In the days after Harvey, I volunteered to muck out homes in a North Vidor neighborhood which had sustained extensive flooding. Many of the homes had gotten a jump start on the process – knowing full well the quick advance of mold and the danger of that spread.
In whose home does shame reside?
This past Saturday, at the Gulf Terrace Hike and Bike Trail, I was assaulted by a teenage boy.
My writing, posted elsewhere.
“The 10th Annual Boomtown Film and Music Festival, or #BoomFestX, kicked off on Thursday, February 23rd, 2017. If you weren’t there, you don’t know what you missed, so let me teach you a thing or seven. When I finish, you’ll either put a giant “11th Annual BoomFest” on your calendar for February 2018, or I’ll stop liking you. Your call.”
Today, my brain is a weepy, muddled mess of what could be and what isn’t. Feelings that betray my better instincts. A frustratingly opaque world of thoughts I can’t pinpoint.
I write sentences and erase them, one character at a time, with loud key strokes.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
The yearly exodus of creative talent is a psychological drain on those of us who remain. It’s a bitter pill I’m happy to swallow if it means the creative, financial, and mental success of my fellow artists. But it doesn’t make me like being Left Behind in Beaumont any more.
An exercise in micro-blogging.
Washington D.C. — The White House expects President Trump to sign a new executive order this week to combat poverty. The order, titled “The Best Modest Proposal,” was leaked to the media and has raised quite a few eyebrows around Washington.
I spent most of this week asking myself, “Am I OK?”
You’d think I’d be the utmost authority on this, the subject of What I Feel.
The fact is, I’m not, and I haven’t been for longer than I can say.
I want to share things that you don’t say in polite company.