What We Read (A Galactic Journey), Part One

Wintertime more than any other season is when we gobble up books This is not to suggest you cannot binge read during any season of the year. It's just that all that tempting text so alluringly in your face, in the bookstores, on a nearby shelf or even somewhere in a bin is usually a hare's breath away, as you hunt for something to read. When the big chill sets in, it's a warm, indoor elixir against the freezing, cold outside.

An earlier post of Feb. 26, 2016 talked about why we read- (click 2016 left, February, find "It's All Leigh Hunt's . . ."). However, what is the what of all this reading?

Previously I described a personal, lifelong reading addiction that had me grappling with the habit since early childhood. Weekly trips to the library a mile or so down the road. Balancing a small though quite heavy tower of kiddie lit in my little arms by having taken full advantage of the library's six-book checkout rule; lugging it all back to our modest, third floor walk  up.

The childhood booty always included more than just a few fairy tales and myths, addictive reads more often than not comprising the whole lot! I also mentioned in that post how as a pre-adolescent I moved on to Hollywood style romantic "adventures"-  the pirates of Robert Louis Stevenson, and eventually the swashbuckling, sexy heroes of Rafael Sabatini (can you say that name aloud and not love it?!?). 

Eventually, I was able to complete the entire ruination of a young life by majoring in stories, wallowing in the gorgeousness of Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Leigh Hunt, the ramblings of Rousseau and eventually our own transcendental storytellers from right here in the colony. You want a cozy evening? Try Hawthorne's The House of Seven Gables. Got the travel bug but don't wanna or perhaps can't leave your home and hearth at the moment? The Marble Faun will do the trick!

Along the way I especially admired the poetry of an earlier, "pre-Romantic" from  the mother country, Thomas Gray, who warned so lyrically in his famous "Elegy in a Country Churchyard: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. . . a  lilting if dire admonition about values which led me to think, why not major in books? Given that dim if metaphorical scenario, what did I have to lose???

Most of us know, or think we know, why we read. Feel free to reread- or not-  the earlier post about why we read   (Feb. 26, 2016 "It Was All Leigh Hunt's Fault. . ." ). But reread or not, as they are fond of saying  on the west coast (& usually for some totally inexplicable reason), "it's all good. . . ."  For now though, it's all about what we read.

(Part Two Next Week: The Plots. . . .)
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- if you have trouble posting in the "comments" box, a not unusual blogspot glitch, just email me & I will post it- nystoryweaver@yahoo.com-    

Pymland Fantasy Revisited- A New Year's Card

 My post for the new year 2019 contains additions to a previous one, "Pymland and the Great Escape." Part re-print, part re-stated fantasy,  part plea for a quieter, kinder, more civilized world, minus all the bad stuff that always existed at the edges of such an imagined "simpler time." This is an updated version of that post.

Previously I posted about having dived in twice-  wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word the first time. It was the perfect escape from our media maddened, crazed planet. Quietly and happily I re-wallowed in the ironic coziness of village life in the mother country a la Pym- the bucolic settings a mere bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as stodgy in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life-  with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist. Her work is an elixir against the crap of modern living. Her locales are devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious observations-  places short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong and some truly splendid floral arrangements

It went on for the better part of a year, this second time around Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a lost friend and Pym aficionado whom I still miss. Will I be tempted to try a third reread at some point? What would provoke such a reactionary move? Well, specifically the giant, pixel flickering, 24/7, bellowing spectacles we see and hear each day hogging up hours of crowd manipulation and our attention, selling things and ideologies; the complicity of being online and/or voluntarily streaming the stuff into our homes at all hours. . . .

As it turns out, Orwell had it wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day to control the populace, but requires ongoing, repetitive exposure, such as now we practice; then again, to be fair, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84. We still read then. And talked.

The people of Pym's mid twentieth century stories are cyber free but convention bound, up to a point. They are women no longer young, yet tied contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. Often single, they live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never- but we always know to which category of church going (or not) they subscribe; their work is in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes.

Alongside are the men, some attractive and some not, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, younger, eligible bachelors, cute and flirty C of E priests, middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional designing, though usually well attired woman who arrives in town to upset the mix. . . a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. . . a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, much sharp satire and all is revealed through drily hilarious character observation, mostly tongue in cheek. Yet the entire tempest in a teapot seems quite orderly and downright pastoral amid overtones of subtle social mischief and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the Queen Pym's writerly touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn for example not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Do autumn days still draw in?? Of course they do! But who says or even thinks that anymore? And when is the last time you used the word "inexorably??" Drawing in is redolent of some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what shocking social faux pas in the offing. . . .

Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, seriously shod, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the women sometimes prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take as Pym slices and serves with the shiniest of cake knives. 

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums, a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society. . . eligible vicars and doting, unmarried sisters,  anthropologists, seductive waiters and the occasional, irresistible military cad or cunning vixen, mischievous subtexts looming. . .  contrived solutions to catastrophic social gaffs, over tea.

Legendary British bland cooking is on full display as her hostesses limp heroically toward one of many, many casserole recipes. Or a solitary dinner may be “tinned” or even a meal so sparse tha a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices. . . conversely she may present us with a richly trifled chocolate, perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the local vicarage.

This paean to Pym may seem overstated, superfluous, the average, informed anglophile reader already having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and one is really not sure what to serve. . . . and in the service of full disclosure, when needing a respite from stark reality, or the quick & easy Brit fix, I have alternated her sharp, though gentlewoman irony with the wickedly wickedly clever, dark humor of another witty lady of letters from the sceptered isle, the ineffable Muriel Spark.

But aaah, to live- even for a short while-  as a character in one of those marvelous tales of angsty, muted guffaws, in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory, gentle intrigue. No ubiquitous screens or facebook, no upsetting politics or bad vibes, only authentic, cute birdies providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of small troubles, smart quips and clever character revelations will you find me, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably if a bit cautiously with the neighbors. 

Several years down the road  I'm still in admiration of Pymland, tuning in now and again to those imaginary sensibilities, suspense laden garden parties, silly intrigues, at least in my escapist, bookish, dream world. Just to be clear though, I have in no way abandoned the more complex delights of Brit (or any other) lit. Henry James still is the master, along with the other great word magicians of all time and languages. It's just that occasionally I need a break from life's hard themes. So no New Year's resolutions for me, now or ever, just cake! Preferably with a sweet and light though subtly delicate icing, perhaps just a hint of lemon for tartness. Bon apetit!

Tableau 2, The Holidays, and The Real Thing

Speaking of fancy shmancy, outdated albeit charming customs from another century, and writers of a certain rarified,  la-dee-dah circle who so perfectly and meticulously chronicled their own, special realities. . . . 

We're talkin gorgeous, intricate, fin de siecle settings, complex, cossetted, sometimes tragic and always a little larger than life characters from the Gilded Age (often with not such beautiful back stories, so as to move the plot along!); see those pert horses and cozy carriages gently cantering through the city.

There are yet more intimations of elegant merriment as winter approaches. Brightly colored street lights, sparkly decorations, perhaps images of of rich, velvet opera cloaks and other mythical artifacts of long ago fashion. Such acts of nostalgia and sympathetic magic help us endure the months of cold ahead.

The mini story I am about to relate is provoked in part by the change in weather so soon upon us, and a time of year that can evoke glimpses of seasons and whole eras passed; snatches of large, ornately decorated Christmas trees as viewed through the tall windows of old, Greenwich Village-y type town houses, or movies that depict such lovely sights; a stroll on a softly lit, lightly snow covered avenue in twilight. 

Ironically though, what the start of the wintry festivities here often evokes for me is, well, breakfast. A hot brew, a warm nosh, a New York bagel.

You see, when I started boiling water for the first decaf one late fall morning the other a.m. (recent snow storm and below freezing temperatures notwithstanding, still technically autumn!), as I conjured up images of Victorian Christmases, I was reminded of a clever and well written story by Henry James, even though it was not specifically about the holiday; the tale just had that feel. It's an insightful little gem about human nature entitled "The Real Thing," that  like most of James' work (which often reminds me a tad of nineteenth century lush Christmases anyway for some reason), leaves its timeless imprint on our consciousness. 

The narrative revolves around an aspiring artist and hopeful painter (more shades of tableau vivant!) who seeks models of suitable bearing for his portraits. A couple, man and woman, two aristocrats fallen on hard times, approach the painter with an offer of their services; he chooses them, in no small part because of his empathy for their reduced circumstances.  But alas, these two are not the real thing, at least not portrait worthy-wise, and as a consequence, his work is not received as kindly or as well as he would have liked or expected (you will have to read the story to find out what happens; it's short, just do it).

Painting was an important means of visual entertainment, artistry, and historical record in those days around the turn of the century before last, a time which if truth be told was not so very long ago. We no longer engage in the exact practice of tableau vivant as described in the previous post  (yes, do read that too , if you already haven't) but have modified it to our present, technological needs; and even if we did try to replicate that particular amusement in some form, it most probably would not (even in our own, more relaxed  era) center around so prosaic a painted image as for example someone munching a bagel for breakfast with his or her first cup of pressed or poured over  java. 

But let's consider this: in the unlikely event that there ever did happen to exist a famous painting or iconic photo of a simple bagel eater, and some party goer wished to dress up as said nosher just for some old fashioned, tableau vivant fun, the subject of the painting in question might very well be seen wolfing down some goddawful tofu spread with their iconic, circular bread of shiny crust and a hole in the middle. And this choice of a tasteless soy gop in the a.m. as opposed to something genuinely creamy and good would be one of the many, many unfortunate results of our obsession with supposedly healthy foods.

To speak plainly, I forgot how good cream cheese was! Whipped cream cheese and real half & half, not that fat free, watery, thin white chemical swill that people overly concerned with their own mortality choose to pour into their organic, morally sustainable decaf.

So one day in a previous holiday season not too long ago I had some guests over, and in preparation I bought the stuff that was not tofu, just for the heck of it; when I finally sampled this delicacy, suddenly I remembered!!! It all came flooding back, the taste, the texture, the calories that no one cared about because it just added to the deliciousness. The rest is history too, as I decided once and for all it was high time to live a bit dangerously again, and have been stocking up ever since- mainly on the type with chives 'cause I love the saltiness. I may even graduate to heavy cream with my extra strong decaf one of these days. Just saying. 

It's the holidays people! Good wishes and general merriment to everyone, cheers all around and live it up! Get yourself some goodies, and maybe some whipped cream too for that scoop or two of chocolate, high fat, exceptionally smooth, ultra creamy, very chocolatey ice cream, the real old fashioned kind that comes in an oversized cardboard container at the supermarket!!!

Just a thought.

A Photograph, Tableau Vivant, The Passage of Time, and an Accidental Book Review

I've spoken about the fluidity of time because it moves past our consciousness with such alarming velocity. The impossibility of stopping time to capture the moment, the sheer irony of trying to do this in an image obsessed culture that is continually in motion.

By the time the particular sliver of an instance of a movement through space- i.e. what we call "now"- is downloaded (much less read, seen and printed) it's gone forever.

There's an image of my granddaughter age 31/2, standing with her arms bent at the elbow and hands placed on hips, fearlessly and innocently facing the camera, the world, and all the future to come.

She's barefoot and wearing a periwinkle blue dress remindful of a pinafore, with little vines of red and yellow and orange daisy-like flowers trailing up and down along the sides; it gives a happy smock effect and is at least a size too big, and so it reaches almost to her ankles and resembles the kind of outfit a child might have worn a very long time ago. The little wearer of this apparel is standing on the wood floor of a front room that could pass for a parlor. On the wall in back of her is a small, cozy little fireplace of painted white brick with some lit candles placed inside its hearth for illumination.

The scene could be a portrait from a hundred or more years ago evoking a simpler time, and the house is almost that old too. But in the mere seconds it takes to view this latter day tableau vivant on a monitor or hand held screen, taking into account as well the minutes passed before the "send" and the moments in which it all was captured and snapped so confidently into the photographer's hugely intelligent though quite tiny phone, that exact reality and everything contained in it has changed inexorably; now it's just a fleeting scene from the a receding past, never to be repeated in precisely the same way.

This among other reasons- such as not having access to instant moment-capturing, hand held computers or even primitive, personal cameras- no doubt is why the practice of tableau vivant was so popular among a certain, hoity toity, self-obsessed class from the famed Gilded Age, the ruthless though exceedingly well dressed old and newer monied robber barons and their blue-stockinged consorts of a century or so ago.

At the turn of the nineteenth century, at a gathering or party of the old money gods, tableau vivant or "living scene" served as a form of amusement, like home movies or stills projected onto a screen. Participants would dress up and pose as a character from a painting by one of the old masters. The live imitator of the still portrait  would start this party game presentation behind a curtain, which then would be lifted in the manner of revealing a famous portrait into which the party guest had inserted or substituted her or himself, in the full dress of the original artists' model, and voila!

This practice was historically encoded to great effect in Wharton's House of Mirth, when the heroine Lily Bart participates in such an early image-copying bit of fanciful fun.The delicate and naturally ravishing Lily is an aspiring flower whose family unluckily has suffered financial downgrading in an upmarket society; thus is she forced to barter her inherited facility of being ornamentally pleasing and socially accommodating, in order to retain a tenuous place in the realms of in gold.  It's a tricky balance however, and won't keep her in everyone's good stead forever unless she marries eventually and marries well, which means in her case (the declining social status being a major element) most probably to a suitor whom either she does not love or who is part of the clan but like her not really that well provided for. One example of the latter situation would be hooking up with someone who actually must work for a living, even if it's just hi falutin' selective lawyering or part time doctoring (we're not talking ditch diggers here in this set). The novel is part Victorian, part modern, and a wonderful read (barring Wharton's genteel anti-semitism in the character of one of the more socially unacceptable suitors with an income, Sam Rosedale, described as of the "blonde Jewish" type, but still a Yid; just ascribe it to the times and the authorial pedigree, and read it anyway- it's worth it). 

Meanwhile, back at one of those fancy soirees that will feature tableau vivants as part of the evening's self aggrandizing amusement, Lily chooses a magnificent though somewhat suggestive pose from a Reynolds, and when the curtain is drawn back, she reveals more about herself than just a two dimensional image of some rich dame hanging in a museum. The diaphanous, subtly sensual pose of a blue blood's pretty wife in which Lily chooses to cloak herself for this fantasy reveals her classic beauty in all its allure, and has people gasping.

In Wharton's cautionary tale of the pitfalls of vanity however, this particular scene in the novel also has a special, foreshadowing meaning; Lily, a flower whose bloom like all living blooms will not last forever, still has refused to compromise, to assume a more acceptable, usual place in the standing social order, and just marry someone already. 

The 3 1/2 year old in the present portrait, facing down the viewers in front of a simple, candle lit fireplace, is wearing the periwinkle pinafore with many colored flowers that also hints of something from another, more distant era. And although she may indeed grow up as lovely as the former Lily, even now she has that slightly knowing and subtly mischievous expression that signifies girls have come a long, long way since then, if still not totally the whole route. Sometimes she acts like a black belt, takes a firmly defensive, keep-your-distance bodily stance and screams lollypop power! It can be quite unnerving and effective, taking her young age into account. In addition, she even may choose to become an astronaut if she wants.

And that's good. Or as my granddaughter might say, reaaaallly good. And so we keep encoding history and the swift passage of time with our little cameras, whether internally or externally; and at the very least all these nano seconds of experience form memories and create abstract guideposts as we travel through our allotted spaces. The yesterdays comprise an ever fleeting present, and they live on in stories and images remembered from an eternal past.

Let Them Eat Cake

The problem with time is that I can't seem to capture enough of it on my phone to keep up with a continually slipping present. By the time I've downloaded the moment, it's gone. Be present they tell you, so seemingly wisely. How? How?!?

Keeping abreast of the Ever Changing in our post Star Trekkian "warp speed" world is like trying to capture the nano second luminescence of a firefly in June,  or maybe recalling all your passwords simultaneously, which also brings me to the subject of travel; endless words and codes by which to pass through time zones,  the particular joy of airports and their fluorescent-y beaming lights at all hours.  It's astounding that people do this not because they have to, but for fun.

So there I was, traveling 'cause I had to, and desperately trying to get my bearings. If it weren't for the coincidence of the Brat Kavanaugh debacle splashing across the media the day of my arrival and filling the giant hotel screen 24/7 from there on, I'd have been sitting in the room each morning staring blankly out the window, wondering where in the myriad compartments and ziplocs of an over packed roll-ee my stuff was hiding; anticipating another bout of weak shower pressure, crazy, hard water hair, and planning a hectic and jet lagged day.

But thanks to the ineffable Brat K, I was able to take my mind off all that. His dark story of Animal House romps, relentless, unwarranted persecution, tearful, angry denials, a sworn history of intense moments of deep prayer, unbelievably honest hard work, obsessive calendar notating and a moral compass so accurate it practically made me ashamed to be alive on the same planet with the guy provided constant distractions to busy the mind. This spectacle seemed designed to hypnotize  my American, bible thumping, TV watching, provincial, travel loathing soul, and so it did. Just about every network blared the "job interview" for the Court of Supremity, non stop.

Yet  the Brat refused to confess, and hell and damnation were palpable in the pixels. The extravaganza alternately was portrayed as either akin to the Salem witch trials or a cautionary tale of extreme ferocious-frat boy-fumbling-fishiness and then some.  Any way you cut it, Justice Boy Wonder was looking like an unrepentant sinner who just might not be believed, much less saved. . . .

 All in all it was a particularly resonant moment with the Thanksgiving holiday right around the corner and pictures of sugar plums and puritans bouncing dreamily at the edge of the crisp, autumn air soon to be blowing through our streets; sex, beer and rock & roll. . . . All that was missing were the orange and reddish leaves, cut outs of folks dressed like Miles Standish, images of reprobates in stocks, and decorative, farm stand corn husks, mainly because it was still a bit early in the season.

If only I liked beer, I thought. Apparently some really important people liked beer, not just ordinary slobs. If I liked beer I could imbibe one and be convivial! Take my mind off the red eye that loomed quietly but menacingly at the end of the week. Get high in an acceptable, collegial manner. Feel really down home. And all in innocent, collegial fun. Whatever happened, happened. I'd be in a good company. Is it not obvious by now that a lot of educationally privileged ivy league-ers may spend a good portion of their halcyon years in the halls of learning passed out, blacked out, and stone cold, knackered, drunk?  

But unfortunately I don't care for that particular brew, never have, mainly because I am probably allergic to it-  it always makes me a little sick. I think it's the hops or something, or maybe the grain, of truth.

I eat cake instead.

 I like cake.

Oops, time to go.

Engineered Onions, Tires That Go Pop! Part One

“It smells good here, but it’s a little bit weird.”

The odor was vaguely pine, or at least something pleasantly evocative of the great outdoors-  a hint of Pure Nature to mitigate the extreme grunge of the parking lot in which we were sitting. It was a place where every few minutes a panel truck would pull up scratchily with an intensity that made the gravel pop really, really loudly. A workman would jump out of the driver's seat, head purposefully inside the store, dash back out minutes later and be gone. A piss stop no doubt.

After a long and much too eventful road trip, we were sampling the offerings of a supposed Dunkin’ Donuts, chilling at a ravaged picnic table in a small parking lot on an empty road in the middle of Massachusetts. It's the part of the state where no sandy beaches lie nor visible mountains tower, but there are trees, and lots of ‘em.

If you’ve perused this blog before you also probably know about my newfound romance with Dunkin’ Donuts. So I imply sort of regarding  the authenticity of this self styled member of the famed coffee concession because if it weren’t for the familiar orange logo we could have sworn it was just a crappy convenience store in the middle of nowhere with a tiny counter at the back. The decaf we sipped was tepid, watery and tasteless, the beloved Old Fashioneds rock hard, but we were glad to be alive. More about that in a moment.

The store’s bathroom- a major reason for stopping- was decidedly low tech, with no sensor on the hand drying contraption but just another “old fashioned” kind of setup- a pull down, brown paper towel dispenser. Inexplicably I found these brittle little pieces of paper comforting. Right outside on the wall beside the bathroom door a bulletin board with the catchy title “Contractor’s Corner” displayed a mulch of business cards pinned up at every crazy angle. This too calmed me- it seemed so “solid.”

Yes, it all could have ended very differently we reminded ourselves, as the barely eaten chunks of donuts slipped off the napkins onto the table, had we not just randomly happened upon the tire place about an hour’s ride back.

Prior to finding ourselves in the small graveled parking lot of this semi-rural convenience store, we had started out that bright August morning, weary but not yet totally defeated, on an escape from the vampirish horrors of real estate- an enterprise that had been crushing our souls for most of July.

Wading into the morass of selling was the ultimate fair seeming evil, and right in character it appeared to become tantalizingly fruitful quite early in the game; but there was a catch. The buyer who pounced as soon as the listing went online wanted us out in more or less a minute or so. I can’t get out of bed that fast, much less pack up a house on fast forward and we still had no place to go. Three weeks into the process of trying to continue to negotiate and keep showing we were pretty much disgusted with the whole thing; it was taxing our attention spans and making us exceptionally testy. So we folded up shop and left town.

In our growing desire to cleanse the minds of the silly putty called real estate, we had sprung for four new tires to help speed us along the interstate. The prospect of a small, recuperative vacation to meet up with family lay serenely before us. The new tires gave a false sense of security, the rubber-hits-the-road smugness that comes with rubbery smelling, spanking newness under your chassis.  The eternal possibility of inedible, faux donuts and thin, make belief decaf lying in wait somewhere up the road notwithstanding, it still seemed like the perfect time to head for the hills.

That is, until we found out about the unbelievably screwed up tire situation and the near, total, road disaster. . . .

(Part Two Next Week)

Blog Alert!

Hi Everyone!

I've been writing this goddamn blog regularly every week or two for over half a decade, soaring on flights of fancy from the ridiculous to the sublime, or the reverse, a concept supposedly coined by Tom Paine in "The Age of Reason" in the year 1794. 

They didn't have computers back then in the eighteenth century, and I read this "fact"- the Tom Paine attribution- on the internet of course, which means I have no idea if it is indeed accurate, like so many other factoids, beliefs, events, thoughts, dreams, ads, lies, manipulations, errors and other unsubstantiated, flatly stated stuff with which we are bombarded now daily.

But I digress.

Actually, I don't digress.

The purpose of the blog has been to state momentary truths, whether opinion or fiction, and to do it in a thoughtful, entertaining, unique, compelling manner that would make my readers laugh, tear up, grunt, snicker, chuckle, cringe, agree, recognize, think, get their hackles up, be soothed, possibly identify and enjoy.

And I've been enjoying doing that just about every minute!

Even if everyone of you but a precious few does not write back me to with your own thoughts to let me know you are out there, I persevere.

It's okay. Really. I love what I'm doing.

The problem is that I am exceedingly busy this summer and thus am taking a brief hiatus. No doubt I will be back in the fall with all sorts of wry ruminations on present and past adventures.

In the meanwhile, feel free to scroll back a few years and reread some of the stories, poems, essays and posts. 

For now though stay cool and check me out again in September. . . .