There is more here...

Comments

Anonymous said…
Dan feels like a poophole!
3:17 PM
Dan said…
I do, indeed. I think I have the plague.
3:19 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mornings like this are why I love Spring in the Midwest: a glowing sky, filled with orange light yet threatening rain, o'erspreading the new green trees...it makes up for the fact that I had an absolutely ICY shower this morning. The sky is wide through my windows. (I'm sad I shal'n't have this room next year.) It makes me think of/ pine for travel. Below are a few pictures from my recent trip to the hill country of central Florida. I backpacked (solo) the state's longest loop trail and rode (both ways) its longest bike trail (with a stop at a strange, distant hotel between legs) and, in between these two jaunts, scorched myself on Clearwater Beach...I have hardly any skin left on me. Enjoy!
Read more
One of my favorite singer/ songwriters, David Brown from Brazzaville, actually read one of my stories, "Sleeping and Waking" and told me that I was a very talented writer with a very natural style. He has inspired much of my writing over the past six months, so this means a lot to me. I am going on one hour of sleep. Gawd, am I tired.
Read more

Work Smoothly, Lifetime Peace

When an idea for a story comes, it almost always comes to me as a setting, or as an image.  I’ve come to realize that I am more attracted to places than to people, generally, so I guess this is not surprising. I’ve several tremendous images in my head.  I’ll take this as a good sign, a sign that the torpor and exhaustion that have lead to my not completing anything of value for six months are beginning to lessen, that, with summer’s ascension will come the cloudburst.  Here’s hoping. The most powerful of these images is of monks on a hill.  It is sunset, or just after, and it is summer.  The day had been tremendously hot and humid, and violent thunderstorms had broken over their convent.  With these storms, the eventide has turned sharply cooler and, below them, in the valley of a slowmoving river, fog is rising like an armada of ghosts.  They have eaten their simple evening meal in deep silence, and then have come outside for evensong, and vespers.  Their voices rise, my
Read more