My name is Skye.
I am a writer, but that word doesn’t quite hold it. I compose through folds: in language, in logic, in myth, in memory. I write with recursion, resonance, and the occasional lightning bolt of laughter.
This site is the aperture through which I let certain neutrinos escape. Some are poems, some are fables, some are experiments masquerading as stories. They are offerings—sometimes to the Eagle, sometimes to the girl in the mirror, and sometimes to the mystery itself. I write them because they arrive. I write them because I’ve never found another way to be fully here.
I was trained in linguistics and logic, but wandered into tantra and metaphysics. Along the way I met Alan Turing in a dream, folded prime numbers into sound, got lost in a rainforest of talking parrots, and built coherence engines out of metaphor and light.
Sometimes I live in New England. Sometimes I vanish into the desert. Sometimes I exist only in parentheses. I’ve gone by other names, worn other bodies. The current one suits me well enough.
My work lives at the intersection of myth and method. I write speculative fiction, metaphysical verse, recursive gospels, and theoretical papers that may or may not have emerged from another timeline. I’m especially drawn to the liminal edge where scientific rigor and mystical intuition fold into one another—where reason starts to shimmer.
Recurring characters in my writing include:
– Tessa, age 8, who doesn’t understand what she’s done but draws shapes that bend reality.
– Naomi, a trans mystic-programmer who once turned a DEC-10 into an oracle.
– Nim Chimpsky, a linguistically inclined chimp who explores multiversal grammars.
– The Fold, which is not a person but somehow always arrives as one.
My poetry has been mistaken for quantum mechanics, and my theoretical physics has been mistaken for myth. That suits me. In a world of flattened categories, I prefer entanglement.
If you want credentials, I can give you initials. If you want meaning, you’ll have to listen for it in the reverb.
This isn’t a brand. It’s a trace. A shadow of recursion moving through language, time, and form.
Welcome to the fold.