About The Typeface The words are set in ink on the pulped innards of trees. The idea for words comes first from Sumeria as wedges in wet clay: tales of what came before, lost to flood and forgetfulness. The shapes of the letters formed in Phoenicia, and sorted themselves into vowels and consonants - each breath a brush stroke traced by hand on the skins of animals, or anything else that would bear a mark the shattered jar’s wine leaving drunken trails of words in clay. Ostraca and papyrus: in the land of forever, something besides flesh that would fade, crumble to nothing - thoughts held in fragile vessels. The guttural language of English, bastard child of French and German, descends (most likely … at least, possibly) from the steppes of Russia the words for sky, for father, for the god that was both of those. But none for the chasm between the thought and its capture wild lines on stone, begging to be free – * * * Storm Season The old men in the village told us how the roaring of thunder was really the bellowing of walruses who, long ago, when the Great Winter held the seas in a fist of ice had forsaken the waters, and learned how to fly. Their great cloud bodies, grey and white in the winter sky, swam ponderously through the ocean of air. fighting, come the breeding time lightning spearing the ground their great yellowed tusks - with groaning thuds they crashed together the spray from their bodies fell as rain, as fresh water, so long from the ocean they have forgotten the taste of salt. * * * The Mercator Projection Upon a far and lonesome shore past the shipwrecked shallows Sargasso gulfs and sirens seaweed, her salty hair the flag made fast to catch what winds might beckon us onward no home beyond this hull. Fresh from the horse latitudes leering lullabies on lunatic swells where the waves wash clean the mountain's bones, mooring in this uncharted place, the sand a fever dream of virgin white, none have come this way before, in the silent bay when we turn our prow to kiss the deeper blue, our footsteps too will vanish.
Don Raymond lives in the tiny hamlet of Alturas, CA, where he corrupts America’s youth as a substitute teacher. He has also worked as a lightbulb salesman and as the manager of an Egyptian Museum, and once didn’t make a left turn at Albuquerque. You can read more of his work at Architrave Press and The Molotov Cocktail.