Happy Birthday FWW!
EDG Audio Drama
11 years ago
Monday, July 12, 2021
Sunday, July 12, 2020
Birthdate remembered
2020: the July 12 birthday toast
All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.
— THEODORE ROETHKE
All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.
— THEODORE ROETHKE
Monday, March 27, 2017
To life
"There was a conversation once about the sideyard on 14th Street being outside the normal bounds of time, like Sundays..."
May all things lovely that blossomed there continue to blossom.
Here's a toast of gratitude and love to Frank
May all things lovely that blossomed there continue to blossom.
Here's a toast of gratitude and love to Frank
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Friday, July 12, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Thursday, November 22, 2012
BOOKS FOR SALE!!!!
I have printed 50 copies of Frank W. Walsh's book Shoes of Giants, and will mail one to those who send $25 to: Rachael Walsh, 29 Bay Shore Drive, Bay City, Michigan 48706.
The cost of the book is $20.99 and the $4.01 is for shipping and handling.
If you want more than one book, $4.01 should handle the shipping, just send $20 per book after the first $25.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Tribute to Sam Hacker, May 3, 1948
Thursday, July 12, 2012
July 12th 2012
I miss Frank today and want to thank him for all he gave me. I hope that I can continue in his spirit, to always be generous to people and offer them a home, to always be open to poetry and beauty and new ideas, to always be ready for a new celebration!
I hear his pen in the sports page, his sonorous bass voice in the wood of the Butsedan, see his eye in each sketch on the wall, and laugh with him as each magpie flies by.
I try to communicate his love for words and lived vision of an ordinary utopia in my language classes.
I am happy to share him still with all of you!
Love,
Josh
I hear his pen in the sports page, his sonorous bass voice in the wood of the Butsedan, see his eye in each sketch on the wall, and laugh with him as each magpie flies by.
I try to communicate his love for words and lived vision of an ordinary utopia in my language classes.
I am happy to share him still with all of you!
Love,
Josh
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
From F's Column, 6 JULY 2007
HALF-WAY HOME
It's summer again — summer all over — sunshine and late afternoon rains — splashing water and coconut oil scent — sandy beaches — baseball on the radio on an occasional afternoon —the twin peaks of the Fourth of July and the All Star game — what used to be Dominion Day in Canada, our northern neighbor, the return from which now requires a passport — Bastille Day — and we shall top it all off on the 15th after the Yankees' final game with a Side Yard Party. Y'all come.
I remember one Fourth of July party. The girl next door asked to use the side yard for a yard sale. It was a magnificent event that grew more colorful as the hours went by. I pulled out my CDs of march music, Sousa and all. We found some portable speakers and blasted marches all day. She wore polka-dot gloves and a big, floppy hat and entertained as though it were a garden party. Here was a wonderful time from out of nowhere.
Yes, the baseball year is half-gone, and waiting in the wings are the Boston Red Sox, the Detroit Tigers, LA and Oakland, tough customers all. But then, who isn't? The little losses, all those games just lost by a hair, have piled up. Manager Maddon has reached deep into his well of calm, somehow salving the buildup of steam and volcanic gas that must have been close to eruption on many a day as he watched late inning leads fade into losses. He would turn his back on the display of winners climbing around on each other like monkeys in a zoo and head for the tunnel back to the clubhouse. Perhaps there would be a report on one of the wounded warriors rehabbing in one of the minor league vacation spots. Upton? Baldelli? Riggins? Josh Paul? How about Elijah? He seemed to be doing so well, calm, playful, happy — before the ink hit the presses. We miss those catches in deep center field. Ah,well.
It's summer again — summer all over — sunshine and late afternoon rains — splashing water and coconut oil scent — sandy beaches — baseball on the radio on an occasional afternoon —the twin peaks of the Fourth of July and the All Star game — what used to be Dominion Day in Canada, our northern neighbor, the return from which now requires a passport — Bastille Day — and we shall top it all off on the 15th after the Yankees' final game with a Side Yard Party. Y'all come.
I remember one Fourth of July party. The girl next door asked to use the side yard for a yard sale. It was a magnificent event that grew more colorful as the hours went by. I pulled out my CDs of march music, Sousa and all. We found some portable speakers and blasted marches all day. She wore polka-dot gloves and a big, floppy hat and entertained as though it were a garden party. Here was a wonderful time from out of nowhere.
Yes, the baseball year is half-gone, and waiting in the wings are the Boston Red Sox, the Detroit Tigers, LA and Oakland, tough customers all. But then, who isn't? The little losses, all those games just lost by a hair, have piled up. Manager Maddon has reached deep into his well of calm, somehow salving the buildup of steam and volcanic gas that must have been close to eruption on many a day as he watched late inning leads fade into losses. He would turn his back on the display of winners climbing around on each other like monkeys in a zoo and head for the tunnel back to the clubhouse. Perhaps there would be a report on one of the wounded warriors rehabbing in one of the minor league vacation spots. Upton? Baldelli? Riggins? Josh Paul? How about Elijah? He seemed to be doing so well, calm, playful, happy — before the ink hit the presses. We miss those catches in deep center field. Ah,well.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Preparing for the July 12 Toast:
All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.
— THEODORE ROETHKE
All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.
— THEODORE ROETHKE
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Prost!
Prost! Springtime says happy rebirth day again and again to all Bodhisattva, including dear old Frank... Reading "Sick Puppy" by Carl Hiaasen now (last book he read). And looking forward to summoning the spirits of FWW, BJW, and MEC when Greg and Cheri Lynn are here... Did I hear a cork?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Anniversary Posting
Rosalie sent this card for scanning and today is perfect for posting.
The card reads:
The Leona
Linwood Mich.
In the morning - at sunrise in the Fall the sun shines back from the Icehouse.
F.W. Walsh 1985
Soft-ground etching - water color - metallic pen
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Frank's Notebooks Online
Hi: I've started uploading Frank's sketches at
FrankWalshArtist.blogspot.com
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Very Nice Wishes
Ah, yes! We'll raise the glasses in all our disparate locations.
Our pin on the map is in western North Carolina. I have this stack of
cards and letters sent here over a number of years from Frank sitting
out on the studio table.
Greetings from PS Cottage.
And love from us, too!
Ruth
Frank is the toast of 14th Street! As per usual Blackberry spent the day in the side yard waiting for something to happen. Bill, Julia and I spent the evening remembering Frank. No night blooming sirius blossoms to report but a wonderful evening none the less. The Wolfarth (our name for Frank's cello) is in the mountains of Tennessee at the Sewanee Summer Music Festival with Peter making beautiful music. You can hear and see the Wolfarth on live streaming from the Sewanee Summer Music Festival through July 25th. Peter is playing in the Cumberland Orchestra. We are confident Frank would surely be pleased and smiling. All is well... Come to see us sometime.
Peace,
Melissa
--- On Tue, 7/12/11, Joshua Amrhein wrote:
From: Joshua Amrhein
Subject: Happy Birthday to Frank!
To: "Hall Annie", "Erskin Cheri+Greg" , "Erskin Jesse" , "Erskin Kelly" , "Walsh Charlie/Karen" , "Walsh Rachel" , "Walsh Emily" , "Barlow Bill & Melissa" , "McIntosh Sandy" , "Gaertner Ken" , "Gaertner Mary Ann" , "Pettis Ruth" , "Bueckle Jutta" , "Amrhein Frank" , "Waters Craig" , "jane aunt"
Date: Tuesday, July 12, 2011, 7:26 PM
Happy Birthday
to
Frank!
Wish we were all together
to raise our glasses in a toast...
Greetings from Passau.
Love,
Josh
Our pin on the map is in western North Carolina. I have this stack of
cards and letters sent here over a number of years from Frank sitting
out on the studio table.
Greetings from PS Cottage.
And love from us, too!
Ruth
Frank is the toast of 14th Street! As per usual Blackberry spent the day in the side yard waiting for something to happen. Bill, Julia and I spent the evening remembering Frank. No night blooming sirius blossoms to report but a wonderful evening none the less. The Wolfarth (our name for Frank's cello) is in the mountains of Tennessee at the Sewanee Summer Music Festival with Peter making beautiful music. You can hear and see the Wolfarth on live streaming from the Sewanee Summer Music Festival through July 25th. Peter is playing in the Cumberland Orchestra. We are confident Frank would surely be pleased and smiling. All is well... Come to see us sometime.
Peace,
Melissa
--- On Tue, 7/12/11, Joshua Amrhein
From: Joshua Amrhein
Subject: Happy Birthday to Frank!
To: "Hall Annie"
Date: Tuesday, July 12, 2011, 7:26 PM
Happy Birthday
to
Frank!
Wish we were all together
to raise our glasses in a toast...
Greetings from Passau.
Love,
Josh
Friday, May 27, 2011
A Favorite Story
Shoes of Giants
Sunday, December 03, 2006
XMAS AT THE BOOK STORE
BOOKSTORE AT XMAS
By Frank W. Walsh
You would have loved being there for the season at the Old Town Book Store. I know I couldn't wait to get there in the morning, sweep off the snow, sometimes shovel it in shirtsleeves, cap and gloves, hang out the glass-domed kerosene lamp someone had donated. When we opened at night the lighting of the lamp would signal our readiness for guests. When the snow flew the lamp was reflected golden off the flakes making a Dickensian scene — not in London — but in mid-Michigan.
People brought things they thought would be at home in the book store: stuffed owls, ceramic ash trays from a pottery class, small statuettes, large paintings, coffee makers and cups, hand-woven fabrics, pots for Mu tea, photographs and drawings (many of the book store), even a crystal decanter for our cheap wine and a crystal glass for Mrs. B's Manischewitz.
No matter how early you'd get there, even with the lights off, someone would bang on the door. It was impossible to yell, "Closed!" A whole new adventure might be aborted. Most of the time the purpose of the visit would be to browse and get warm, but sometimes an alchemic incident would evolve — just the right book for the right person at the right time.
Our first regular employee was Nancy P. Nancy, like me, was a recent college graduate, a liberal arts major, equipped for everything and nothing. She had applied for a job at the local newspaper. The only opening was in the society section. This was the sixties, and there was still a society section. Nancy was no radical, but she was aware of shifting tides in the world around her. She was of a serious nature with a little frown line between her eyes. Documenting the doings of our town's dowagers did not fit into the role she had set for herself.
She had money but no job. We had a job but no money. She came to work for lunch money, which would come from our cash register, a red cardboard box that had once housed several tiers of chocolates.
We had a training manual — two, in fact — both by Christopher Morley: Parnassus on Wheels and The Haunted Bookshop. Books still in print and accessible through the Internet. Nancy stayed at the bookstore for many years before she left to become a teacher and start a family. She may at some time have been paid close to minimum wage. Perhaps not.
Always a delight was the annual December visit of occasional shopper, Sally C. She would come in with a long list of giftees, settle into the back room at the oaken conference table (from the Lufkin Rule Company when they closed up), search out a book or two for everyone on the list, erect piles, traipse over to Kent's Drug Store for wrapping paper, scotch tape and ribbon and perhaps a couple of egg salad sandwiches, wrap and identify each book and make payment by check. We would then cart the packages out to her station wagon and she would be off for another year, shopping completed. And we could relish our best sale of the season.
We never sold much. A $100-day was a wildly successful day. Often we took a loss. Our expenses were low, too. For many years all of our help was volunteer. Staff hours were sketchy. We opened at 10 a.m., closed at 6, reopened at 9 p.m. and stayed open until it was time to close — usually around midnight. It was an occasion characterized more by conversation than by commerce.
The first snow of the year heralded what became a bookstore tradition. When the big flakes came down. Real ones, like hosts or frozen manna.
On a display counter we had a pile of slight books, rather like pamphlets, with deckled edges and sea-blue covers and an envelope, too. They were editions of A Child's Christmas in Wales, by Dylan Thomas.
Going over to lock the door and pulling up a high stool, I announced that I intended to read the whole thing aloud. Once I began there would be no entry nor egress. Anyone who wished to leave could do so then.
When no one left, I would clear my throat and begin: "One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now …"
Every year for many years this ritual was observed. The snow came. The lock clicked. The reading began. The reading ended. That was that.
The bookstore seemed to have a life of its own, always open, always reaching out, displaying all sides of an issue. Piles of books rose, spontaneously generated on the floor. Boxes of books intended for return gathered dust.
New malls were built. Franchise stores with wide aisles, pyramids of best sellers, sale prices and fluorescent lights moved in.
On a sad September day, after 10 good years, the Old Town Book Store closed its door for the last time. The sports shop next door expanded. Now accessories for cyclists stand where once there were books. The red neon sign in the window, the extended black and white sign over the door that said simply, "Books," and the lantern are all gone.
But sometimes in December, as the new blanket of snow fights the slush of Hamilton Street, you might think you see a faint flicker between the heavy plate glass windows, and question whether there was a movement of browsers within. And hear an ever-so-faint echo of Dylan Thomas, "One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now … "
Frank Wolfarth Walsh
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
Sports Columnist, Neighborhood Newspapers
Author, Shoes of Giants
Blog: shoesofgiants.blogspot.com
Contact:
1130 14th Street N.
St. Petersburg, FL 33705
727.481.0592 — Cell
727.823.7749 — Fax
posted by Frank @ 5:25 PM 1 comments
1 Comments:
At 2:29 PM, Wolfhound Deb said...
Your description of the bookstore brought both joy and sadness. The joy of the memories of those times and the sadness of the time when I returned from my "journeys in life" yet one more time, only to discover that it and you were gone. I believe it was January, 1974 when I was last there when the bookstore still existed..... a very cold and snowy day. You were adamant that we treck through the snow to buy some fish for the tank to celebrate. I returned a little more than a year later only to discover that the bookstore was no more.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
XMAS AT THE BOOK STORE
BOOKSTORE AT XMAS
By Frank W. Walsh
You would have loved being there for the season at the Old Town Book Store. I know I couldn't wait to get there in the morning, sweep off the snow, sometimes shovel it in shirtsleeves, cap and gloves, hang out the glass-domed kerosene lamp someone had donated. When we opened at night the lighting of the lamp would signal our readiness for guests. When the snow flew the lamp was reflected golden off the flakes making a Dickensian scene — not in London — but in mid-Michigan.
People brought things they thought would be at home in the book store: stuffed owls, ceramic ash trays from a pottery class, small statuettes, large paintings, coffee makers and cups, hand-woven fabrics, pots for Mu tea, photographs and drawings (many of the book store), even a crystal decanter for our cheap wine and a crystal glass for Mrs. B's Manischewitz.
No matter how early you'd get there, even with the lights off, someone would bang on the door. It was impossible to yell, "Closed!" A whole new adventure might be aborted. Most of the time the purpose of the visit would be to browse and get warm, but sometimes an alchemic incident would evolve — just the right book for the right person at the right time.
Our first regular employee was Nancy P. Nancy, like me, was a recent college graduate, a liberal arts major, equipped for everything and nothing. She had applied for a job at the local newspaper. The only opening was in the society section. This was the sixties, and there was still a society section. Nancy was no radical, but she was aware of shifting tides in the world around her. She was of a serious nature with a little frown line between her eyes. Documenting the doings of our town's dowagers did not fit into the role she had set for herself.
She had money but no job. We had a job but no money. She came to work for lunch money, which would come from our cash register, a red cardboard box that had once housed several tiers of chocolates.
We had a training manual — two, in fact — both by Christopher Morley: Parnassus on Wheels and The Haunted Bookshop. Books still in print and accessible through the Internet. Nancy stayed at the bookstore for many years before she left to become a teacher and start a family. She may at some time have been paid close to minimum wage. Perhaps not.
Always a delight was the annual December visit of occasional shopper, Sally C. She would come in with a long list of giftees, settle into the back room at the oaken conference table (from the Lufkin Rule Company when they closed up), search out a book or two for everyone on the list, erect piles, traipse over to Kent's Drug Store for wrapping paper, scotch tape and ribbon and perhaps a couple of egg salad sandwiches, wrap and identify each book and make payment by check. We would then cart the packages out to her station wagon and she would be off for another year, shopping completed. And we could relish our best sale of the season.
We never sold much. A $100-day was a wildly successful day. Often we took a loss. Our expenses were low, too. For many years all of our help was volunteer. Staff hours were sketchy. We opened at 10 a.m., closed at 6, reopened at 9 p.m. and stayed open until it was time to close — usually around midnight. It was an occasion characterized more by conversation than by commerce.
The first snow of the year heralded what became a bookstore tradition. When the big flakes came down. Real ones, like hosts or frozen manna.
On a display counter we had a pile of slight books, rather like pamphlets, with deckled edges and sea-blue covers and an envelope, too. They were editions of A Child's Christmas in Wales, by Dylan Thomas.
Going over to lock the door and pulling up a high stool, I announced that I intended to read the whole thing aloud. Once I began there would be no entry nor egress. Anyone who wished to leave could do so then.
When no one left, I would clear my throat and begin: "One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now …"
Every year for many years this ritual was observed. The snow came. The lock clicked. The reading began. The reading ended. That was that.
The bookstore seemed to have a life of its own, always open, always reaching out, displaying all sides of an issue. Piles of books rose, spontaneously generated on the floor. Boxes of books intended for return gathered dust.
New malls were built. Franchise stores with wide aisles, pyramids of best sellers, sale prices and fluorescent lights moved in.
On a sad September day, after 10 good years, the Old Town Book Store closed its door for the last time. The sports shop next door expanded. Now accessories for cyclists stand where once there were books. The red neon sign in the window, the extended black and white sign over the door that said simply, "Books," and the lantern are all gone.
But sometimes in December, as the new blanket of snow fights the slush of Hamilton Street, you might think you see a faint flicker between the heavy plate glass windows, and question whether there was a movement of browsers within. And hear an ever-so-faint echo of Dylan Thomas, "One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now … "
Frank Wolfarth Walsh
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
Sports Columnist, Neighborhood Newspapers
Author, Shoes of Giants
Blog: shoesofgiants.blogspot.com
Contact:
1130 14th Street N.
St. Petersburg, FL 33705
727.481.0592 — Cell
727.823.7749 — Fax
posted by Frank @ 5:25 PM 1 comments
1 Comments:
At 2:29 PM, Wolfhound Deb said...
Your description of the bookstore brought both joy and sadness. The joy of the memories of those times and the sadness of the time when I returned from my "journeys in life" yet one more time, only to discover that it and you were gone. I believe it was January, 1974 when I was last there when the bookstore still existed..... a very cold and snowy day. You were adamant that we treck through the snow to buy some fish for the tank to celebrate. I returned a little more than a year later only to discover that the bookstore was no more.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
In Honor of Protest Marches
Mike and I attended the 40th Annual Hash Bash in Ann Arbor and he wore his love beads from the Ziggurat and I wore buttons from marches we had been to, and those collected by Frank and Billie during their good work over the years.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
3rd Re-Birthday
Happy Third Re-Birthday Frank!
It's been three years now since you journeyed on.
We miss you! You live on inside of us, but we enjoyed it even more when we could sit across from you on the porch in St. Pete or Linwood. You in your suspenders.
Taking us to see the jazz combo play in Bay City. Sitting in the bleachers at Al Lang. Heading down to the Fine Arts museum or the Dali.
Always with time for others. So gracious and polite. With bodhisattva compassion. Nothing more you'd want of us than to spread this love even further.
No need for anything in your coffee. Cold coffee was just fine, too. Jug wine. "Where's the Willard Water?"
"Hail to the sacred vowels! Supreme salutations to the holy consonants!"
The coffee table, the dining room table, the table next to the blue chair, the table and the floor next to the blue couch, all piled up with book upon book upon book.
"A house without books is like a garden without plants"
"I eat my peas with honey. I've done so all my life. It makes them taste quite funny. But it keeps them on my knife!"
The front pocket of your shirt overstuffed with pen after pen after pen.
"Nam Myoho Renge Kyo"
Chanting after we'd all gone to bed. Bell ringing as we drifted to sleep in the twins' beds. The smell of tropical plants and the sweat of humidity in damp sheets.
Have you written your name in the birthday books yet?
Good Night Frank. See you in the morning of the next life!
Love,
Josh
Friday, February 11, 2011
Plays by Frank W. Walsh
Frank Wolfarth Walsh won awards in drama at the University of Michigan. Previously, I had posted the Hopwood Winners here but the text took up so much space I have created a blog with the full text of the plays for those who wish to read them.
Click on this highlighted title to go read Frank's plays.
THE FIRST DAY
and
Other Plays for Radio and Television
by
Frank W. Walsh
Summer Awards in Drama
1959
First Prize
$50
"THE FIRST DAY", a Play for Television
Click on this highlighted title to go read Frank's plays.
THE FIRST DAY
and
Other Plays for Radio and Television
by
Frank W. Walsh
Summer Awards in Drama
1959
First Prize
$50
"THE FIRST DAY", a Play for Television
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Monday, November 22, 2010
December Reading the 2nd--Three Years!
Join us to celebrate three years of terrific experimental writing. This show features five great writers, film, music, and general high spirits!
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: 1,000 WORDS READING: PERMANENCE
7PM sharp-9PM, Thursday, December 2 AT THE WAYPOST, 3120 N. WILLIAMS AVE., PORTLAND (503-367-3182)
FREE
ALL-AGES VENUE; FOOD, BEER, AND WINE AVAILABLE
CONTACT: MEL FAVARA, 971-506-3340, mel.favara@gmail.com
We’ll present the newest chapter in a Oulipean experiment, and our 3RD ANNIVERSARY SHOW (mysterious and random door prizes provided)! Five exemplary local writers, one musician, and a filmmaker responded to the theme PERMANENCE, penning 250 words per week (or making 250 seconds of film) for four weeks, totaling 1,000 words each, in response to the theme and prompts created/found/stolen by series curator Mel Favara. The results, as per usual, have been wildly divergent, smart, and fresh: want to see how six participants employed the phrase, “tattooed the word "tiny" across her knuckles” and the words tattered,
sale, spin, pool, and foil in one 250 word piece? Join us Thursday the 2nd at the Waypost to hear the writer’s innovative writing and also witness the 1,000 Words house band, Reid Trevarthen, playing songs based on the prompts at the intermission.
Performers:
Joe Pitkin can make few claims to specialness besides the fact that he is a perennial reader for 1,000 Words: he’s kind of like the Randy Newman of 1,000 Words. His poetry has appeared in North American Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere; he started writing speculative fiction a couple of years ago and has had pieces in M-Brane and Expanded Horizons. He teaches—if you can call what he does teaching—at Clark College.
Kevin Sampsell is the publisher of the micropress, Future Tense Books, and a writer whose work has appeared widely in places like Nerve, Night Train, Opium, McSweeney's, Quick Fiction, Yeti, and Smith Magazine. He is the editor of Portland Noir and the author of Creamy Bullets and A Common Pornography.
Laura Moulton earned an MFA from Eastern Washington University. She has taught writing workshops in high schools, universities, and the women’s prison in Wilsonville. Her art piece “Object Permanence” was commissioned by Portland State University in 2009. Her stories and essays have been featured in Hip Mama, Portland Tribune, and Brain, Child. Her essay about visiting slums in Brazil appeared in Street Roots in June. She is a contributing artist to Disappearing, a book project by artist Melody Owen. Moulton is currently at work on a novel.
Amy Temple Harper is adopted from Korea and lives in Portland. Her poetry and
fiction have been published in the Oregon Literary Review and The Portland Review.
Kirby Light is a peripheral visionary! He can see way into the future but only off to the left and right. He is a firm believer that punctuation is not sexy and that the state of a man's kitchen is no indication of how well that man can take care of a woman. When not being the hero and villain of his own story you can find Kirby laying in the gutter looking up at the stars, or you can find him writing, but the writing is just the residue and far from what he does best.
Musician Reid Trevarthen lived in Italy at one point in time. At other points in time he played “Weather Watchers” with his grade school friends, learned how to speak some German and alternated between wearing and not wearing glasses. Now he is playing music and starting to learn to do the things that grown-ups do.
Karl Lind is a filmmaker, cameraman, director, editor, and video artist living in Portland, Oregon. He has been contemplating adopting a cat for quite awhile. See his work at www.inthecanllc.com.
Curator/Host Mel Favara has helmed 1,000 Words for three years, wrote the zine teen sleuth through the 90’s and 00s, teaches writing and literature at Clark College, and makes a mean marinara from scratch.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: 1,000 WORDS READING: PERMANENCE
7PM sharp-9PM, Thursday, December 2 AT THE WAYPOST, 3120 N. WILLIAMS AVE., PORTLAND (503-367-3182)
FREE
ALL-AGES VENUE; FOOD, BEER, AND WINE AVAILABLE
CONTACT: MEL FAVARA, 971-506-3340, mel.favara@gmail.com
We’ll present the newest chapter in a Oulipean experiment, and our 3RD ANNIVERSARY SHOW (mysterious and random door prizes provided)! Five exemplary local writers, one musician, and a filmmaker responded to the theme PERMANENCE, penning 250 words per week (or making 250 seconds of film) for four weeks, totaling 1,000 words each, in response to the theme and prompts created/found/stolen by series curator Mel Favara. The results, as per usual, have been wildly divergent, smart, and fresh: want to see how six participants employed the phrase, “tattooed the word "tiny" across her knuckles” and the words tattered,
sale, spin, pool, and foil in one 250 word piece? Join us Thursday the 2nd at the Waypost to hear the writer’s innovative writing and also witness the 1,000 Words house band, Reid Trevarthen, playing songs based on the prompts at the intermission.
Performers:
Joe Pitkin can make few claims to specialness besides the fact that he is a perennial reader for 1,000 Words: he’s kind of like the Randy Newman of 1,000 Words. His poetry has appeared in North American Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere; he started writing speculative fiction a couple of years ago and has had pieces in M-Brane and Expanded Horizons. He teaches—if you can call what he does teaching—at Clark College.
Kevin Sampsell is the publisher of the micropress, Future Tense Books, and a writer whose work has appeared widely in places like Nerve, Night Train, Opium, McSweeney's, Quick Fiction, Yeti, and Smith Magazine. He is the editor of Portland Noir and the author of Creamy Bullets and A Common Pornography.
Laura Moulton earned an MFA from Eastern Washington University. She has taught writing workshops in high schools, universities, and the women’s prison in Wilsonville. Her art piece “Object Permanence” was commissioned by Portland State University in 2009. Her stories and essays have been featured in Hip Mama, Portland Tribune, and Brain, Child. Her essay about visiting slums in Brazil appeared in Street Roots in June. She is a contributing artist to Disappearing, a book project by artist Melody Owen. Moulton is currently at work on a novel.
Amy Temple Harper is adopted from Korea and lives in Portland. Her poetry and
fiction have been published in the Oregon Literary Review and The Portland Review.
Kirby Light is a peripheral visionary! He can see way into the future but only off to the left and right. He is a firm believer that punctuation is not sexy and that the state of a man's kitchen is no indication of how well that man can take care of a woman. When not being the hero and villain of his own story you can find Kirby laying in the gutter looking up at the stars, or you can find him writing, but the writing is just the residue and far from what he does best.
Musician Reid Trevarthen lived in Italy at one point in time. At other points in time he played “Weather Watchers” with his grade school friends, learned how to speak some German and alternated between wearing and not wearing glasses. Now he is playing music and starting to learn to do the things that grown-ups do.
Karl Lind is a filmmaker, cameraman, director, editor, and video artist living in Portland, Oregon. He has been contemplating adopting a cat for quite awhile. See his work at www.inthecanllc.com.
Curator/Host Mel Favara has helmed 1,000 Words for three years, wrote the zine teen sleuth through the 90’s and 00s, teaches writing and literature at Clark College, and makes a mean marinara from scratch.
Friday, October 1, 2010
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