Painting
Saturday, February 6
6-10, with George Mitchell & Dan Schulte
The Allison Inn
Newberg, Oregon
Wedneday, March 17
7-10, with George Mitchell & Fred Hard
Heathman Hotel
Saturday, March 20
10-12, with Mike Pardew
Nel Centro
Wedneday, March 24
7-10, with Mike Pardew & Fred Hard
Heathman Hotel
Saturday, May 8
Silverton Wine & Jazz Festival
Kalashnikov In The Sun, my two-years-in-the-works project on Sierra Leonean poets, is sent to the publisher, one week following the death of Tom, one of the voices included in the anthology, a friend. I dedicate the book to him, I hear the cadence of his voice, still.
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It’s been my first week teaching at the university level. It’s been my first week of classes myself, graduate school at my age, I don’t know… but a teaching fellowship and tremendous grant covering full tuition, a chance at more stability as a writer, a chance that this two-decade long plan in the works to build the days writing, painting, singing, could actually work…so I jumped. I am tired. I have not stopped moving. Not so much because of school, but because of everything that kept cascading in the in between hours. I drove over the Morrison Bridge last week, about 9 pm, after the last class of the day, an early October moon, the kind that is buffered in part by night clouds, the sky a movie set, the sky not sky, but a mood instead. this whole week has been a mood.
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“Mom! Tom’s on the roof of our garage!” Clarke calls from the kitchen. I walk over and peer up through the window, and sure enough, there is an extension ladder propped up against my garage and Tom, my next door neighbor, is up there. I go upstairs and lean out my bedroom window. He has a shovel and is scraping the moss off, as well as throwing down the collection of missing balls batted up by the kids over the course of the summer.
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The sky is as big as memory. The light is open like hope. And the mountains surround thought so that all we are is right here, driving home. We are listening to Keith Jarrett, Gary Peacock and Jack DeJohnette listen to each other and spill blessed unrest into song. My two are in the backseat, looking out their windows at the world we are passing.
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