The talented Shaela Cook is coming over tomorrow to take some photographs of my place. Why? Can’t say yet, just keep your fingers crossed for me please. In the meantime, here’s a “before” snapshot to give you an idea of the place. Click through to see the after.
He paused for a moment, hands poised above the keyboard, wondering if he was going to write another story about talking possums, or dumb but lovable deer. “Ah, f**k it,” he muttered, and started another story about a dyslexic lemur that just couldn’t catch a break.
Or maybe not. I started this blog to chronicle my big life decision to leave my retail career after 20 years, and only do doing things that fulfill me creatively and artistically. I know: BOR-ing! No one has ever had that impulse, right? Continue reading Plumbing the Depths→
I just opened my Etsy store. This is the first time I’ve ever sold my art…well since “Feria Artesana” in New Mexico when I sold retablos and wooden birdhouses that I made with my Dad, when I was in middle school. I’m more than a little nervous.
Most photos in the shop (the good ones, I mean) by Shaela Cook. Check out her stuff.
As told in outline form, huge hat-tip to Dave Eggers
Written by Michael James Schneider
The Blacksmith, a blacksmith, lives in time unknown, odd combination of anachronism and technology so advanced it seems archaic. Steampunk? No, probably not.
Handsome (of course), rugged, eyes green but seem startlingly brighter because his face is always covered in soot. Salt and pepper. Something in there about how he will sometimes draw his forearm across his face to wipe away the grime, and gets even dirtier. (Don’t hammer this one too deep, though, people will get it..haha get it? hammer). He is a blacksmith because his father was also a ferrier. No, maybe his father was a sword maker, and Gray (the blacksmith’s name, but everyone calls him Plover) chose early on to be a simple smithy. Is this a cause of a rift? Maybe. Continue reading The Story of The Blacksmith and The Impossum→
Another “Little Curtis” entry, written out of genial frustration at my friend Julie. I have a blast writing these.
Little Curtis ran up the back stoop, covered in cornsilk and trouble. “Momma! Momma!” He practically tore the screen door off its rickety hinges when he ran into the kitchen, where Betty was stooped over the sink, snapping beans for that night’s casserole.
“Little Curtis! Feet!” she shot back at him, which shut his caterwauling up but good. He stood there in his dirty Buster Brown boots, which he would probably never, ever remember to wipe clean on the boot brush outside the door as long as he was her son. His upper lip trembled, and he looked about to burst into tears. “But Momma…” he trailed off. Continue reading Little Curtis, Part 2→
This was a snarky comment I wrote on a social network in response to my friend Jessie. It turned into a favorite serial of mine.
“What is it, hon?”
“Come quick, momma! Somethin’ on the Facebooks!”
She entered the room, wiping her hard hands on her threadbare apron, weary and bedraggled. What was Curtis up to now, when he should be shucking corn for supper. She looked around. He was nowhere near his shucking tub, instead, she found him in front of the computer, staring gape-mouthed at the thing. Continue reading Little Curtis, Part 1→