What ate the daylight yesterday—and many days of the past month—was drinking cheap 5.9% alcohol per content beers with men 60 plus years of age. Cranky men, clinging onto beer cans as if their nostalgia depended on it. Maybe a lifetime of drinking dilutes experiences enough so that ageing and learning from life slips by unnoticed.
The carefree time knew no tomorrow. Camus affirmed the moment, “could live in a tree trunk…happily.” Feeling alive was enough. See red-brown leaves, smell roasting chestnuts, warm brandy coursing down your throat. Above all, the unboundedness, freedom to roam or stay, party all night or leave for Spain this afternoon. Splash sheer existence into your bearded laugh, grunting “Yess!” [Read More]
It took me a chapter or two to adapt to Doyle’s chanting blend of poetry and prose. Then I went crazy for it, wanting more and more. And I’m equally enthralled with his new novel, The Plover, which continues the saga of Declan O’Donnell, a hard ass with a heart of gold who sails off into the Pacific alone. The book is scheduled to hit the shelves tomorrow (April 8), just a few days ahead of Doyle’s keynote address at the annual Get Lit gathering in Cannon Beach. [Read More]
At the age of 23, Addy Taylor still feels too awkward and half-grown for adult responsibilities. Yet here she is on her first day teaching English at Oceanside High School, and she has already fallen prey to a trick chair that collapses under her, becomes drawn into adolescent dramas not too different from her own young-twenties troubles, and lets the bossy assistant principal inflict on her the role of reviving the school’s long-defunct speech and debate team. [Read More]
When I hear the name Hayao Miyazaki, I think of clouds. Like the kind we see in Cannon Beach on magical evenings after the sun has set, when gold lines our horizon and pink rims giant, puffy pillars. I think of long grass, like on our sand dunes, bending gracefully before mounting winds. And I think of flying images from his films: robots, planes, pig pilots, cat busses, girls on broomsticks, skyscraper-tall gods walking through forests… [Read More]
I have been cursed with a curse! You see, I found the rotten corpse of a horse that presumably floated across the Pacific Ocean from Japan on the beach a few days ago. I took a picture of it’s decomposing skin and pulled 2 teeth from its decrepit mouth (which required much effort to sever the fibrous flesh rooting the teeth to mandible; I had to use a sharp drift-wood-stick to cut the sinewy strands). [Read More]
It’s a blustery night on the largest of the Orkneys, a group of islands far off the northern coast of Scotland. Finn, a reporter from Ireland, plagued by ulcers and a moribund marriage, has taken temporary refuge in this remote agricultural community. Traveling on foot to attend a musical performance, he takes a shortcut through a cemetery and discovers the body of a murder victim… [Read More]
Wintertime for me has always been a time of introspection and recounting. I grew up in Alaska, in a culture dominated by the traditions, myths and stories of the tribes native to that titanic place. Stories were the textbook and sustenance of many long winters for me. Oral traditions from all over the world are rooted in histories so long that they cannot be mapped.
In the beginning there was conversation, musings, the exchange of local words. A good story might be gathered in the morning and roasted at fireside talks over many evenings. Words could be risky, we learned, but also nutritious, mind-blowing, and profitable. So people made petroglyphs, cuneiform clay tablets, papyrus scrolls, telegraph cables, CB radios, and smartphones…. [Read More]
Por favor, tres a poniente
Y, camino de la luz.
The whale whisperer would
Like to be taken to
Casa de la Paz.