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About the Author
David Pierce Jones is a country kid born in upstate New York who later drifted into city living for far too long and is now finding his way home, decades later. He prizes hard work, old skills, and bluntness. No useful blade has ever been sharpened without the love of the stone, and his writing is a testament to that.
He is a father, a son, a brother, and a friend.
He loves dogs. Cat people are a mystery.
He appreciates well-aged bourbon and scotch. Neat.
He is an abstract artist. Not so neat.
He is an accomplished marketing professional. It is always about the offer.
Most everything else you need to know about David is pounded into the pages of this book.
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Quarrymen dig, so I opened my bloodline and did just that. And I exhumed all the words I could not say. Or face.
The epiphany to excavate myself came one morning around 4 a.m., when I typically have my most honest moments. It was not a bolt of lightning but rather a spark. In the receding silky darkness, I laid in dynamite, struck a match, and blasted my comfortable and confining crypt to hell, a trail of teeth, shards, and shrapnel, my result. And I kept digging, frantically.
I was living a subterranean life—the faces, the voices, the eyes, and their heavy breathing jangled angry, a mountain of pennies in my lungs.
Breathing was labor.The practice of burying me was methodical, mechanical. The only exchanges I was having were with myself. I was a cluttered labyrinth with no distinguishable door nor window, a seamless box, nested in countless boxes, fashioned by my careful hands, padlocked, and plunged into a hole, paved shut.
Like a hoarders’ heaven (haven), I collected and stacked and cataloged exchanges, unwritten letters, tender tidings, retorts, tirades, confessions, and gory screeds. A lifetime’s worth, or so it seemed.
And now I rise, each page of this book a slug of new air.
Fresh, above ground.
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