Dancing Alone

I am like water,

smooth and swift,

ever in motion.

I move like earth,

slow but unstoppable,

never overbalanced.

I fall like air,

rising again,

constant in change.

I burn like fire,

steady, flickering, spinning,


The world dances with me.


Stranger than Fiction

Fantasy and sci fi stories are full of creatures that are strange, fascinating, and entirely fictional. But there are some real animals that could give these critters a run for their money.

The Kokopi is a variety of flightless parrot native to New Zealand, and it looks utterly bizarre.

The cone snail, which is ocean dwelling and famous for extremely pretty shells, is one of the most venemous creatures on the planet, and it doesn’t even bite. It stabs you with a radula harpoon.

The Satanic Leaf-Tailed Gecko, which is native to Madagascar, looks like it’s supposed to be a dragon. Look at it.

Armadillos look so strange, they were used in place of rats in the film Dracula.

Ever been to Kartchner Caverns, or some other place where the rock formations have been left carefully undisturbed? There are some completely bizarre shapes and colors to regular old rock.

Surrounded by stories of dragons and spaceships and other worlds, it’s too easy sometimes to forget how bizarre the world we live in is.

What Language Can’t Say


can’t be measured or quantified

like color

or mass

or sound.

They don’t translate to words.

How am I feeling?





Lindenberg said

that poetry

doesn’t happen

cuz of something we want

to say,

it happens

because we can’t say something.


is inadequate

to contain the deepest pieces

of a human soul.

Poetry tries

to say the things

language never found words for.


Lewis said

there’s a speech

at the center of everyone’s soul

that we spend our lives

trying to say.

I wonder

can language hold that speech?

can a drawing or poem say it?

Or will my speech remain

in the deepest parts of myself,




I am trying to say something.

I always have been.

I don’t know what it is.

Why Stories Matter

People have been telling stories for as long as people have been people. They tell them and retell them times and again, presidents and kings and schoolchildren and factory workers. There’s something fundamental to being a person in the love of stories.

I don’t know what that something is, I’m just an art student. But I do know something about why stories matter to me.

Stories are home. Star Wars is the same wherever you go, and you can see Scorpius from California or Georgia. You can carry the stories you love most with you when life takes you away from familiar places.

Stories are friends. You get to know the characters as well as they know themselves, and so following their story feels like spending time with them. Some might have experiences like yours, but with dragons. Maybe it seems wimpy to need stories and characters as friends instead of flesh-and-blood people, but at some point everyone struggles with feeling a connection to the human beings surrounding them.

Stories are safe. Horrible, awful things can happen in them, but if it gets too much you can close the book or turn off the screen, and they have a set beginning and end. Life isn’t nearly that kind.

Stories are constants. Well, they are and they aren’t. Every version of Cinderella is slightly different, and the differences change what the story means. But there’s still a shoe, or a cyborg foot, left on the stairs, and a prince at a royal ball. Change is inevitable, except for from vending machines, but stories make familiar patterns no matter how much they are told.

Stories are exciting. Though life is too. It has octopuses in it, and colors and trains and quantum physics. There’s magic everywhere, if you know how to look for it. Trouble is, in the day-to-day drudge of normal life, it’s easy to forget that. Stories help bring back a sense of wonder.