|
The latest in a now-annual tradition of intending to review the preceding year in books, neglecting to do so throughout the holidays, and finally capitulating to the creative guilt monster sometime in January. (What’s that? No, I don’t own a calendar, why do you ask?) 
1 Comment
I assumed doing another end-of-year book post would just be a depressing summary of another brief, identical COVID year. I’m sitting on the same couch by the same fire on what could be any morning of the last few years, with the same raindrops and ronaballs tapping on the window. Have I ever really left this spot? Read more 
Flash fiction. 250 words to describe 'rearranging furniture' and the word 'surge' in a suspenseful way.  A sprawling story of friendship, madness, and cosmic adversity in an upside-down Wonderland that I think I overheard at a party once.  A wise meme said that life is just a series of obstacles preventing you from reading your book. I must be really living, because my "read" list has been a travesty since college. Gone are the days when I could sit with a book for a day and a night and take down doorstopper fantasy series like pan dulces. Work/life demands in the time of rona being less outrageous, I made it a mission to read at least an hour a day last year. I failed, but hey, at least I did better than a book a month. And so here are the books I read in 2020, and a little bit about why I think they’re worth picking up. Read more  BG art by Blake Foster, sydwox.com
On March 16 I woke up, got dressed, and joined the birds on my balcony for a cup of coffee. This was a bizarre aberration, for it was Monday, and I was not driving to work.  In seven days we'd seen just about every variety of habitat and attraction one could hope to in a blind trek through uncharted lands, but suddenly our time in the north was up. There were just a few curiosities to see on the way to the airport.  My grandparents moved to Coeur de'Alene, Idaho when I was eight or nine, and though visits to their little northern town were treasured, the cost and distance made opportunities to do so rare. Two years previous, my dad's side and I dropped in as a surprise for my Grandma's 92nd birthday. Since then, Lizett and I married, but she had yet to meet Grandma Anita and Grandpa Dwayne, who send touching Christmas cards and correspondence and good wishes for every occasion.  By mid-morning we again left the city in search of the real world. We went by ferry to Bainbridge island, where a Shire worthy of Tolkien exists like a beautiful passage written on aged vellum, hidden quietly away until curious readers unfurl and fall in.  I mentioned this was the furthest north either of us had ever gone. The closest I'd been previously was a drive from Northridge up to Bend, Oregon, where the slow transition of endless California cow country to blankets of green trees was like entering a different world.  |
What's this?A public repository of projects, fictions, and other transmissions. Archives
February 2023
Categories |
RSS Feed