Samuel Sizemore

He loves rules. He relishes deadlines and arbitrary constraints on expression. Sincerely, he does.

He keeps making music. For nearly thirty years now, he’s been making music. His work has appeared in one film and two video games. He has released a handful of records. He produces records for Cleveland garage pop upstarts The Vumms.

He writes fiction and poetry. He is not a published author, but he is a published poet.

He paints pictures. They aren’t in the world yet.

He has an extremely difficult time prioritizing these pursuits, as he loves them all so much.

He may or not be a gibbon corpse commandeered by a common housefly; I’m not sure as to whether or not that means he is suffering from imposter syndrome.
His art looks and sounds the way an attic smells, conceals portals and yellows memories. A lipsticked chimp, a teenage mermaid, the occasional feverish toddler; these aren’t subjects depicted in his work, mind you, but mediating forces from the spirit realm that guide his righteous hand.

His expertise extends to shambling down corridors, wearing sweaters, and wiping jam from the countertop.

He abhors referring to himself in the third person, so now I’m going to stop talking about him as if he weren’t me. It makes him feel foolish and dishonest.