1. This Essay and all its feels for friends here and gone and kitchen dance parties and feeling young and en route.  

  2. Paivenandgrey life might pause for a bit while I tackle another project.  Follow omaharisers.com for the deets.  

  3. Lately I’ve been breathing in a lot of s p a c e.  I can spin around with my arms extended out and not hit a soul.  Lyell, my pointer, is a regular in the s p a c e, but low enough to miss the swing and keen to the ways of my feet as they shuffle.  People warned that he might trip me up, but so far he’s proven to be a thing to know is there when everything else is s p a c e.  He keeps me conscious of my feet, but doesn’t fill the s p a c e. / It’s not a lonesomeness either.  Lyell’s good for that too.  But s p a c e.  If I slipped and fell, he’d lick my face, but couldn’t fix the wound.  / You.  And home.  And them.  The first and the last are there, not here.  Home, it was here but the dwelling’s disappeared.  The s p a c e I’m in still smells of Glade Hawaiian Breeze and the inner solid footings of home linger, but fault lines are starting to creep up as I spin and search to find the key to stop the s p a c e. / And usually I feel like running, but this time I don’t.  The fault lines seem safe for a time and when I see worlds I used to dream of, I’m not envious of the there nor spiteful of the here.  But a fault is a fault and a s p a c e is bound to grow without a brace or intervention. /  And so I spin with arms outstretched, feeling more clear than dizzy, but closer to wanting to stop than to keep the freedom of the spin.  To slowly fill the sp ac es with you and home and them.  

  4. Can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop.  Old loves coming back, grey snow city monotony, and wheels pushing up mountain roads towards long ago friends all sound like this.  /// Is this a release or a build-up of pressure?

  5. life is long, and weird, and good // here’s to wishing I was on a motorcycle adventure across Argentina like some a+ fella I know.  

  6. On United flight 1557 from Portland to Denver the man between me and the window tapped me awake just to show me the moon.


    And it was the sweetest gesture I could imagine.

    "Oh yes.  Beautiful.  Thank you." 

  7. Totally entranced by Julianna Barwick-fueled alley walks these days. 


  8. I couldn’t love him any more.

    Immediately, Great Ghosts whisks me away to a dissipating dream world that once was. Damp hazy morning air, dripping tall fur trees, and a day on the Sound tossing rocks and exploring tide pools.  

    Listen/purchase: by

  9. Ed Ruscha, The Act of Letting a Person into Your Home, 1983

    I have been bingeing on Ruscha’s work lately.  So, imagine my surprise when my gallery tip-toe was halted by this stunning enigma at the Joslyn Art Museum here in Omaha.  I love it.  It’s brave, forewarning, a welcome mat, an inner turmoil. 

  10. Phrase of choice these days.  So, yep, I made GIF #2. 

  11. Oh, yep, into this new Bianca Giaever thing too. 


  12. A tough love letter to Omaha.

    Omaha you, 

    Let me start by saying I love you. Unconditionally. Like a father still willing to kiss his kid who just ate dog shit. Or a mother holding back her teenage daughter’s ponytail as she cough vomits up all that Everclear she chose to drink in glassfuls.

    You raised me. You gave me a safe space to explore my own freedom. You offered flat endless views that offered the distance to dream of far away places. You showed me kindness was for real and not just for leverage. And so I went. Created new homes, explored foreign soil, tried to be kind.

    In that going, I never really got over you. And so I came back. I created new homes, explored the mysteries you still held for me, I tried to be kind.

    At first we felt level. There was still so much learning I had yet to do from you. I brought heavy hands full of new ways to be that I gathered on the road. I wanted to put glittering mica in my palm and gust it through your streets.

    But lately, my hands have been clenched with a finger scolding erect. Too many times I have sat back as witness to you ripping away your peoples’ safe spaces to explore their own freedoms. Too many times you have proven that kindness is not always real.

    And for once, I don’t know what to do with you. Unconditional love is forever. Playing repairman to fix the problems you choose may not be. So many people care about you. So many people are sacrificing bits of their own happiness to stay with you and care for you. 

    This isn’t a final plea.  This isn’t a ‘change now or I go’. But sometimes love gets tough, and lately I have felt like going more than I have felt like staying.  You have to choose what you want to be.  I can sprinkle some mica, but that is a pin drop solution to your cargo sized contaminate.

    Or maybe this is all better said by my sister-like friend Michelle Murphy who has been fighting the good fight stronger than most, “No to homophobia. Get real, it’s almost 2014.” 

    Here for now and always with love,


    [In response to this heartbreak of a news story - http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/10/29/omaha-man-gay-attack-_n_4173658.html]

  13. Lately I’ve been feeling like running away.  A mention of Portland or New York, a photo of Milan or South America, wisps me away to the place I have been before but seems so distant and foreign now.  Still, a certain waft in the air transplants me back in Marrakech with the Medina bustling full of vendors, spices,  and street kids.  

    I’ve been better about knowing that I will always feel this way, even if I do run away.  One day I will be sitting in the desert wallowing narrow about the crisp Omaha October and the way the grain jostle tones shift as the humid summer seeps shut.  

  14. Mountain hugging, yes please. 


    Excursiones imprevistas - Raúl Lázaro via Cuarto Derecha

  15. Dream world.