And so it is here. The Oat Project is done, ready, being read by presale and (from way back) full subscribers. Are you ready? I don’t feel ready. But I’m doing it anyway. Right now, this minute, I’m simultaneously wanting to RAWR, flee to the beach and hide my head
Life: 0 to 60 in Fourteen Seconds Flat
You know how Life can go from 0 to 60 in fourteen seconds flat? I’m clocking in at 74 with an eye on 90. Before I tell you why, thank you, so very much, for walking through this life with me, for supporting my efforts as writer/photographer/singer/speaker/etc=Artist. I’m still going!
A Story of My Mother’s Last Gifts, at The Story Project – TONIGHT
A little over two years ago, I told a story from the summer I wrote The Oat Project for a program here in Colorado Springs called The Story Project. Like The Moth Radio Hour out of New York City, it’s live, local storytelling without a script. Tonight, on this Mother’s
Kidnapped! My First Friday Family
So it’s 8:30 on a Friday, and it’s already been a banner night. I was walking along, down my street, happy to be spending an hour with my camera and the light of sunset, and as I waited on a car to cross the street a block from home, the
Noticing – Integrating the Wild Workshops
In the past few months, I’ve been operating more on instinct than plan. Only the most basic physical and emotional needs have driven daily action. My mom died on December 4th, my sister-in-law a week later. Last year and the first months of this one have been soaked in cancer,
The Oat Project at Shuga’s!
Have you heard bits and pieces of the rest of The Oat Project? Have I dropped hints of the strip club, going dancing, getting drunk, skinny dipping, my first rock show at Red Rocks, having sex outside, or reading erotica? Have you read the first two releases, in which I
Community, for Real
Community, for Real We are made of stardust. 93% of each body. So scientists say. No matter our color or creed or culture, life crafts us of the same stuff. But we’re still individuals, right? Rocks. Islands. Separated at birth into lonely worlds of selfdom. We labor to bridge the