This Broken Bell by Pablo Neruda Translated by Paul Thomas Zenki This broken bell wants to sing nonetheless: the metal is green now, the bell is the color of jungle, color of pools of water in the woods, color of the day in the leaves.
The Great Ocean by Pablo Neruda Translated by Paul Thomas Zenki If your gifts and your destructions, Ocean, could bequeath to my hands one portion, one fruit, one ferment, I would choose your distant repose, your steel lines, your expanse sentried by the air and the night, and the energy of your white language that […]
The cicadas are four years early. They were supposed to emerge from their underground burrows in 2021, but the seventeen-year cicadas — or some of them anyway — have gotten itchy and decided 2017 is close enough for rock and roll. Entomologists have no idea why this generation has decided to buck the system, but […]
A short film of the final moments of totality during the full solar eclipse of August 2017, in front of a farmhouse near Clarkesville, GA.
Just some photos from a recent trip to Scottsdale, AZ, during the Canal Convergence art festival…
Perhaps you’ve heard of the Dunning-Kruger effect? If not, here it is in a nutshell…. People who only know a little about something tend to overestimate their understanding of it, while experts tend to underestimate their own expertise. That may seem strange at first glance, but when you stop and think, it makes sense. When […]
I like taking vacations alone. In fact, I like places where there’s no internet, no TV, sometimes even no cell phone connections. Few years back, I was spending just such a solo trip on Andros Island in the Bahamas — which is about the size of the state of Delaware and has roughly the population […]
“The whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought.” – Syme, in 1984 by George Orwell Right now, the General Assembly in Atlanta is considering legislation (SB 79 and HB158) to allow casinos in the State of Georgia. In case you’ve never heard of a casino, here is the definition by Merriam-Webster: […]
To love an old chair is to love many people, to adore the sweat of their arms and the comfort of their bowed backs.
A yellow bus rolls the rutted road, slowing down to the opened gate. From its folded door steps a boy with an old Army bag on his shoulder. It is full of books, and his collar hangs askew.