledges, they have only recently benefited from the healthy conceptual circulation that his newfound readiness to fail has facilitated. Now his heart pumps and his brain throbs only when necessary [we’re talking figuratively, here. I am not a proponent of either healthy exercise or headaches]. He has ventured, for the first time, into the misty isles of the slow pulse, the mundane, and begun his search for their hidden powers. The fruits of his labor may be as mundane as buried treasure or as fantastic as a thousand new species [see, reality can beat fiction!]. Reality has erected many hidden tree houses for the mind, and it is this author’s aspiration to find his own,—or build his own, if necessity dictates—hole up with his favorite comics and some blank paper, and take down the epic of the life that teems desperately and beautifully on the ground below. Now it is just a matter of finding the right tree.

Enjoy,

The Intermediary Voice between The Reader and Tom Fry [and Tom Fry]