On Short Shelf Life
Had coffee with a friend recently–a few years my senior–who showed me a picture on his phone. I recognized it as a raven. He said it was a tattoo. His own. He described the recent decision and related experience in…
Had coffee with a friend recently–a few years my senior–who showed me a picture on his phone. I recognized it as a raven. He said it was a tattoo. His own. He described the recent decision and related experience in…
I posted this morning over at Substack where the friction is less than here in WordPress. You can go there and read my musings about diets and digestion, with more to come about bugs for breakfast in your own bowl…
The three pounds of pink pudding we carry in our cranium has to be the most researched and debated organ in the (known) universe. If you follow the visible tip of the iceberg (the part I post somewhere public) you…
If you don’t know where it is you want to go, you’re not going to know when you get there. After so many years when this website was either neglected by the writer, ignored by readers or sabotaged by hackers…
The blog was on the ropes. Then it was down for the count. The referee intended to stop the fight, the victim too far injured to rise again. But wait! Fragments has struggled to her feet, bloodied, staggering, but headed…
I’m trying to reduce the friction for peripheral writing while attempting to focus on the main train–the completion of additions and editing for Book #3, now in active revision towards publication–in a year, maybe. So if you subscribe to Fragments…
When is the last time you stretched out on your back under a sky full of clouds? Your mind literally cannot help but make sense of the seemingly random balloonings or smears or pulled threads of clouds. It is what…
And even now, there are moments that seem pleasant, hopeful, when I am excited to complete something, to start some new thing. The world feels familiar. Comfortable. Briefly ordinary. But like waking from one dream into another, it washes over…
It is starting to sink in that this is not a drill. This is not the projection of some future possibility that one day, we would leave this place, dead or alive. This is an acceptance, almost, that one day,…
…is not a garden. And maybe 75 stories, essays and sylvan ramblings does not make a book. That is the judgment, I think, in the minds and profit-making needs of perhaps most publishers of books. They are used to (and…