These days, I'm either all chill or none at all.
The center is gone, like somebody licked out the middle of the Oreo.
Maybe I'm becoming more of a nihilist; either everything matters, or nothing does.
I'm inclined towards the latter.
On a less bombastic note, I witnessed some beautiful art this week.
First, at Retail Therapy, new work by artist/poet/raconteur Philipp.
I met new people and talked art and old books and drank red wine and admired the pieces, happy/sad that my pal's work is now out of my price range.
Then, on to Dendroica, to meet up with new friend Noel, a mad talented cartoonist and poet. This was a rambunctious gathering of cartoonists who got their start in the '90's, as nerdy, lovable, talented and provocative a group as I've met in awhile.
And I realized belatedly that my pal Indu was also showing on the Hill at Bluecone.
For all the kvetching I do about Seattle losing its soul, maybe I'm wrong, maybe the time for breaking shit and tearing things apart is still upon us.
There's a shadow constantly hovering at my shoulder. For all my gallivanting into the social whirl, nevermind the positive social media...
Ever wondered what it takes to get a piece of fiction published? I'm not talking New Yorker type of prose. That's a rarefied world ...
Check out my new video, a brief reading from a story published this past spring in Opossum.
Welp, after a half-year experiment in social media, BSP has returned to its blogger roots. I hated Faceborkland, tbh. Sure, it was easier t...