Generalist, writer, raconteur electronique, musician, and ursine scootician. I tell stories, make music, teach mosaic, work for a university, and enjoy wooden spoons, French automobiles, and listening to radio drama.
There's something about motels. Maybe it's the condensation of that high lonesome feeling I get when I'm traveling alone, just my thoughts falling to a natural state of rest and rhythm. Sometimes, it's the endless unfolding of farmland around a thin strip
It's fair to point out that it shouldn't have taken so long, and yet, it's still taking so long, clearing out the ruins of my old place, which I've held onto in a numb instinct that I've joked is me
I find it a little funny that a new Thanksgiving tradition seems to have come into being in which news outlets of varying degrees of quality and political bent tackle the red-hot anxiety-producing question of how to avoid those tricky holiday conversations with family. Thing is — I just can’t
The funny thing about all those minimalism blogs/vlogs, books, motivational speeches, promotional franchises, philosophical frameworks, and cultural trends is that they're always seemingly rooted in the same origin story. "I was so caught up in the rat race, until…" The thing that gets me every
I love motels. In my adult life, I've finally graduated to an income bracket that allows me to upgrade my lodging options so I could, if I wanted, hole up in fancier digs, with niceties like a pool, all-you-can-eat breakfast, as many pillows as one feels comfortable requesting,
The new and not yet opened interstate was a broad, empty band of fresh white concrete that reared up from around a gentle bend in the distance and disappeared over the next gentle rolling hill, heading down to where the dam penned in the river. We followed the freshly-painted lane
stories
My life in unreliable narrative was started by a territorial gerbil and a panicked need to explain why I emerged bloodied from the kindergarten bathroom, hoping to hide my shame about surrendering to crass temptation and willfully ignoring the “DO NOT TOUCH THE GERBIL” sign in large and well-articulated handwriting
News
This is Last Night I Dreamed I Was You, a new venture by Joe B. Wall, sharing stories, longer narratives (in serial form), and random pieces that would otherwise just hide out in the notebook. I've always loved the serial format, and a formative moment in my young