28 May 2018: At the old folks’ home next door, a line of potted flowers decorates the windows, and, sometimes, drawing back the blinds, an old cowboy, Stetson-hatted and smiling, gazes out and waves. I walk the periphery of his world, imagining the long crawling past he could call up from eighty years of recollection. Always, … Continue reading Walking by the Senior Center, Somewhere Between Spring and Summer →

21 May 2018: I wonder if you’re still around, like your book says. It’s been six years since it was published—three since I read it. The latest resources tell me you’re not around this valley anymore. They say maybe Illinois, some Franciscan University I’ll never see. But when were you here? Or were you? And … Continue reading Letter to Amy Leach from Bozeman →

14 May 2018: I wonder what the kids on the school bus think of me as they pass, as they crawl across Willson Avenue (yes, that's how it's spelled) east towards the sun, as another day begins. I wonder if they wonder about their future, staring at this simple man, his hair too long, late … Continue reading I Wonder What the Kids on the School Bus Think of Me as They Pass →

7 May 2018: Six years ago, I lived alone in a garage apartment in Oklahoma City. A one-bedroom, a few hundred square feet, my apartment hid behind the big, green-shuttered house of my landlords—blocks away from Oklahoma City University. I walked a lot, read too much Edward Abbey, sat on the back patio with spiked … Continue reading Along the Way →

30 April 2018: This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else. Now, ain’t that the truth, Annie, and, at the same time, hard to swallow? Of course, my inner world of Bob Dylan … Continue reading Sun and Swirl and Siamese Cats: Moving Through Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life →

23 April 2018: And if the oleander spins / you still another way—take a turn and follow it.            —Aimee Nezhukumatathil Today at last feels like a spring morning in Montana—forty-five degrees, all sun and blue and light, full of robins. It makes me think of another place and time, makes … Continue reading Spring Is Here (and so Is Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s New Book) →

16 April 2018: Almost a year ago, when Jess and I moved apartments, I found a couple bookcases someone was giving away online. I spent a whole afternoon filling them. I placed Leopold next to Muir, Jung next to Aesop, Hemingway next to Dickens. I enjoyed the order, the organizing. One shelf for Kerouac, one … Continue reading My Library →

9 April 2018: All I know about the Cascades was learned on one unnerving drive in the May of 2013, crossing the mountain range at Snoqualmie Pass as the morning turned white. Fat snowflakes crashed on and off my windshield. Unlucky cars flashed their lights, resting in ditches. I heard the radio’s warnings, saw the … Continue reading Crossing the Cascade Range May Be a Little Like Writing a Poem →

2 April 2018: He would become a writer concerned above all with the poetry of what he remembered and perceived. —Joyce Johnson Last year I read a Kerouac bio by Joyce Johnson called The Voice is All: The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouac. I remember not wanting the book to end. Not wanting to be … Continue reading Kerouac: A Thought or Two →

26 March 2018: I spend my days unraveling the knot of the places I’ve been, stories I’ve read, and people I’ve met. Or, maybe, I spend my days making that knot. Either way, the knot. I can look out my window this afternoon in Bozeman and imagine what Ed Abbey saw from his fire lookout … Continue reading The Knot →