When I was 19, I was a razor. Intense, a zealot, and more than a little crazy. So many people told me the military was for me. [Read More]
Like many writers, an idea comes to me first as a spark, a barely thought out concept that I contemplate and then mold into a story. [Read More]
Like anything else, this event was seeded, and grew organically over time. The seeds held the potential of what the event would become. [Read More]
Forever playful, John Fraser. In communities where people approach life with a bit of whimsy, his kind of disposition becomes part of our civic identity. If neglected, we are easily overrun by tedium. [Read More]
Shoes scraped, scruffed, and made the polished wooden floors of Steidel’s Art Gallery gently groan today as fans packed the small studio for the first peek of William Steidel’s new illustrated book, ‘Whose Move.’ [Read More]
in Sun you are weeping dragging last bits of impasto Black across the skybeside you wheat goes on forever golden waves breaking breakingcrows gather thick to one side Black like sudden tearsthey shudder then fly awayyou hang your head you do not watch them go
Minds dip all day into words,
seining food from conversations
and roving stacks of books.
We gather, compose, revise —
slowly meaning more.
Here are a few more words and photos about Steve McLeod. He specifically posed himself into the hooped picture, and I think he meant for me to share it and the others if the time came. We didn’t speak about that time directly, but he seemed to be intimating it. For the past ten or more […]
Words are shared in memory of Steve McLeod, beloved artist and gatherer. [Read More]
It’s ridiculous, I know, to suggest the squiggly lines of a comic can make you cry. Or that a story about a man and his mummy investigating a basement gateway to Hell can make you question your identity. [Read More]