I am driving home from work in the rain. The traffic is heavy and I am upset. Not at anything in particular, just a strange combination of angry-sad, non-focused malaise. I have a feeling of something wrong, there is something missing. And the rain is coming down and I can’t see and that jackass in
It is a question we’ve all been asked at least once at some point in our childhood. And the answer, at least for me, would change depending on the time and place or the frame of mind I was in. I can remember most of the answers I gave and the reasons behind them for
I'm going to post this with very little comment from me other than to welcome you to this month's theme: FREEDOM. The reason for posting this should be fairly obvious. And by way of commentary, I shall simply give you a couple of definitions written by Ambrose Bierce himself: Freedom, n. Exemption from the
Back when I was in High school I took an art history class where we studied the life and works of artists from the Renaissance to the modern period. I had by this time already fancied myself an artist and had already figured out what was good art and what was not. Modern Art,
I wheeled the bike from the garage and took a deep breath. It was the start of the lull week that happened every summer. The week when every kid I knew was off at camp and I was on my own. Every year the neighborhood children would be shipped off to some 7 day secluded
My first trip to the Faraway Lands came through a Magical Box and was quite unexpected. It happened when I was seven years old and grounded. Now, to my knowledge there are three ways to get to the Faraway Lands. Each one has its benefits; each one has its drawbacks. One is not better than
I had the privilege of hearing Kurt Vonnegut speak once toward the end of his life. I was overwhelmed by is humor and humanity. He was a unique and brilliant individual. The video below showcases that humor, so take 5 minutes to be thoroughly entertained. Who knows, it could cure a case of writer's block
I sit and look out my back window into the yard behind my house. It is large and full of trees; a combination of fir and pine and aspen. On this day, early in the morning, it is cold and fog is moving in. The white/grey translucent mist sneaks its way into the yard. It
I seem to be moving from erratic to consistent in so many ways—how and when I drive, how and when I eat, how and when I prepare for my classes and grade essays, how and when I hang out with my wife. I suppose it was inevitable. After all, doesn’t this happen to everyone
When I was in high school I was a hippie. Not a real hippie, this was the 80s, real hippies didn’t exist anymore. No, I was a pseudo-hippie, a neo-hippie, a wannabe-hippie. I wore tie-dyed t-shirts and went to Grateful Dead shows, I smoked pot and played hacky-sack, I read the beat poets and
