I find myself blessed to have a number of friends and a number of values and not so many friends who share my values. This is just fine most days of the week. I can be as Spain before the inquisition, enjoying a real peace among people who are really different from me. Occasionally something gets to me and I write a post like this.
One point of difference between me and many of my hip friends is the matter of choice. In particular my distaste for the predominant idea that we are, and aught to be free to make our own individual choice to our own individual benefit about every single thing from personal sized ice cream treats to whether or not to care for a dying relative. Read the rest of this entry
The few years I have had the privilege to write this blog have been full of the kind of change that any astrologer worth their salt could expect from a person turning 27, then 28, then 29, then 30, then 31.
It has been a time of tremendous change for me, all kinds of uncomfortable transitions and such. Read the rest of this entry
Making coffee, watching a thin stream of light from the belly button in the yurt reflect off of the stained French press.
Read the rest of this entry
This morning found twins in the partially constructed barn. One was being licked diligently as she nosed the air towards a warm teet, the other was dead in the muck between Read the rest of this entry
We were on Bainbridge Island visiting the extended family of my sweetheart. We got there after dark, let ourselves in and found a frozen lasagna and a Murder She Wrote marathon.
In the morning the sun rose over a panorama of Seattle and far off mountains that seem covered in more snow then I have seen in several years.
I looked around the room we woke up in and Read the rest of this entry
Juan Felipe Herrera is the national poet laureate. In the midst of the violence, isolation and terror that mark so many peoples days and thoughts and plans, Read the rest of this entry
Oblong Magazine has published my story today!
By Ened McNett
She had not worn pants since he had come down ill.
They were weekend clothes. Every Friday night the coolers were packed, the RV was clean, and she was changed out of the skirts she wore for him all week and into her camping slacks.
They went to the same campground every weekend. It was the one he liked best, tucked into the foothills of the Cascades, along a bubbling creek.
They never went to the sea. Not even before the RV, when the children were still young. He didn’t like the sea.
After changing into her pants she slowly folded the skirt she had removed. She tucked it gently into the very back of the bottom of her dresser drawer. She focused on his face. She focused on it like she had for fifty-two years. One week since that face left this world forever and she…
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When every single one just wants a little tiny bit more then what I am offering… Read the rest of this entry
UPDATE! There is a new fantastic librarian! I moved away from my lovely Maine and am headed west to keep on doing things worth writing about and even better things I will never write about. So Claire has taken over and will be the one to contact with your queeries and donations! Her email is: email@example.com
The zine library is up and running in Deer Isle Maine, thanks to the support and generosity of zine makers all over the country. Two months ago a call went out via the internet for zine contributions to stock a mobile library here in rural Maine. Packages began rolling in almost immediately. As a result the library has a beautiful, diverse collection of zines and a little stock to keep the collection rotating.
He is a collector, finder, gatherer, noticer.
Bright red, hard working, a little bit of spittle always in the corner