Art in 4 Dimensions

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I fell in love with dance while I was an undergraduate at the University of Oregon. As I knocked out a degree in English – after changing my major several times – I became an adult new dancer, sampling modern, jazz, and ballet in Oregon’s dance program. I also joined an audience of dance aficionados and have loved the art form ever since. Though when my library career pulled me into the fray, my focus went to other things.

Now that I’m living on the other end of my career, I’m finding myself taking in more dance concerts. Last Friday, for example, I was captivated by Sacramento Ballet’s wonderful production of Swan Lake. As I sat amid a sizable audience, I felt the twenty-something version of me perking up. That old passion is still there. I no longer study dance, though I’m currently waitlisted to join a second wind dance class taught by Pamela Trokanski. I could use some weight-bearing exercise to ward off the onset of osteoporosis, which can be caused by the cancer drug I continue to take. 

Speaking of Pamela Trokanski, she’s directing a show this weekend, the Davis Dance Project: Art in 4 Dimensions. Like everything else, this annual event went dark during the pandemic. Trokanski has gathered her dance company, along with local musicians, visual artists, and poets (I happen to be one), to create pieces that are an amalgam of all these art forms. Trokanski kicks off the performance with a useful review of the choreographer’s palette in her lecture demonstration. Nice pieces follow, showcasing the work of Parto Aram, Analisa Bevan, Robin Lee Carlson, Joan Jarvis, Binuta Sudhakaran, Hank Lawson, Meri Superak, Ann Dragich, Erin Dunning, Taylor Herrera, Tase’, Pamela Trokanski, Allegra Silberstein, Kari Wergeland, Skye Falyn, Jack Collins, Sterling Anderson, and Lamondo Hill. You’ll have to attend to see how all of these voices fit together! 

Saturday, February 25 @ 7:00 pm
Sunday, February 26 @ 2:00 pm 

Louise H. Kellogg Memorial Theater 
Pamela Trokanski Dance Workshop
2720 Del Rio Pl
Davis, California 

The State of My Voice

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This year I managed to post one blog piece, kicking off 2022. The rest of the year slid past me, though that doesn’t mean I wasn’t using my voice. I was busy with agent queries, a bit of poetry writing, and revisions on my set of linked short stories. Yet none of these endeavors insisted on a blog post. I’m remembering how I started this blog in 2012 to explore the idea of voice and vocal problems. In an attempt to round out not only the past year, but also the last decade, I will offer an update on the state of my voice.

I hit a milestone when Finishing Line Press accepted my novella, Off the Wall, last September. While I’ve had a few short stories published, Off the Wall will be my first full-length paperback (if you discount my self-published collection of poetry). The novella stars Sadie Taube, the daughter of a deceased heroin addict. She’s living on Bainbridge Island, Washington, with her aunt and uncle in their big ass house. While they treat her all right, she’s not exactly their daughter. She’s been working in a diner and saving every penny. The restaurant is warm and friendly, decorated with the dollar bills customers have left behind. When Sadie turns 18, her boss Bev asks her to stay after work so they can celebrate. Bev doesn’t know she has a plan brewing, one focused on the Coast Starlight. Sadie is gonna get on that train and head to California. Yet during this last hurrah she finds reason to track down a little extra money (when Bev isn’t looking). Off the Wall is due out next fall.

What I like about poetry writing is the way commercial aspects do not play into the publishing process all that much. I can tinker with work and get it out there. But I can’t expect a lot of recompense. So I don’t. Writing poetry allows me to experience the joy of writing without feeling pressures focused on agents and editors, or the tough publishing market. Feeling that joy has its own reward. Once a poem is out in the world, it claims its own destiny. It can live or die, as necessary. 

And yes, I’m still singing. During the first year of the pandemic, I connected with a voice teacher on the Oregon Coast who was willing to work with me either on her porch (as she guided and accompanied me through the window), as well as via FaceTime (during times when I was working as a librarian in California). My teacher uses the Joseph Klein technique, which initially felt like a dubious challenge as it differed from anything I’d done before. Yet this approach has helped me fix a number of problems. For example, evening my upper register with my lower register has been a major snafu for me since day one. We are now in our third year together, and I continue to be amazed at my teacher’s ability to push me to the next step. This fall she assigned “O cessate di piagarmi” by Alessandro Scarlatti, as well as “Nel cor più non mi sento” by Giovanni Paisiello. As I live in Davis, California, when school is in session, I’ve been trying to do my best with these pieces through FaceTime. I’m looking forward to my next in-person session with her so that she can truly assess my progress.

Finally, I haven’t stopped exercising my library voice, and I’m not talking about shushing people when I’m sitting on the reference desk. Community college librarians have been charged with the task of helping people work through the maze of misinformation, disinformation, and fake news. It takes work to develop the sort of critical thinking necessary to pinpoint quality sources. I stand ready to cheer on any student willing to deepen their information literacy skills. As an FYI, I will be teaching Library Research and Information Literacy online through Sacramento City College this spring (March 20 to May 12).

Happy New Year!

The Masked Musical – Risk-taking Does a Number with Staying Safe

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Max (Eddie Voyce) meets with his financial backers in Mel Brooks’ The Producers

I was looking for a way to do something tangible in the community so I could begin to regain a sense of normalcy—something in person with other people around. When my friend Annie began pushing me to audition for a Davis Musical Theatre Company production last summer, I thought maybe this would do the trick. I could toss Zoom by the wayside for a bit. I had some selection. Under normal conditions, DMTC produces 11 musicals a year. 

As Annie poured over her phone, I drove us down highway 101 alongside the Oregon Coast. She ticked off my choices: The Titanic, The Producers, Urinetown, and Evita. She noted they were performing in masks. Indeed, masks were required for anyone in the theater. They had a vaccination requirement. She would audition if she lived in Davis. Annie pointed this out as I silently pondered her lengthy resume of musical theater productions next to the one show my theoretical resume would list: Amahl and the Night Visitors.

Yet I had been taking advantage of the COVID fiasco to strengthen my vocal technique. I started working with a new voice teacher over a year ago. Chris and I continue to chip away at myriad issues. As Annie and I shot past rolling waves, I wondered if I should give DMTC a whirl, but I fretted it might be too soon to perform publicly, given the trauma of COVID. Besides, I’d been enjoying lessons focused on pure technique in lieu of preparation for a concert. The pressure was off. I could work at getting better and develop some muscle memory. 

To make a longish story shorter, I decided to audition for The Producers. I was pleased to be cast as an ensemble member. We began rehearsals in November, before Omicron was announced. I quickly discovered my ensemble role in the show was a whole lot to organize. I was assigned nine costumes. I was asked to learn six dance numbers. I had three tiny acting parts—those were easy. We were expected to change our own sets. Of course, there was plenty of music to learn. I thought the masks would be a pain, and they sort of were. Though once I was forced to dive in, I rarely thought about my mask. 

I watched my fear rise and fall as we moved closer to our first performance. So many things could go wrong on that stage. While I did not show up without dance training, it was training that had occurred during the 80s and early 90s. I was out of shape and not completely limber. I was quite a bit heavier. The year before, I’d thrown out my knee during a long hike. I worried the problem would crop up as I rehearsed. Stress arose over tracking down a pair of character shoes with heels that wouldn’t aggravate my plantar fasciitis. I found myself trying to keep up with younger dancers—some of whom were much younger. And this didn’t begin to cover my fears over hitting a wrong note or singing off pitch—or forgetting the words. As for COVID, I trekked over to Healthy Davis Together once a week to test for COVID.

But then I thought, what else is new? The last two years had been feeling like this. So many things could go wrong. We’ve all been mucking about on this earth weighed down by a pandemic, not to mention a whole host of other problems. We do our best to deal with what comes our way. Maybe that’s how things always are. Yet pandemic life feels heightened somehow, like being on stage. 

Well, those theatrical curtains have been drawn and we now have three performances under our belts. For me, the first weekend was a quality-of-life experience. Period. On opening night, we stepped into a different dimension, and we put on a show. The audience members who braved COVID to attend responded with genuine enthusiasm. The exchange was complete. Who knows if we’ll get to finish the nine remaining performances? We don’t know.

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Kari Wergeland

One Bar at a Time

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My new voice teacher has been insisting I work on sight-reading, a skill I never learned as a young person. While I have rudimentary ability in this area, I generally feel handicapped when I’m called to prepare for performance. I’ve survived a number of choir concerts, but it would be nice to read with more confidence. I appreciate my teacher’s willingness to be patient with this retiree (OK, semi-retired) as she works me through one sight-reading exercise after the next.

This week she suggested I break the song into little pieces. When I master one bar at a time, the sight-reading process becomes less daunting. I’m not sure I’ll ever be “literate,” but working on this in a methodical way is making it easier for me to interact with the literature. This’s what my voice teacher calls individual songs.

I’m facing another hurdle, a “now or never” conundrum. I’ve got three novel manuscripts I believe are ready for publication: a middle grade mystery, a young adult novel, and a novel for adults (whether the third one is commercial fiction or literary fiction, I’m not sure). I’ve tried various approaches to get my work onto an editor’s desk. I’ve mailed manuscripts. I’ve emailed them. I’ve attended conferences and pitched to agents and editors in person. I haven’t come up completely empty. I’ve received a few nice notes from editors of major publishers on earlier drafts of the first two manuscripts, now significantly revised (the third has not yet been pitched). As an aside, I’ve been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies. My poetry chapbook was an Eric Hoffer Book Award category finalist. Yet success in novel writing has remained elusive. I’ve stopped believing I’ll ever find the person who sees reason to get behind my long prose voice.

As I face this impossible task, yet again, I’m considering my voice teacher’s recent advice, “Work on one bar at a time.” Set little goals and complete them—one after the next. My first goal is to polish my supporting documents—query letters and synopses. My second goal is to make a verbal pitch to two literary agents via Zoom at the Willamette Writers Conference. Once I check these boxes, I’ll put together a list of agents and shoot out a pile of queries via email. If I can keep up staccato pressure approach, maybe…

Chemo Vow

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When I was facing my first chemo treatment at the beginning of April 2016, I intentionally wore a T-shirt celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Seattle World’s Fair. My friend Pam Kersey was with me that day, and as the infusion began, she offered to take my photo to mark the moment. I had no idea the picture would later be used to create the cover of my chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts (Finishing Line Press). This proved to be a nice surprise. Yet the reason I wore the T-shirt was to reiterate a vow I’d made days before: when I was all done with breast cancer treatment, I’d finish the novel I’d begun in 2002. It was a project I’d been viewing as an albatross. I was determined to tie up the loose strands of Kaleidoscopes, Viewmasters, and The Game of Life. 

The story is focused on a 40-year-old, Rubieann Blankley, who begins to dissect the cultural divide in America. It opens with her ruminations sparked by the film It Happened at the World’s Fair, which she is viewing in the Seven Gables Theatre in Seattle. Yes, Rubieann Blankley was born on the day the fair opened.

Fast forward to August 2017. I rolled up to my Oregon Coast cabin after retiring early from Cuyamaca College. I planned to regroup while looking for adjunct librarian work in Northern California. First on my agenda was to drag out this 2002 manuscript, which had been languishing since 2008. This is not to say I hadn’t done any work on it. The draft I stored in 2008 ran some 350 pages. I’d meant to get back to it sooner, but I became sidetracked by poetry writing and other fiction projects. Meanwhile, the 2002 manuscript leered at me.

Six boxes of research materials awaited in my cabin, along with the manuscript. Or so I thought. As I sorted through each box, I was horrified to discover the manuscript was missing. Thus began an odyssey focused on my hunt for the manuscript (detailed in an essay I hope to place if the manuscript is ever sold). I did not solve the mystery of the missing manuscript until two years later when I was unpacking boxes in my new Davis, California, studio. I’d secured adjunct work with Los Rios Community College District and was beginning my second semester.

By the time my new district went into pandemic lockdown in March of 2020, I had a working draft of Kaleidoscopes, Viewmasters, and The Game of Life. I decided to call this project my COVID novel. I was facing months of solitude, and I needed something to do. Yet I’d changed considerably since 2008. I couldn’t completely recover my earlier vision. I spent time analyzing what I’d written during the early 2000s, adding notes and new passages. I completed a new draft by the end of June 2020. My story expanded to 480 pages.

Feedback was called for. Three people read and critiqued the book. While they delivered many good comments, I was disheartened to realize I’d need to revamp a crucial aspect of my original structure. To explain, I used two point of view schemes, which I applied to alternating strands of narrative. One was told with the use of an omniscient narrator who copped a tongue-in-cheek attitude. The other was constructed with a close third person POV. However, two of my three readers demanded I kill my mocking narrator. This suggestion was hard to accept. Not only was I attached to the said narrator. It meant I’d have to rewrite one third of the manuscript.

I’m proud to say I completed the manuscript on Thursday, May 6, 2021, nearly 19 years after I first started it. Needless to say, I am at a loss. Five years ago, I was receiving chemo treatments, most unhappily. I now have a manuscript built from aspects of the person I was in my early 40s and the person I have been during my late 50s. I know there is much to get through if I want to get the manuscript onto the desk of a simpatico editor. Still, I feel free.

Writing on the California Zephyr

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The Pfizer vaccine clinched it for me. I’d been stir crazy in my 470-square-foot studio, so I used my Amtrak points to book a roundtrip ticket on the California Zephyr from Davis, CA, to Chicago for spring break. I got this idea after I noticed how Amtrak was advertising these little rooms as a great way to travel during the pandemic. They’ll bring you your food. Masks are enforced in the public areas. They’ve worked on their air filtration system. I spotted an ad with a person sitting with a laptop in a roomette, and the writer in me said, Yes! I’d been wrangling with a 450-page novel manuscript throughout the year of COVID and was ready to move into some concentrated work on the project. As the trip drew closer, I began to waffle—worrying I’d be making a huge mistake. Then California opened their vaccine list to educators, and I inadvertently received my doses in time for the trip. 

I boarded the train feeling nervous, though I quickly settled into the routine. I could lock my door, shut the curtain, and remove my mask. I enjoyed a few hours of scenery. Then I pulled out my laptop. The pressure cooker that is a roomette on a long Amtrak journey proved to be no joke for me. I wrote for hours during my seven day trip (two nights on the rails, two nights in Chicago, and two nights on the rails). My level of focus ratcheted up—I felt like I was in a bubble. Needless to say, the novel is not completely finished, but it is close. For me, this is no small feat as I’ve been grappling with this manuscript since 2002. I plan to give it a final polish over the summer before moving on to the pitching process.

Our COVID laden world did present some challenges. No surprise there. When I arrived at Union Station in downtown Chicago on a Saturday afternoon, I noticed most businesses were closed. The .2 mile walk to my hotel felt safe enough, though eerie. There weren’t many folks out and about, not even homeless ones. I took this as a sign I should continue working on my manuscript in my hotel room. I did have a ticket to The Art Institute of Chicago for Sunday. This allowed me to check off one item on my bucket list. I managed to track down a Chicago style pizza at Giordano’s (another checkmark). I’d wanted to see Lake Michigan but decided I shouldn’t roam too far.

Thus the trip proved to be a solo experience, one that put me in a meditative state of mind. Did I mention the California Zephyr rolls along a most scenic route? Deserts, snow-capped mountains, forests, rivers, and streams. I didn’t experience much boredom until day 6, after I’d written for about six hours. I imbibed in a glass of wine. Then a moment of crankiness overtook me. I was stiff and sick of sitting. I looked out the window to note the sun going down on a Utah desert. This most spectacular sunset—ending with a red sky above, the black silhouettes of quirky land formations below—pulled me back into the journey.

One takeaway from the adventure was the realization I was doing my own testing of the efficacy of the Pfizer vaccine. It felt good to begin facing the world, though I did not act normally. I wore my mask in public. I frequently used hand sanitizer and wipes. I didn’t talk to many people. I felt sadness over that last point, because during prior Amtrak trips, I’d nattered with all sorts of folks. Still, I found myself loosening my COVID prevention tactics. For example, I shared a bathroom with other passengers in the sleeper car, which made me feel uptight the first day or two. At some point, I stopped thinking about it. And on the trip out, I received all of my meals in my roomette. On the trip back, I decided to take a few of these meals in the dining car. As an FYI, the dining car practices social distancing by making use of only half their seating. And they don’t seat more than one party together as they do under normal circumstances. Needless to say, on the final day of the trip, I decided I’d left some COVID fears behind. I will do what I’m asked to do in terms of social distancing as America works through this, but I feel ready to move forward.

My COVID-19 Novel

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My COVID novel—probably chick lit (and not about COVID-19)—is a project I’ve been wrestling with since 2002. 2002 is misleading from an “amount of time spent writing” standpoint. I’ve probably put 5 to 7 part-time years into the draft I’m working on right now. The rest of the time, the project languished in storage, lost (but that’s another story). 

During the fall of 2019, I tracked down the manuscript and began organizing a new draft. I was happily writing away last March when my community college district released me to do reference librarian work from home. This afforded me more time to write as I no longer needed to commute. I could no longer encounter distractions out in the world.

So when we first went into the stay-at-home debacle, I thought, “Great! Maybe now I’ll finish this thing.” I kept chipping away during the traumatic months of 2020. Over the summer, I received honest critique from three generous readers, though not without experiencing a good dose of inner drama over what was said. I worked through all of their notes, deciding which ones I should pay attention to, which ones I should chuck. My latest draft has a whole new structure, one I’m beginning to like. Needless to say, the manuscript has prevented me from being bored. 

Just this month my storytelling inched its way to the apex of an important hump. In other words, it feels like I’ve finally gotten the story. What is left is myriad details, not to mention polishing and pulling a number of strands into a coherent whole. (I think I can. I think I can.) I’ve been passive-aggressive toward this project from day one—I’m still not sure I can nail it. Yet new optimism began to poke me last weekend when an important section fell into place.

This is not to say there isn’t plenty left to do. I suspect I won’t have a strong draft till fall. Still, a couple of weeks ago, I dreaded every writing session. I would force myself to sit down and write for two hours at a time. Period. While I can sometimes go into the zone and write for hours, I have to impose this sort of structure on the process when I feel such resistance rearing its ugly head. Lo and behold, new chapters began to emerge until I moved through what had been scaring me. This is not to say I’m not scared. 

These days I can’t wait to get my hands on the manuscript. I feel the urge to tinker—and tinker some more. I’m certain I’ll enjoy moving this story into its final draft. I will cheer out loud when my pile of chapters morphs into such an entity. This project has become the albatross that almost went into the bin. Now I expect to print out a clean copy by the end of 2021. I expect to get on with the business of selling the darn thing.

Health in the New Year

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With the rain coming down on my Oregon Coast cabin on New Year’s Day, I’ve been excused from the daily walk I’ve been trying to get in since we first went into lockdown last March. I do walk most days. I’ve been taking yoga again after an absence of over twenty years. Though I’ve tried to jumpstart my defunct practice more than once, I couldn’t get a regular rhythm going until 2020 began rocking and bucking last spring. I’ve been meditating most days. I joined a Zen center last February and was enjoying regular sessions in an in-person zendo when the lockdown forced us to close. The regular schedule was moved online. While Zoom Zen is not the same as sitting in a zendo, the regular contact with other Zen students in cyberspace has anchored my life in a significant way. To sum it all up: the world has been irrevocably altered due to the global pandemic. Yet this health crisis has strengthened my health habits. 

Full disclosure: I’m probably drinking a little more alcohol than I normally do, though I try to keep the reins on that. I enjoy takeout coffee on some walks. Actually, takeout meals have become something to live for. I save this pleasure for my last online work shift of the week. Takeout. Wine. Netflix. I’ve engaged in other potentially detrimental behavior. Though I’ve been religious about wearing a mask in public, I’ve spent time in a campsite with a friend who lives in another household—we both finally dropped our masks and camped together normally after a few masked hours (though we did put on our masks whenever we were around others). Indeed, I’ve embarked on a number of road trips, particularly to this Oregon Coast cabin. AirBnb hosts at stops along the way have super been friendly. I’ve imbibed in one backpacking trip in Mount Lassen National Park. I’m pretty sure a couple of bears roamed around my tent at night. While I survived their explorations, the park closed that very area to backpackers a few weeks later (due to aggressive bears).

I’ve got another risky activity on my schedule. I didn’t want to lose the Amtrak miles that had been piling up from too much credit card use, so I’ve booked a sleeper for a three-day journey to Chicago in late March. Amtrak claims their air filtration system has been beefed up. They’re cleaning everything—that’s what they say. And they do encourage sleeper guests to take advantage of room service in lieu of sitting in the dining car with other passengers. I figure I’ll be alone most of the time in my own little room, so this couldn’t be too hazardous. I’ll bring wipes and hand sanitizer. And I can always cancel if the COVID numbers remain daunting. Yet I hope I feel safe enough to hop on board. I’m feeling the need to stare out the window and watch my country move past me. I want to meditate on America’s landscape, horizons I’ve never seen, and let the muse whisper in my ear. 

I want this to be a better year.   

Beginning Backpacking Post Breast Cancer

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Backpacking Gear in the Car

When one is facing an unexpected health crisis, the mind’s descent into some worst case scenario is but a few steps. During breast cancer treatment, I envisioned a number of sobering possibilities for my future, one of which was focused on backpacking. 

To back up a bit, preparations for my last backpacking trip b4 breast cancer inspired me to write an ode to ultralight gear (Bringing Down the Weight). During the spring of 2015, I probably dropped over $1000 as I collected the sort of equipment that would allow an older woman to backpack in, well… more comfort. That summer I spent a fabulous week on the John Muir Trail backpacking with friends. It wasn’t long before I had another trip in the works, this one focused on the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne. Unbeknown to me, however, a tumor was growing in my left breast. 

Breast cancer treatment threw my life into a tailspin. During those moments when my body felt the weakest, I wondered if I’d ever use any of that expensive gear again. This thought really got to me. It niggled at me. It made me wonder, “Why me?” “What a waste!”

Ringing the "I'm done!" bell in the radiation oncology unit at UCSD Medical.

Fortunately, most of my strength returned after I rang that final bell in the radiation oncology unit. Over time, I began working out again, hiking even. I got in a couple of car camping trips. Then last summer I committed to backpacking for the first time since treatment, a three-night trek along the Lost Coast in California. Yet when the trip fell through because we were all too busy, I actually felt relieved. I also felt guilty over not unpacking that wonderful equipment. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure where all this gear was. I hadn’t touched it in four years.

Entrance to Mission Creek Preserve

Not long after I bailed on the Lost Coast trip, my friend, Pam Kersey, badgered me into taking a class she co-teaches with Robin Balch through the Desert Institute at Joshua Tree National Park: Beginning Backpacking for Women in Mission Creek Preserve. Though I’m not really a beginner, I said yes, thinking I could have some quality time with Pam and some other interesting women. I did spend quality time with these said women, but I also discovered a few things.

First of all, enrollment in this class forced me to track down all the essentials. I found myself hauling my backpack to REI, so they could remind me how it all fit together. I fingered my Big Agnes tent, wondering if I would remember how to set it up. Did my Jetboil stove still work? Did I need a bear canister? (Bear warnings came with the informational literature supplied by the Desert Institute.) Finally, though I had my SteriPen handy, we weren’t guaranteed a water supply out there. When it came time to hit the trail, I saddled up with more than four liters of water in my backpack, pondering one final question: how would I do carrying 41 pounds?

The trip proved to be gentle in some respects. The actual backpacking portion was only an overnight, though we did camp the night before. This gave us a chance to go over our gear, try things out, and discuss what should actually go with us–what should be left behind. Once we started walking, packs and all, we had a tentative goal of covering five miles. Tentative was the word. Robin insisted from the get-go, we would do what made sense for the group. 

The day proved to be pretty warm, yet I felt capable. As I hiked, emotions spiked more than once. I wasn’t wasting my gear any longer. Maybe backpacking would become a regular activity for me. I mulled over that earlier Lost Coast possibility. “Maybe next summer.”

Scenery in the desert

Sometime later, a few people began overheating, so we decided to stop at three miles and set up camp. When our cheerful tents finally dotted the dry landscape alongside an arroyo bed – ten of them – we moved into some additional hiking sans backpack through some striking territory.

I’m proud to say I probably could have completed the original five miles with my pack. Still, I felt pretty rusty with the nitty-gritty things. For example, I had to bond with my Jetboil all over again–I’d forgotten the easiest way to light it. My expensive ultralight pillow developed a fatal leak. I worried about making some terrible error having to do with a snake or a bear. In the thick of things, it occurred to me the beginner’s label was “just right.” 

Feeling strong

That said, I was thrilled when Pam came up to me toward the end of the trip to say, “It’s great to see you looking so strong.” I forgot to mention, Pam is a former oncology nurse. She saw me through my darkest hours on my breast cancer slog, so she had a benchmark. Now I can proudly note I’m a beginning backpacker. This isn’t to say I’m not planning something that will take a few more nights, a few more miles.

Poem in Broad Street

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My poem, “Animation,” was recently published in Broad Street.