• 🔭   I’m interested in data engineering in the context of bioimages
• 🤔   To me; this means applying algorithms to raw image data so that statistical tests can be used!
• 😴   I am interested in learning more about how image processing can be done in a RIGOROUS way so that intracellular and time series interactions can be compared.

• 💻   Python | Terminal | R
• 🔧   Google Collab | Jupyter | Git

O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind. Chicken bones in a cardboard casket meditate upon the linoleum floor. Outside my flophouse door stewed and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.

The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother. Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud though this is summer I don’t know why or where the souls of Indian sinners fly. Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis. I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms— first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.

But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts thread by thread asserting insectival lust. I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene. What are my options? Why am I back in this city? When I sing of the American night my lungs billow Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation. My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941” explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see this mad fag nation is dying. Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project my regret to my long-lost high school honey but history has carried me to a place where she has a daughter older than we were when we first shared flesh.

She is the one who could not marry me because of the dark-skin ways in my blood. Love like that needs no elegy but because of the baked-prick possibility of the flame lakes of Hell I will give one last supper and sacrament to the dying beast of need disguised as love on deathrow inside my ribcage. I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger when I could see how the past had guided me and I cried and held the pillow, muddled in the melodrama of the quite immature but anyway, Uncle Adrian… Here I am in the reservation of my mind and silence settles forever the vacancy of this cheap city room. In the wine darkness my cigarette coal tints my face with Geronimo’s rage and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools who taught me to live-think in English.

Uncle Adrian… to make a long night story short, you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962. How come you didn’t? I could have had some really good times in high school.