the gift of sleep

the gift of sleep


when the delivery man arrived, he stood in the mud room while I flattened a stack of crumpled ones and searched the refrigerator magnets for a coupon that hadn’t expired.

sorry about the weather! I called from the kitchen, cringing at my own inanity. as if it were my fault it was fifteen below outside. as if I possessed a giant thermostat in a trap door under my linoleum floor that I used to dial up a polar vortex when I felt moody. what I had meant was that I was sorry his job forced him out in this weather.  or maybe what I really meant was that I felt guilty because I wouldn’t have taken his place.

is nothing.  I am washing my balls in this weather he said matter-of-factly when I handed over the money and the coupon. then he flinched. he was looking at the shoulder of my sweater.

she doesn’t bite. I said.

he was counting the money by paging through the bills with his fingers, but his eyes were fixed on what was clinging to my right shoulder.

what is English word for this animal?  in my country we call him netopier.

myotis lucifigus, I said. that’s the Latin. the common name is little brown bat.

in my country, netopier… little brown bat… make you very sick. is very dangerous.

I nodded. yes, it’s true. but I’ve been vaccinated. also, she’s very tired…. almost ready for a nap.

he shoved the wad of ones into his back pocket.  the snow had melted off his boots and he was standing in a small puddle- we both noticed it at the same time. I felt bad about sending him back into the storm.

would you like to see something else unusual?

I shouldn’t have said it, but there it was. usually when visitors like this showed up I was careful not to disturb their  sense of continuity. but I had found it difficult lately, to be just a caretaker- just a stopover on people’s travels.  just then the wind howled painfully around the eaves. we could both hear the snow against the windows like a sandblaster.

would you like to see? I said.

for a second, he looked like he would say hey, I’m just delivery guy… I make delivery. you might think we all embrace the roles we’ve been assigned.  but instead of speaking, he closed his mouth again, his eyes darting to the swirling snow outside the window.  I wondered how many doors he’d had to knock on today, or if he’d known this one was different when he stepped through.

he shivered, then tried to cover it by clearing his throat.

I set the bag he had handed me on the floor. I had no idea what was in it,  but I hoped it was something good- maybe calzones, or pad thai.  I motioned for him to take off his shoes, then waved for him to follow me down the dim hallway.

at the very end, where it was almost too dark to see, there was a door.  I put a finger to my lips. in a whisper, I said

I’ve never showed this to anyone else.

he looked into my face and said, I believe you.

I opened the door, and we stood together at the threshold, looking in.

the gift of sleep

I tiptoed in and gently hung the little brown bat upside-down on the lampshade, and tiptoed slowly back to the doorway.

We stood like that for a little longer, listening to the slow, steady breathing. And then I quietly closed the door and we padded back down the hallway to the mud room. He used my shoulder to steady himself while he put his boots back on and laced them up. Then he took his gloves out of his jacket pockets and put them on.

this is dream, he said.

I said nothing.

as he reached for the doorknob he paused and looked at the floor. I couldn’t see his face because of he had put the hood of his jacket up.  please. do not show to anyone else?

I watched him out the window as he stepped carefully back along his own path of boot holes in the snow, hunched against the wind, using the vinyl insulator delivery bag like a kind of sail to speed his progress until he disappeared into the white.

the lost moustache

the lost moustache

June 1, 2014
San Francisco

I’ve been on a long blog hiatus after I finished my latest book, small, fierce things. Now I’m starting to make new stories and new drawings, and instead of saving them all up for a foggy day, I figured I’d post them as I write them for you here.

Of course, I’m not sure who “you” are. I’m never sure who I’m writing to, or who is listening (other than myself and the many creatures that tell me stories.) But that doesn’t mean I don’t dream of you, whoever you are.

And without further ado, I’d like to tell you this story:


the lost moustache


the lost moustache

this is a story about a moustache. it was a very full moustache- some would say generous, even extravagant. it slung low along the sides of the smile and even ventured well below the mouth, growing so lush as to cover the chin and chest. at its upper limit it divided into twin  luxuriant tufts that nested above the upper lip, and met in the hollow beneath the nose. some would say it was brash, perhaps overambitious as far as moustaches go… really more accurately described as a beard. but no, it was a moustache.

it was shorn off in the middle of a polar summer, and cast into a ritual fire on the longest day of a day that had already lasted four months. as it sizzled and twisted and gave off a pungent smoke, it began to materialize elsewhere, burning simultaneously out of one existence and into another, as things do.

it had been important, this moustache. it had had an important story that had grown, follicle by follicle, through itchy and awkward stages, carried by a man who had in turn carried its story into being. but that was all over now, and both the moustache in its new incarnation, and the memory of the moustache still carried by its former bearer, struggled not with the actual moment of parting, but with the process of letting go.

as the fire slowly burned down to embers, the man stirred the ashes that contained the moustache. little by little the light, whitish ash tumbled away in the wind, until deep into the early hours of the new polar day, there was nothing left but a few charred fragments of driftwood left where the moustache had been. the light had not changed. the sky had not changed. but things were very different.

the people who had known the man only as the man with the luxuriant and generous moustache did not recognize him when he returned. for them, he had become synonymous with the moustache, and it with him. he watched their faces as they realized. after the initial shock, it took them very little time to grow accustomed to his naked visage, so that very soon, sooner than he would have expected, they could not remember what he looked like with the moustache.

in the other world, where the moustache had burned into being, it had appeared simply as a pile of hair on a stretch of isolated forest floor. this was also a disconcerting experience for the moustache, which had become accustomed to a kind of symbiotic existence of both wearing and being worn. here was a kind of disparate desolation. for a few minutes, it had to sit with the experience of separateness: of being upon, rather than attached to. it thought it might be dreaming, or hallucinating.

it was not long before a raven, out looking for nesting materials, landed near the moustache, and after walking back and forth slowly with its wings folded behind its back and considering the possibilities, finally gathered it up with several swift stabs of its beak and flew over a lake and into a stand of trees, where its mate perched, shrewdly arranging an intricate tangle of sticks. together the birds poked and tucked tufts of the moustache carefully into the tangle, and soon all three nestled into a new identity.

for the man without the moustache, which is how he had begun to think of himself, the starkness of his action did not lessen with time but grew. the physical act that had taken him only the length of a few minutes to accomplish, had, for its immaterial backlash, left him with an unpleasant sensation of loss that seemed to endlessly unreel.

his mental image of himself, before it was reflected in a pane of glass or in a mirror, before he turned the light on, or when he encountered himself in dreams, was still moustachioed. he felt its phantom itch fade on waking. his lips were chapped from the unconscious action of trying to touch what was no longer there with his tongue.

he became angry when anyone inquired about the moustache. later, he became angry when people stopped inquiring. when he himself could no longer remember the sensation of it, he became forlorn.

in the other world, the moustache didn’t miss being part of the man because it no longer existed. through the thread of the fire and the needle of the wind it had been sewn into a new form. it was full of feathers and mites and leaves and mud and moss. it kept the ravens warm in the snow.



upcoming reading (and selling some bonus small, fierce things!)

upcoming reading (and selling some bonus small, fierce things!)

Coming up on March 29, at Mutiny Radio in San Francisco, I will be reading two pieces from my most recent book: small, fierce things.  I also happened to make ten additional copies of the sold-out book, so if you missed it, you can come pick one up!  All proceeds from the show go to benefit Art Healing Animals, a Bay Area charity that raises money through selling artwork to provide healthcare and rehousing for sick and at-risk animals.

bonus small, fierce things for sale March 29!

If you can’t make the reading in person, it will be webcast! So tune in Saturday night, March 29, 2014 to the FREE Debut Show of the Parnassus Revue, hosted by Michael Shufro!  Here’s the lineup/details:

When: Saturday, March 29, 6-8pm
Where: Mutiny Radio & Cafe 2781 21st Street, San Francisco
or  Podcast/livestream:

Featured artists: Poets LJ Moore, Ryan Nash, Katy Gurin and Carly May Hedstrom; Storyteller & Novelist Scott Lambridis; and the enchanting Dramatist Eliot Fintushel.

Special Guests: Anisse Gross (The New Yorker, The Believer) and KALW Producer Ninna Gaensler-Debs for a discussion about Debs’s new endeavor, The Litography Project, an interactive and evolving multimedia map honoring San Francisco’s literary past, present and future.

More at Facebook

I hope to see you there, or feel you listening through the interwebz….


small, fierce things would like to come home with you

small, fierce things would like to come home with you

collage of covers

small, fierce book covers

small, fierce things, my new book of illustrations and stories, is sold out! However, if you would like to special order a copy,  contact me!  


I am delighted to announce that in conjunction with Achiote Press, my new book is ready for purchase!  There are 50 handmade, hand-sewn copies ready to slide, crawl, scurry, bound, leap, wing, flutter, slink, creep, dig, and nose their way into your mailbox. All you have to do is click the button below and decide how many small, fierce things you want!

Details: Each books is 5″ X 5″ and 70 pages long. They are printed on acid-free coverstock, hand-sewn using fishing net that I found washed up on the beaches of Svalbard (yes, the North Pole!) Each book has a unique cover created from  found textiles and photographs, and contains 12 stories and 28 pen-and-ink illustrations.

Here is what some wonderful people have said about small, fierce things:

L.J.’s Fierce revels in the often queer intersection of the human and non-human worlds, with a focus not so much on the digital world (which we might now have come to accept), but on the animal: how the harmonica might make a rooster berserk, or the way a man whose frown “seemed permanent” might appreciate eye contact with a porcupine for “the way it had come to be there in his hands.” This book is a series of anti-selfies: off-kilter moments full of wonder, not presentation; this is not a window display but a corridor of funhouse mirrors. You might look the same when you’re finished, but something inside will be different.

Evan Karp, founder of Quiet Lightning

In LJ Moore’s small, fierce things, feelings you never thought to name become animal, donning flesh, fur, spikes, feathers. Nightmares walk and secrets play the banjo. These very short stories, written simply and without guile, vibrate with power and mystery, celebrate the authority of ambiguity. What does this mean? Moore has a way with last lines that feel unexpected but inevitable, lines that pin her characters to inescapable fact but open up a world of feeling in the reader, a simultaneous shrinking and explosion of possibility. These tales dance at the edge of fantasy but are never twee, never merely fanciful. They are too serious, too much about the sad predicament of being human, to be reduced to the whimsical, though it is clear that Moore is enjoying herself, letting her characters speak for themselves in awkwardly charming ways. The animal drawings that accompany the stories preceded them, according to Moore, and the stories came about as illustrations of the drawings, rather than vice versa. The drawings are sharply rendered, slyly funny, with more than a hint of the bizarre. They, along with the stories they fueled, bring to mind Flannery O’Connor’s famous line, The Truth Shall Make You Odd. I think Moore would be okay with that.

Sarah Fran Wisby, author of Viva Loss, and The Heart’s Progress (forthcoming from Plain Wrap Press)

Cats bring prey to feed their young and LJ Moore must be part feline because her small, fierce things sustains us. In words and illustrations, Moore brings the wilderness of the imagination to our front porch. It’s a bloody gift, still warm. Good kitty.

Tupelo Hassman, author of Girlchild

“As its name suggests, small, fierce things offers world in miniature–finely tuned observations that break open upon contact, secrets within secrets, hidden worlds that lie at the borders between the natural world and human consciousness. Wondrously illustrated and carefully wrought, LJ Moore’s work is a strange and uncanny delight.”

Colin Dickey, author of Afterlives of the Saints, and Cranioklepty

Each story in this collection reveals an unexpected and mesmerizing portrait that spins with the exquisite energy of dreams. Populated with all manner of creature-guides, and ranging from the far north to your grandmother’s bathroom towels, small, fierce things is a constellation of bright marvels not to be missed.”

Stacy Carlson, author of Among the Wonderful

 Not convinced yet? Read an excerpt.

Interested in the process of how this book was made? Scroll down!

Outtakes from the making of small, fierce things:

small, fierce things take over my bed
small, fierce things take over my bed
small, fierce things getting together
small, fierce things getting together
sewing the spines of small, fierce things
sewing the spines of small, fierce things
small, fierce books
small, fierce books
Nordpolen Journal: 6/11/13- a dream before setting off for points unknown

Nordpolen Journal: 6/11/13- a dream before setting off for points unknown

San Francisco, CA
June 11, 2013

Tomorrow’s the day.

At 5:30 am I’ll get up in San Francisco and drink enough coffee to make me amenable to being awake, and then I’ll take a bus to a plane to a plane to a shuttle to a shuttle to a plane to a barquentine. It will be two days later and I’ll be North of most of the world.

I have a lot of feelings today: above all, excitement… beneath that a few small worries… will there be enough coffee? Will my digestion get screwed up? Will I be sore from sitting too long? But those small worries are small.

Beneath those concerns is a vast, dark current of hope and sadness. The sadness is strange. The sadness is a voice that says, this could have been your whole life but it’s only three weeks… and the sadness says… is it worse to set off on a journey you know will wake you up, only to have to return to lethargy and sameness? The voice also says… there is so much you haven’t done and will never do.

I wonder about these voices and their insistence on preparing me for disappointment: the disappointments of a short lifespan, of the necessity to waste time, of all the lost stories that spoke and died in me, but never made it any further than an intention.

I had a dream last night: I was walking on a tour through a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. I walked with a group of people I didn’t know up the sidewalk on the right-hand side of a steep street which ran between two high cliffs. The guide was pointing out the dwellings built into the cliffsides. They were tall, with the facades of the narrow, stately Victorians I am used to here in San Francisco, but they were somehow carved out of massive trees that were wedged partway into the rock. I have drawn a terrible sketch with my terrible drawing abilities to show what I mean:


It was twilight when we were walking, and there was a hush over the group. I asked if we could go inside these houses, but the guide said “No one goes inside those dwellings. No one lives there.”

As he said this, I saw the curtains being drawn back from a window in one of the houses in an upper storey, and I knew someone was looking down from the window at me, but it was dark inside so I couldn’t see them. It was getting darker outside, and I found that the tour group had moved on without me, and I was just standing on the broken sidewalk, looking up at the houses.

A door opened in the house closest to me, and a shape came down the sidewalk. I couldn’t really “see” the shape, though it felt like a person, and I knew it was, for lack of a better word, a ghost. This being moved toward me… and I remember that some communication passed between us. We spoke, but we didn’t speak. It’s the way you know things in dreams… you speak, but not necessarily the way you do in the waking world.

And then the being swept back up the sidewalk, back up toward the house. As it passed back inside, it broke apart like a transparent fog, the particles of it seeming more like simply an existing part of the landscape that had momentarily rearranged, and were now flying back apart into the grass, the rocks, the darkness again.

And I suddenly felt, like you feel a thunderstorm approaching, or like you feel the hum of bees where you’re near a bush full of flowers… I felt that all those forsaken houses…. they were full of beings like the one who had stepped out and momentarily formed in order to speak with me. Not only that, but the houses were full of histories, full of hidden passages, full of doors leading to even more interesting places, and that I was not afraid to go in, though it would still take some courage to do so.

I like to not interpret dreams, and just let them work how they work best- like paintings and photographs and symphonies- images with emotional, non-verbal content. But in this case, I’d like to say that it’s not unusual for me to dream about talking to the dead. And these dreams are always transformative, in the sense that my inner world is now getting ready to travel with my body to places unknown.

It seems like a great way to set off for an adventure that I truly hope will give me a chance to get my internal world and my external world back into a kind of synchrony. I once said that a writer who is not writing is like a haunted house… and that is what I have been feeling like lately. Perhaps now I go by that ghost’s example, and re-shape the part of me that creates and communicates out of those little shimmering bits of my surroundings…


Nordpolen Journal: 6/6/13- romanticizing the artist who suffers

Nordpolen Journal: 6/6/13- romanticizing the artist who suffers

San Francisco, CA
June 6, 2013

Pablo Picasso, Massacre in KoreaI used to romanticize a lot of things: suffering, honor, polar bears.  But strangely, I always hated canned sentiment, the kind Hallmark cards are notorious for, or the kind that happens when you are watching a movie and suddenly the music swells and you know you are being told to feel sad and sympathetic.

I’ve never liked being told what to feel or what to think, but I didn’t realize until recently that sometimes what I think and feel is influenced by subtleties, undercurrents, and even the fact of my limited lifespan. After all, how many things can I pay attention to and notice every day if I’m trying to walk down the street listening to a podcast while checking my email and drinking coffee? If, barring accidents and opportunistic maladies, I only live about 80 years… that’s just not enough time to observe life. It’s hardly enough time to read even a fraction of the good books out there, let alone watch all the movies, travel around, think, see, learn. If you keep learning, which I try to do, do you reach a point at which you just have to hit the “cancel/clear” button and wipe some memory so you can make some room for more? I have a pet theory that this what death is for. If we lived any longer we’d all be starkers.

But I’ve strayed from what I’m after… which is the idea of romanticizing personal struggle, and how that makes me want to smack someone with a flyswatter.

In high school, I “qualified” for the advanced literature class. I was so excited and proud. Then I spent a year reading Dostoyevsky, Plath, Turgenev, Sartre… basically every depressed non-American writer that my English teacher could get her hands on. Naturally, I also gravitated to new wave music, so while waiting for Godot, I listened to The Cure, The Smiths, Siouxsie and the Banshees. Talk about a perfect storm… I was a depressive personality to begin with… and here we were reading the most persuasive and lyrical voices of the 20th century arguing for the ultimate alienation and negation of self. If these people, who could make such beauty from suffering, ultimately gave up and offed themselves… well hell… what is the point?

The point is, somewhere along the line, I was fully indoctrinated into the belief that pain and suffering are synonymous with good writing. And frankly, good writing and good art is satisfying because of pain. It isn’t beauty that we respond to really, it’s how painfully beautiful something is. Even humor has an element of pain to it… things that are truly funny have a wry or bitter turn, or set off a sympathetic expansion feeling in the head/heart/gut that is a kind of ouch, in a way, an ouch that makes a burst of laughter in recognizing shared frailty.

Things that do not contain even a kind of homeopathic ghostly reference to pain are really not that compelling. When a child says something unwittingly funny, I would hazard that it is funny because an adult “knows better” or sees it from a more tired perspective… this is also a kind of pain.

Fluffy puppies and kittens of course are not painful at all, which is why they are lovely to look at and play with, but are not art.

Did you see that, what I just did there? I called something art… well, I called something (not) art. The point I’m edging my way toward, or clumsily ham-fisting my way into submission is this: struggle and suffering are often the subjects of good writing and good art because that’s what artists do– they take the things that suck and try to show why they do not suck, or perhaps make them not suck as much by depicting them in a way that is, itself, beautiful.

It is the reaction of people to pain and difficulty that either creates or destroys beauty.

So what I’m saying is, don’t romanticize this act. It isn’t the writer or the artist that we should focus on, eating ramen or tapping on pipes in a gulag to communicate with other imprisoned writers. Focus instead on the thing that put them there.

The drive to create something worthwhile out of pain and confusion and the transient and often unfair nature of life should never be romanticized, because then it becomes tame, controllable, distanced, and unreal. We’ve got to stay close to these things.

Nordpolen Journal: 6/1/13- postcards to influential strangers 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19… and an answer!

Nordpolen Journal: 6/1/13- postcards to influential strangers 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19… and an answer!

San Francisco, California
June 1, 2013

Please forgive my tardiness with posts,  but I’ve been busy. I tend to make my projects complicated. It all started way back when I first used to decorate white shoeboxes with felt tip pens… every inch of space on the box HAD to be covered… and not just in a color, but with drawings, and each one detailed. When I was 12 I set out to color in the entire D&D monster manual, one monster at a time. I made it up to the letter D. I still have it…. maybe someday I will finish it. So this project, to write postcards to all 15 of my creative influences***… well it might have gone the way of many of my projects and about 6/8 ths of the way in I would have lost interest and moved on to something else… all the while thinking I’d come back to the thing I’d started and finish it.  But today I sat down and completed all 15 so that I can, with a clear conscience, move on.

A couple of things happened during the last few days that have made this project really worthwhile: the first is that I discovered that there is a difference between an idea and its execution, and that difference is the work. It’s easy to have ideas, and it takes another kind of energy to carry them through. The interesting part to me is that when I sat down to write each of these postcards, I had no idea really what I was going to say. I also had a restrictive space in which to write it.  For those people on my list who are dead, I found my mind freed up in a certain way to write what I wanted, without fear of presumption or judgment, which made those cards easier to write, and of course more about myself than about the person I was writing to. In a way, most communication is like that… since you can’t get inside another person’s head, you have to take an educated guess at what makes them tick. Those parallels you draw between yourself and another person’s experience is the heart of empathy… and empathy is a tool a lot like bats using echolocation… you blindly bounce your own voice off what’s around you and try to get an idea of what’s there by listening to what comes back. What you receive is your own perceptions rearranged by the other person’s shape. It’s sometimes uncannily accurate, and sometimes misses the target entirely.

When you get writers and musicians in your echolocative beam, something even stranger happens: you can, in a way, get inside their heads. But you get into the part of their heads that they broadcast, that they set free into the world. And we all know that the things we put out into the world are both deep expressions of ourselves, and shallow ones… they represent only fractions of the whole human being, and ephemeral moments. This is why the written word, or the recorded word, is so powerful… unlike the ephemeral nature of me whispering to you in person, where my thoughts are free to bloom and dissipate, and my mind is allowed to change and grow and reconsider, we treat things that are written down as authoritative, as unchanging, as evidence of our emotional triumphs and crimes.

What people forget about what is written down, and what is recorded and duplicated again and again, is that it is dead. Like a person who has passed away, it is no longer a viable, unstable thing in and of itself… its self has been abdicated for interpretation. Things that are written/recorded belong to everyone, whether the person responsible likes it or not, because whatever happens to it, once it becomes static, once it cannot shift with the shifting nature of reality,  it becomes subject to debate, theft, reinterpretation, repurposing, recycling, mimicry, defamation, censorship… the property of everyone and the possession of no one.

So in writing these postcards, I thought about the person on the other end and fought through the desire to censor myself almost before I even began… because I know that the person I am writing to, whom I’ve never met, is not “knowable” through their work alone. What I am writing to, really, is myself… even though in my heart of hearts I am reaching out to make contact with the facet of the person on the other end that brought some part of myself to the surface. All I could really do was keep in my mind the ultimate purpose… to send a brief note of thanks to a person I felt deeply affected by… to let them know that I, too, am a blind bat chasing moths by the sound of their fluttering.

I think I might keep going with this… not here on the blog, but on my own. There is something about sending these things out into the world, without the need for anything in return, that feels right… it is so unlike what we’re trained to do all day every day, which is to do things just to get something we need to have in order to survive.

And that leads me to the second thing that happened this week: one of my influential strangers (#5) wrote back! Marvin Kaye, now the editor of Weird Tales, sent me two free copies of the magazine, and a thank you note of his own. This was an unexpected kindness, and a kind of ping back from the void, which turns out to still be able to deliver illegible postcards!  (Scroll to the bottom to see Mr. Kaye’s answer.)

And here are the rest of the postcards from the project:

***and I just realized that I can’t count. There are 19 .

10. Neil Gaiman:

Neil Gaiman-front

Neil Gaiman

11. Susanna Clarke:

Susanna Clarke

Susanne Clarke

12. Virtual Boy:

Virtual Boy

Virtual Boy

13. Camille Flammarion:

Camille Flammarion

Camille Flammarion

14. Robert Smith:

Robert Smith

Robert Smith

15. Charles Fort:

Charles Fort

Charles Fort

16. Rod Serling:

Rod Serling

Rod Serling

17. Tim Burton:

Tim Burton

Tim Burton

18. Peter Murphy:

Peter Murphy

Peter Murphy

19. William Butler Yeats:

William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats

And to me from Marvin Kaye….


Detroit Red Wings versus Chicago Blackhawks: what hockey sounds like to a poet

Detroit Red Wings versus Chicago Blackhawks: what hockey sounds like to a poet

San Francisco, California
Sunday, May 26, 2013
(Saturday’s game)

Rosenball moves to the corner and shroud’s a pickle! Now at the blue line… down the boards… sticks a penalty to shrew Nefertiti icing a stickman. Cobb, the only non-liner vice conduct when Kareem defends a shark.   Turns out to be the ref’s high dick flying in a piss, but he wasn’t happy with it at all.  Anderson will try a ponzu on the oldest guy… a dirty-six who rattles in around and back with a peg leg full of cotton candy, but his old lady rushes it back down for seconds.   Taint’s on kick-by-keen for a change…. knifed away while Jean Burls, with some quinine, gains the last clem for the carry back, almost a gentle derision on the penalty kill but the pressure point stabilized the super-aggressive frustration ending in a family killing and an offensive nod from the king of Siam. 

 Brett’s salad comes off as a gay back with a little chin music and Roosevelt’s drifting shot had to be called soft. Local back system of change hopped around near a  muzzled pit bull, and the blackhawks have long gone giving it to the mind with a bare Jimmy Hoffa. Sharp chef turning a bag, the red wings take it across with a steam engine chugging a free lunch, and now Poland’s gonna go act dastardly and the ref’s can’t love it.

Advocator, the slack fly another dictator, cause this party’s gonna shiver a timber in a batshit mistake. Better speed wide to the outside taking a punk to the dive while Cromwell sidles in on the shoulder and pokes a snowman. Gumby’s physical play is a sight to behold. Wasn’t it great?!   

Nordpolen Journal: 5/24/13- postcards to influential strangers 6a, 6b, 7 and 8

Nordpolen Journal: 5/24/13- postcards to influential strangers 6a, 6b, 7 and 8

San Francisco, California
Friday, May 24, 2013

The next four postcards to people on my list of 15:

6(a)- Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

Samuel Taylor Coleridge-(a)Samuel Taylor Coleridge- (a2)6(b)- Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

Samuel Taylor Coleridge- (b)Samuel Taylor Coleridge- (b2)

7. Leonard Nimoy:

Leonard NimoyLeonard Nimoy

8. T.S. Eliot:

T.S. EliotT.S. Eliot

Nordpolen Journal: 5/17/13- postcards to influential strangers 2 and 3

Nordpolen Journal: 5/17/13- postcards to influential strangers 2 and 3

Two more from my list of 15:

2. Jacques Cousteau:

I found a postcard that someone had already written on. It was postmarked in 1976, when I was 7 years old, about the time I became aware of Messr. Cousteau and his boat, Calypso. Stamps were only 9 cents then, and grammar on stamps was not so great. The tea lid is from my friend Frances, who told me it was meant for me. It says:

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and sky,
and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.”

John Masefield



3. Gustav Doré


The Council of the Rats, Gustav Dore