John Blacksher is a madman—a right eccentric fellow.
He lives out his brief days and long nights in a torchlit cavern just north of the arctic circle at latitude sixty-six degrees, four minutes, forty-eight seconds (longitude undisclosed).
His mind processes in a fashion analogous to an amoeba gliding through molasses: hopelessly lost, drifting through a medium of sustenance so dense that it could never assimilate even a fraction of that potency into its own design.
Continuous encounters with existential ambiguity (the inevitable result of reverse dream-work), wedded unceremoniously with the painful drive to create artistically, has led to his adoption of a stochastic, illogical creed: the knight of infinite poetic resignation.
The essential points beneath his philosophy are that thought takes the form of a spiral, that the only design behind the world has its origin in our perception of it, that multiple levels of consciousness exist, that the conflict between forces of unity and forces of fragmentation is the origin of individual and metaphysical struggle, and that Being (canvas) requires beings just as much as beings (paint) require Being.
Despite all this rampant pretentious buffoonery, he has been known to crack wise, play a jazzy lick on the saxophone, pursue insane women, and consume large quantities of whisky. His party trick is cornering unsuspecting strangers and drawing out of them latent philosophies and spiritualities, thereby inducing revelations which are often, and for the best, forgotten by the morning.
John Blacksher whiles away his days by focusing on not focusing, waiting to observe something that will sever his last bothersome thread of faith in reality. If he remains unfazed by this event, he will have succeeded.