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]
Last summer, I started reading Art & Physics on the recommendation of my son, who actually read it at the suggestion of a teacher a few years ago. Bottom line – get this book, even if you only look at the pictures. There’s a lot of great art in it, and the illustrations explaining the physics concepts are excellent. [Read more]
This is a strange time, is it not my Queen? With the valley shrouded in pooling fog, the days have darkened and the Elk have been proving themselves increasingly difficult to be tallied. Their hooves have forked in three directions: where the Root drinks from the Vein, where the Tongue burrows into sand, and where the Stones From Afar circle The Forest’s edge. [Read More]
Look what can happen with ceramic,
wood, and sea-tumbled stones;
with pigments and sand;
with fabric, glass, metal, and sun-dried kelp.
With words, fledged
in holy conversation.
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]
I moved to the Oregon Coast ten years ago after visiting to participate in a week-long painting workshop. During that visit I fell in love with the natural beauty of this place, the kind and progressive people I met, and the air of inclusion I found in the organizations, activities and events in the area. This was quite a change from the atmosphere in the California town where I had been living. [Read More]
Gathering, surrounded by, story writers, story tellers and story readers is like bathing in lavender salts — lingering into contentment, absorbing a lifestyle, humming.
Once upon a time there was a little town by a big ocean. It was a wise little town. Long ago it had looked at its dunes and beaches, its big trees, its marsh where the red-wing blackbirds sang, its little streets and little grey shingle shops and houses, and said: This is all good.
“Our little house is a wonderful, quiet place to work. Also a very good house for dreams, many people who’ve slept there have told me that. Dreams and the kind of writing I do have some connection. One morning when I was waking up in our Cannon Beach bedroom, the whole idea of one of the “Earthsea” books came to me as the light grew. When I got up, it was daylight and I had a novel to write.” — Ursula K. Le Guin
As a final patriotic attempt by my dad to make the Germans run screaming from all remaining thoughts of invading Britain -or even seeking asylum there- and Scotland in particular, he had the RAF drop my first baby photos over anything that was left standing in Berlin and Dresden Germany.