Writers are rock stars. I wouldn’t cross the street to see Mick Jagger, but I’ve driven 500 miles on two occasions to see my literary heroes, Michael Ondaatje (The English Patient) and Robertson Davies (The Deptford Trilogy), in Stratford, Ontario. In early adulthood, I wore a maroon T-shirt with the J.D. Salinger book title, The Catcher In The Rye, printed on it, replicating the paperback edition’s cover.
Where do you live? You might reside in the town where you were born or you may have moved around so much you’re not sure where you are anymore. You might have found a connection with a place in your travels that’s so strong it feels like home to you. If you’re a writer, artist, or a professional daydreamer, you probably live most of the time in your imagination.
My friend, composer Karel Suchy, calls it KeRacine, pronouncing the word, in his cool Czech accent, like you’d say, “ker-o-sene.” With this term, he’s referring to the Wisconsin cities of Kenosha and Racine, but it’s more than a mashup of names for him. He’s talking about a powerful energy, fueled by the the creative culture that burns bright here.
What did you want to be when you grew up? Except for a brief period as a young teen when I wanted to race stock cars (despite hating to work with my Dad on the family auto), I loved to write stories and draw pictures.
Poetry gets a bad rap. Some of us see it as tortured word/drivel whose sole focus is to make more complicated the simple and common aspects of our lives. Others see it as the height of expression; the using of imagery and spoken language which illuminates the hidden chambers of our minds and hearts….
That sounds kinda dirty, doesn’t it? I lost my BONK! virginity last week when I shared a piece of original poetry at BONK! 118 here in Racine. This celebration of writing and music is held monthly (for around the last 118 months!) at various locations around town. The theme was social justice and the variety…
Transitions Seems this is the time for lots of change: The school year ends, that final bell letting freedom ring in a way no second graders’ song could ever quite accomplish. Teachers pack their classrooms into groaning cardboard boxes, stuff them into cabinets, the smell of dry erase and eighth grade boys in need of…