Posts Tagged ‘David Tripp artist’

Fly Fishing Retreat

June 25, 2022
Largemouth Bass Prior to Release

Rising at 5:30 was worth the effort as I prepared to journey north for forty-four minutes to join my new fishing buddy and Queen Street Grille’s chef extraordinaire, Joe Massa. We began rigging up our flyrods around 7:00, and had our lines in the water shortly after. Joe was immediately pulling up all manner of bream, many of them frying pan size. The temperature was 79 degrees and we knew we had only a couple of hours before the Texas heat would drive us away. I only managed to land one of the three bass that hit my assortment of woolly buggers and San Juan worms; one of them got loose as I half-heartedly set the hook, the other broke me off despite my giving him a good thirty seconds to tire out. He was a strong one, and I hope one day to get a closer look at him. The excitement of watching him zig-zag through the waters before breaking free still stirs me hours later.

Tomorrow begins a new adventure. I’ve been invited to participate in a mural project in downtown Crockett, Texas, and I’ve been chomping at the bits for the day to arrive. I’ll have more to share as the task unfolds. Most of all, I’m excited to see that part of the Texas countryside that I’ve been away from far too long.

The Gallery at Redlands is quiet at this point of Saturday evening, and that is a good thing for me; I’m still trying to iron out final details for the Crockett project, and the quiet is soothing.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Clawing my Way Back

June 24, 2022
Surprised to find this on Facebook! My gratitude to artist Dale Diane Hedgecough

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or

My sincere gratitude to those who’ve reached out to me in past days/weeks to find out if I am OK. I am. I haven’t been active on social media. There is a simple reason: I’ve been flat. Not depressed or unhappy, just not creative. Instead, I’ve been drifting/slogging through my days. I’ve been absent from The Gallery at Redlands for almost two weeks. This afternoon I returned and found myself so exhausted that I went upstairs in The Hotel Redlands to take a nap; I didn’t want to see or speak to anyone. I’m glad I took that step. As soon as I re-opened the gallery at 5:00, everything and everyone began to happen at the same time, and I’m so delighted that I am awake and grateful for all of it. In short, I’m glad to be back and am ready to face new creative challenges.

For starters: I was stunned to scan Facebook and find the drawing above! The artist, Dale Diane Hedgecough, is a key player in an artists circle in Arkansas that I had the pleasure of meeting years ago during workshop and plein air activity, and I’m fortunate in getting to meet up with some of those artists in Mountain Home, Arkansas later this fall for a plein air adventure.

I’m always touched when I find myself the subject of someone else’s artwork, but even more so when the artist selects me while in my “element.” The setting for the picture above is an old general store in east Texas where I often resided when I needed a weekend getaway from my teaching job. I spent long weekends there during my final year of teaching high school before the owners opened this Gallery at Redlands in 2017. I haven’t stayed there for a couple of years or more, and am pleased that I may get that opportunity in just a few days. Hence, the timing of the pencil drawing stunned me.

Heidi (playing guitar) accompanying her student at piano

The activity in The Redlands Hotel is heating up. Heidi Mays, a music teacher, opened a studio upstairs next door to us. Tonight her students are holding their first recital. The music is filling the hotel lobby and the audience is loving it! I need to get some pictures . . .

What a terrific event! I got to hear a young fellow who plans to take sketching lessons from me in the near future. Since he is here on Thursdays for music lessons, we’ve worked out a schedule where he can take some art lessons on the same day while his siblings are taking their own music lessons.

I’ll keep the gallery open till 9:00 tonight. Then, at 7:00 a.m., I’m going to join up with our chef, Joe Massa, for some fly-fishing in Athens, Texas. Joe is not only an outstanding chef; he is a genuine man with an abundance of interests, including fly fishing. I was excited when he invited me for tomorrow morning’s adventure. I’ll have plenty more to say about that tomorrow. And then . . . I’m going to have to wait to tell you what’s coming down the pike Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday! My adrenalin is already surging. More later . . .

Thanks for reading. It feels good to come back.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Finding Ground after the Travels

June 10, 2022
Awash in Patti Smith and Martin Heidegger ideas

Like Sartre, Heidegger is prepared to see the human situation in terms of ontological homelessness, meaning that on this earth we have no abiding home since we are not embedded in the world as a part of nature.

George Pattison, The Later Heidegger

Finally rested from my ten-day St. Louis odyssey, I’m feeling genuine serenity, seated once again in Studio Eidolons, looking out my windows across Mister Rogers’s Neighborhood while reading, journal scribbling and collaging. While in St. Louis, I purchased a pair of Patti Smith books. I finished her Just Kids during my return drive home, stopping at rest areas and truck stops along the way. I am currently about halfway through her M Train, drawing just as much inspiration and sustenance from it as from the first volume. I’ve also enjoyed reading The Later Heidegger as I find the author writing with great lucidity about this philosopher’s “turn” following his Being and Time magnum opus. After repeated attempts over the decades, I’ve drawn very little from Being in Time, but the writings of the later Heidegger I cannot lay aside. Whether he translates the Presocratics, writes poetry, addresses language, lectures on Nietzsche or discusses the nature of creating art, I find Heidegger most engaging.

Morning Journal Musings

Reading from Homer’s Odyssey during my St. Louis travels has also been profoundly enlightening. I often mused over the Greek texts rhapsodizing about Odysseus sailing over the “broad back” of the open seas, and found myself driving over the broad back of our U. S. highways, gleaning parallels with the wanderer as he sought his way back to Ithaca. With my sentiments passing to and fro from my current home in Arlington, my second home in Palestine and my childhood home west of St. Louis, I have been writing extensively in my journals about where home actually is for me. I’ve not yet been able to draw a satisfactory conclusion; that is why the quote opening this blog arrested my attention over morning coffee today.

During my decade of pastoral ministry, I grew familiar with the New Testament texts addressing the Christian as not having a real home in this “present age.” I’ve also studied the Jewish Bible, gleaning their longings for their homeland. Yet in my preaching I never could really address these themes, because I didn’t really identify with them. It’s only been in recent years, while attempting my own memoirs and writing this book I started twenty years ago that I have come to understand the restless feeling of not having a home, but driven to perpetual wandering.

Journal Collage

I feel blessed finally to reach this stage in my personal life where I actually have a home, a family, and can wander safely, knowing I always have a place to land. I haven’t been in Palestine for several weeks and am glad to have this extended weekend to spend in The Redlands Hotel and The Gallery at Redlands. This morning is quiet and I’m getting plenty of things done that needed tended. And I still have time to read and reflect. My plan is to make art during the evening hours, keeping the gallery open till 9:00.

Thanks for reading. It’s wonderful to be back . . .

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Rite of Passage

June 1, 2022
Where it all began . . .

The ten-year-old boy stood on the ledge of Rocky Ford, the most talked-about fishing/swimming hole of Indian Creek in rural Jackson, Missouri. With his rod & reel, he tossed an earthworm dug up from his grandparents’ farm and watched it settle in front of the opening beneath a huge slab of rock in the bottom of the pool below. Immediately a perch darted out, seized the prey, and the boy pulled up his first fish. In later years, visiting grandparents, he would return repeatedly to this same spot, dreaming of one day standing there with a fly rod. Nearly sixty years later, it happened.

My buddy since second grade, Wayne White traveled with me yesterday to southeast Missouri. Accepting the offer from my cousin, whose farm backs up to Indian Creek, we drove onto his property, rigged up and descended the steep banks to the stream. For four hours, we hiked, waded, and climbed our way upstream from my cousin’s farm, then to my uncle’s, to Rocky Ford, and I was ecstatic to see that it still looked the same.

Rocky Ford, viewed from where I stood above

The creek looked the same, but the population was different. No sign of largemouth bass, perch, bluegill, sunfish or carp suckers. Only gar, and plenty of them. The result of all our efforts amounted to four gar.

The only one in hand

The first one broke me off

OK, now what I am about to relay sounds like a lying fish story, but it isn’t. Wayne witnessed it independently and will testify that it really happened. The photo he took above was my first gar nearly landed. He broke me off. I was using a white Clouser minnow, and he struck on one of my early casts. Bye-bye.

Four hours later, after wading, climbing and clawing our way upstream we reached Rocky Ford. We had nothing to show for our efforts except one landed gar, another that broke off, and two more that threw the hook (it’s extremely difficult to embed a hook in their long hard beaks). We reached the end of my uncle’s property, noting the barbed wire fence stretched across the creek. Fishing the last hole, I was startled by a huge splash on the opposite bank. An enormous, fat gar swam straight to me, then turned in front of me and hesitated in the water, chomping at something white in his beak. At first I thought it was a minnow, but then I saw the strands of white bucktail fluttering in the current. My white Clouser minnow! The fish had worked its way upstream the same distance as we! I kept my mouth shut, knowing Wayne would never believe me. But the fish then turned back downstream and drifted past him, twenty feet away, and Wayne saw it too. So there it is. No BS. And I’ll never forget the moment.

Thanks for reading.

Working on a New Story

May 29, 2022
Watercolor Sketchbook exercise

For days now, stories have been blistering up in my imagination to add to the book I’ve been working on these recent years. I’m thinking about adding a third character to the Hank and Randy saga. Not sure of his name yet, but for now he is Sonny . . .

Sonny was in a rage this morning. Standing at the bandsaw in the maintenance shed of POCO Graphite, his blood pressure continued to surge. It wasn’t spurred by any particular incident of this day or the day before; he had merely reached the end of his rope in this careerless job that was making his graduate education possible. His Bachelor’s degree from Northeast Missouri State University was funded by his parents’ blue-collar support, and he knew that they expected more from him than landing a mere teacher’s position in a public school. So he had made the pledge to pursue a Masters of Fine Art degree in North Texas, which was going to be expensive. To support this effort, he hired in as a maintenance helper at this industrial plant, and was now in the midst of training as a welder.

As a budding artist, Sonny had hoped that acquiring metalworking skills would help him find his niche in the art world, but it wasn’t happening. Instead, every day found him standing at the bandsaw, cutting stainless steel two-by-four channel iron at forty-five-degree cuts, each one requiring forty minutes of standing and staring at the saw in case something happened–the blade binding or snapping, or the piece of stainless steel shifting under the grip of the vises holding it in position on the cutting surface. Boring. As Sonny stood there, he found himself sketching the images of bison with soapstone on the cutting table as he watched the saw grinding away. Every night after supper, he wearily sat at his apartment dining room table and sketched in watercolor herds of bison that he hoped he would one day see if he ever fulfilled his lifelong ambition to visit Wyoming or Utah, or any state preserving bison herds.

Chilling in Missouri

May 26, 2022
Better Times

When are you gonna come down?
When are you going to land?

Elton John, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

With all the Midwest rainfall and falling temperatures I cannot complain about a 60-degree morning, reading outside, and eventually needing to don a long-sleeve denim shirt because the winds are too cold. After a couple of days, I’m glad I can finally feel rested from my long drive and do some creative eros. Responding to Elton John, I believe I am ready to come down, ready to land.

Sketching Bison
Working on some Blues Themes

While on vacation, I am hoping to continue exploring Western themes including bison and longhorns. I am also wanting to sketch and watercolor selected Blues themes.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Re-Working the Manuscript for my Book

May 23, 2022

Good evening from Studio Eidolons in Arlington, Texas. I’m preparing for departure to St. Louis for some long-awaited vacation. During this interim, I have been inspired to return to work on the book I started years ago. I am submitting for my readers a revision of a story I’ve been working on as part of the book. Thanks for reading.

________________________

Two Uncles: Leo and Paul

“Well, as I live and breathe! Uncle Leo’s countenance lit up at the site of a disheveled Hank at his front door. Little Hank! How long’s it been?”

Hank was unsure of his decision to drop in unannounced. The prairie fire scent clinging to his clothes and hair no doubt was incommensurate with the lovely azaleas fronting the magnificent structure of Uncle Leo’s tidy historic dwelling. Now, standing on the Persian rug in Leo’s living room with his stained boots, Hank furtively announced that he was merely “passing through.”

“Nope!” came Leo’s reply. “You look like you got some work in ya. How ’bout yer own room, a clean bed, three squares a day and some money in yer pocket in exchange for some good honest labor?”

How refreshing to be inside a house again after sleeping out in a field. Hank showered, sat down to a hot supper, and afterward Leo poured a couple of shots of Jack Daniels, and they sunk into the comfortable living room armchairs. As the western sun waned through the living room windows, Leo began talking about family.

“You ever hear from yer Uncle Paul?”

“Why would you expect me to hear from him?”

Leo smiled sheepishly. You thought we were all asleep, but I hear’d what he said to you by the fire that night.”

Hank was thunderstruck to know they had been overheard. His memory returned to those well-traveled corridors of a story he thought only he himself knew . . .

Uncle Paul was one of thirteen siblings born to tenant farmer parents in southeast Missouri.  Educated in a one-room schoolhouse until he was old enough to work the fields, Paul did the things farm boys did in those days until World War II came calling.  Finishing his service, he chose not to return to his humble southeast Missouri roots, much like Hank’s own dad. Instead, Uncle Paul moved to the West Coast in search of a better life. 

Landing a position with Greyhound Lines, Uncle Paul stayed with the company twenty-five years, promoting to supervisory status, and choosing to work night shifts so he could have sufficient quiet and space to pursue his real interests: writing and story-telling.

Extending the Mark Twain/Will Rogers tradition, Uncle Paul developed a love of humor and stories covering country life.  Carefully researching the history of rural Jackson, Missouri, he recorded his personal memories, listened in on the reminiscences of others who grew up there, and carefully committed these stories to print after telling and re-telling them to anyone who would listen.

Growing up, all Hank knew was that Uncle Paul was special.  On the rare occasions that he made the excursion from California to Southeast Missouri, all the Singeltons would gather to greet him, and sit in living rooms until late at night, drinking beer, listening and laughing as he spun his humorous tales and smoked his White Owl cigars.  In those moments, Hank felt he was re-living the days when people gathered to listen to and laugh at the humor of Mark Twain.

When Hank reached his teenage years, the Uncle Paul events had transferred from the indoor parlors to wiener roasts along the banks of Indian Creek.  Aunt Bea and Uncle Bus lived in a ramshackle house on the banks of the creek, and Paul chose to roost with them every time he came home.  There was one problem–Bea and Bus were early risers and preferred retiring to bed early.  They became resentful of the all-night parties and as the years wore on, they began leveling their protests, but Paul had a tin ear.

With a broad smile, Hank recalled the day Aunt Bea put her foot down and swore there would not be a wiener roast this time.  “We’re turnin’ in early tonight—no wienie roast.”  By mid-afternoon, cars began pulling into the driveway. 

–Why’s everyone comin’ here? 

–The wienie roast.

–Oh no!  There ain’t no wienie roast tonight!  I said so.  Where’s Paul?

–At the store buyin’ wieners and buns.

–No, no!  We’re not havin’ a wienie roast!

Children were dragging up driftwood and tree limbs from creekside for the bonfire. 

–Stop draggin’ that brush up here!  There ain’t no wienie roast tonight!

Coolers of beer were hauled out of car trunks.  Folding lawn chairs appeared, arranged in ranks around the pile of timber. 

“Get that shit outta here! There ain’t gonna be no wienie roast!  Do it someplace else!  We’re goin’ to bed!”

“Leo, you gotta match?” Paul was squirting lighter fluid on the pile of limbs. In a few moments, the blaze went up.  Bea yawned.  Bus mumbled that it was getting dark and time for bed.  People dragged up chairs.  Children cut tree limbs to support wieners and marshmallows for the roast.  The guitars came out.  Music filled the air.  Beer bottles clanked. The wiener roast was on.  And soon Paul would be holding court. “Did I tell you about the time . . . ?”

Around 2:00 in the morning, all grew quiet.  Having had his fill of cold beer, Paul was out of stories.  People were dozing in their lawn chairs, having pulled blankets and sleeping bags over them.  The guitars had stopped.  Scattered, intermittent conversations were still softly emerging.  At one point, Paul turned to Hank.  “You have a good vocabulary,” he observed. 

Looking up, Hank was startled.  “What?”

“You should write.  There aren’t enough people writing these days.  People want stories.  You can provide them.  You have a good vocabulary.  You should write.” 

Drawing out his wallet, Paul removed a folded piece of paper.  That strange lighter-fluid smell emanated from the slick paper as he unfolded the “Xerox copy” of a check in the amount of $75 Paul had been paid by a West-Coast magazine for one of his stories.  “There’s money in this,” Paul mumbled, “but you’re too good to write this kind of stuff.”  Looking up from the check, Hank could not hold back his amazement:

“Seventy-five dollars for a funny story?” 

“Not funny. Scroungy.  I wrote it in one night in the office while on shift at Greyhound. You know—the story of the backwoods boy coming down out of the hills and screwing the high-society girl.”

Hank knew Paul was full of stories.  He knew he had the gift to deliver humor before a live audience.  What he didn’t know was that Paul had been writing stories for porno magazines and collecting good sums of money over the years.  “You don’t need that,” Paul advised, “You have much more going for you.  You should write. Write about things that matter.”

Looking across the living room, Hank searched Leo’s face for some sign of teasing. “You really heard all that?”

“Every word. Paul was better’n all of us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We all went to school the same amount of years. But Paul was different. When he went overseas, somethin’ got into ’im. ’Guess he kept on readin’, I don’t know. All I know is when he come back, he wadn’t like the rest of us no more.”

Hank could understand what Leo meant. Throughout the years, when Paul came from the West Coast for a visit to the homeplace, he was the prophet emerging from the western wilderness, the one speaking in even-sounding sentences and pleasing cadence. The one who pronounced all his words carefully, with textbook exactitude. He was sagacious. We sat around those bonfires like Native Americans on the prairie, listening to his stories. Hanging on every word. He tuned us up with humor, but later into the night, as the beer toned down the rhetoric, with sleepy yet searching eyes, he rolled out the proverbial lines in short pithy aphorisms. And late on that historic night, he spoke to me.

“Is Uncle Paul the reason yer on the road?”

“Not really. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Well,” Leo mused, “Maybe you should. Paul saw something in you. Maybe you should be writin’ ‘bout this trip. Who knows, you might sell yer first story to a magazine! Got any scrounge stories in ya?”

After three weeks of working out of Leo’s shop, consisting of basic woodworking and occasional arc welding, Hank had $300 in his pocket to add to the $42 he carried into Dallas—road money to convey him further west.

The restlessness had returned, and Hank felt the west Texas Caprock whispering to him in the Dallas nights where he lay in his bed, reading Leo’s books on the Texas Comanche culture.

Saturday Morning Musings in the Gallery

May 21, 2022

Good morning from The Gallery at Redlands in Palestine, Texas. By the time you read this, we will most likely have already departed this place. The reception for The 2022 Summer Exhibit for The Eyes of Texas Fine Art Gallery will be held from 4-7:00 today at Barons Creek Vineyards, 115 Bridge Street, Granbury, Texas. Many of our artists featured in Volume 7 of this magazine will be in the show and Sandi and I are looking forward to a reunion with them. Some of the Palestine artists are already in Granbury for the event; others will be caravanning there soon. I’m happy to have my cover feature hanging in the show as well as the ghost sign painting I created last year from Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Jazz on a Saturday Night. Framed watercolor featured in the show (also on the magazine cover)
Palimpsest. Framed watercolor featured in the show

Early this morning while quietly reading from Harvey Cox’s When Jesus Came to Harvard, I found my mind fixed on this notion “gap periods” in the lives of people who have made history. Much has been wondered over what happened to Jesus of Nazareth between the ages of twelve and thirty of John the Baptist from his infancy till he emerged in the trans-Jordanian wilderness, of Saint Paul during the three years immediately following his conversion. In my general studies I have been interested in what happened to Ralph Waldo Emerson when he quit the ministry and traveled to Europe for two years, what exactly occurred in the life of Henry David Thoreau during his two-plus years dwelling at Walden Pond, and what happened to Robert Johnson when he left the juke joint in derision and returned much later as the most accomplished Blues guitarist in the south.

The gap years. I believe most of us have them in our personal histories. I believe many of them mark defining moments in our life development. I know that my own odyssey is peppered with gap periods and I still treasure many of them. As I write, I’m anticipating my next gap as I pack and load for my trip back home to St. Louis. I still haven’t decided how long I’ll stay away. But I’m looking forward to the change in routine, and anticipate good things resulting. I’ll be dropping words like bread crumbs along the way; I don’t intend to disappear. Thanks always for reading me.

Dawn Over Palestine

May 20, 2022
Looking out the kitchen window from our second-floor The Redlands Hotel suite.

Gazing through the fire escape at the graying of the Dawn across sleeping Palestine, Odysseus leans forward in anticipation of setting sail for Ithaca over the broad back of the U.S. highway.

entry from this morning’s journal over coffee

Friday morning finds us in a more restful state after several days of frenetic deadlines and appointments. My grades have been turned in to the registrar; I am officially out of the classroom, for good this time. I informed the dean in February that I was finished after this term. The reality of my new chapter is still not fully realized, but it will happen.

My dear friend Bob Stevens gave me a book to read after our second visit and discussion earlier this week. Both of us seminary graduates, we still have an interest in many of the issues that bubbled up in our earlier days and still hold our attention. The Harvey Cox book is proving a most engaging read, and several of its passages read recently, accompanied by things brought up by Bob in conversation, have spurred me back to writing my book (I really, really wish to finish and self-publish it in 2022).

If you haven’t read earlier chapters from my draft, the book, titled Turvey’s Corner 63050, is about two fellows coming of age by leaving their Midwestern town in their earlier twenties to explore the world and find themselves. I’ve written twenty-three stories to date, and this morning decided to draft my twenty-fourth. This one is still sketchy but it was inspired by the Harvey Cox book . . .

The Weary Blues

Preacher at the Peppermill

Randy was numb with fatigue. Saturday night at The Peppermill Lounge proved to be a grinder. Setting up at 7:00. Soundcheck. 9:00 start. Now it was the second set break, nearing midnight. The bar was nearly empty, only eight patrons still hanging on, all of them with their backs to the stage, no one apparently listening any longer.

Randy sat at his table with stale coffee steaming in the ivory mug. Before him the typed manuscript he had completed at 5:00 this afternoon. With a dull pencil, he continued to scratch out words and phrases and scrawl between the double-space lines fragments of thoughts. Beginnings of thoughts, ends of thoughts. Anything that would say it better, quicker and cleaner.

Jack, the lead guitarist, pulled up a stool alongside. “Whatcha workin’ on?”

“Sermon for the morning.”

“You’re still a preacher?”

“Not really. I still speak twice a month from a Unitarian pulpit. I’m just going over my talk for the morning.”

Jack solemnly extended his hand for a warm, firm handshake.

“What was that?”

“This is where you’re supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack looked long and quietly across the space of empty tables. After a long drag from his hand-rolled cigarette crammed with Bugle Boy tobacco, he exhaled wearily. Then his steely eyes sharpened into focus as he turned and looked intently into Randy’s face.

“You’ll never find a preacher in these places. And this is where all the real people are with real problems who need real help. They won’t go to church. And the church will certainly not come to them. But you’re here, because you’re a real preacher. And you’ll talk about real things. And give real help.”

___________________________________

It’s only a beginning, but it feels good to be writing again.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Sailing to Byzantium

May 14, 2022
Completing the Early Morning Walk

Therefore we value the poet. All the argument and all the wisdom is not in the encyclopaedia, or the treatise on metaphysics, or the Body of Divinity, but in the sonnet or the play.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Circles”

Waking early this Saturday morning to the soothing thoughts of Emerson induced me to step out into the city and take my walk about town, enjoying the sounds of a village waking up and re-hearing in my mind something William Butler Yeats wrote concerning why he wrote “Sailing to Byzantium.”

I think that in early Byzantium, maybe never before or since in recorded history, religious, aesthetic and practical life were one, that architect and artificers spoke to the multitude and the few alike. The painter, the mosaic worker, the worker in gold and silver, the illuminator of sacred books, were almost impersonal, almost perhaps without the consciousness of individual design, absorbed in their subjectmatter . . .

As I continue to work on this new vision in the weeks ahead (now that I’m nearly finished with the semester), I hope to write more about my ideas of Palestine emerging as a New Byzantium. I am meeting so many creative people lately, in the visual arts, music, theater, literature, and cannot wait to see if we can in some way consolidate our endeavors and alert East Texas to the growing enthusiasm for the arts.

Palestine: A Railroad Town

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.