End of Empire
Some kind of Gene Wolfe parlor of tarnished escutcheons, faceless poise, and rotting velvet, with remnants of ruling families maintaining the procedures of dignity as any trace of distinction and inbred purpose fade. Ancestral identity becomes mere cashflow and costume. Vast, dim, cobwebbed atriums (atria?), occasional letters to sign, from estate lawyers. Biscuits and the sherry bottle. Cuddling with grandfather’s trophies and certificates.
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About Eric
Since he was struck by lightning as a child, Eric Waldemar has gone on to a variety of endeavors, including abstract cinema, painting, drawing, printmaking (etc), writing and editing, sound-making, university teaching, public spectacle, walking around, and, in a remarkable development, child-rearing. He lives in Denver, CO, USA.
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