Tech things which make me smile today? That, when faced with an initial Time Machine Backup, my 1T Passport drive gamely provided an estimate of the time this task would …
on black kitty backsass and bougies galore
The small black cat who lives amongst us has decided that, if birds and bees and packrats and moths are off-limits, then plants are the next best things to kill …
on the sorrow-swept wonders of 88 keys – part 1
Once more I prepare to spend a Sunday morning at the only local bar, working the 88 keys of a piano donated for public use after I have enjoyed a …
on tbt – my children of the Kalahari
Another vernal equinox dawned on us in the northern hemisphere this morning, chilly and quiet, unprepossessing and yet hopeful just the same. We have few of the promises of spring …
on winter and songbirds and the opiates of our choosing
Winter has worn the homestead down. Scouring winds have taken their toll on the remnants of last year’s garden, and plummeting night-time temperatures have finished off what the winds alone …
on the writer being written
And the words at last roll in, drenching the shores of conscious endeavor, mighty rivers o’erspilling their banks and soaking wide valley bottom fields, segmented by time and place and …
on conversing with goats
Actual conversation with Grace (smallest goat on the place): hnw: Oh, Gracie, those are rocks! Please don’t eat those. [Grace crunches the last few rocks gathered from beside a nearly …
on moonlight
The moonlight at this moment—on the cusp of yesterday’s tomorrow—is bright enough to read by, a steely incandescence that seems to be made luminous from within the things on which …
on handwritten letters and the fissures in self-reliance
Last week I received a handwritten letter, four pages long, in a cursive genetically kin to all the women in my line. Despite writing quite a few of these missives …
on the segues between trauma and memoir
Seven years. That’s how long it has taken me to write the eight-sentence segue that opens my Kalahari and Namib tracking memoir. Nestled between two bookends—a hair-raising encounter with a …