But we just don’t know—can’t know, can we?—the full implications: what it is they whisper to one another, this throbbing message sent in nanoseconds, sent near the speed of light, means, or how it’s interpreted by a world we’re convinced we’re above.
See? There is a story here you know. This place, this ecosystem, these bears, the salmon, and you. They’re unable to escape the pull of home, of passing something down. You thought, for a long while, that you could escape, that none of it mattered, where you came from.
Across the street, a neighbor comes out and makes a loud phone call to animal control. They’re afraid, can’t fathom this monster so close to their house and family. They wave their arms wildly, try to shoo the bird away. They don’t know what to make of this carnage.
You can Read part 1 (the Common Fig) here, and follow along with the series here.
Feel incredibly proud and honored to have done the artwork for musician Jesse Young‘s new album, Heart of Me, out March 1, 2019. I’ve known Jesse for almost eighteen years; he’s an incredible friend and a mesmerizingly-talented musician.
And this is something new to me, seeing something I illustrated on iTunes. Pretty pretty pretty neat.
Here’s the front and back of the album (and there will be a physical release, too):
You can pre-order Heart of Me on Bandcamp or on iTunes.
And while researchers retrieved some of Ahmet’s clothing in the soil, beneath the tree—allowing his family to properly mourn and make peace decades after his disappearance—his mortal remains survive now in these branches, this smooth white bark, these deeply-lobed leaves, this particular woodsy-sweet fragrance.
A huge thanks to Jen Todhunter for making this recurring series happen, and to Dina Relles for helping me shape it into something. Read part 1 here, and follow along with the series here.
After he buried his father in an enormous coffin made from towering cured pine logs, he thought often of leaving the island, of swimming the chopping inland sea, to proclaim his inheritance from man, proclaiming he was half them, half something else—to be worshipped, absolutely—but also to seek love, yes, to be held. Then the drink would take him, drag him down and, instead, he would wrestle the bears and hunt with the wolves and break the necks of the geese for sport and chide Babe until he felt sickly satisfied in his depravity.
A huge shout-out to Brian and the team at matchbook for making this an incredibly easy (and rewarding) process—this is, absolutely, a dream publication.
When we pulled up to the skate rink I was reciting Motownphilly from memory and she wasn’t impressed but I kept going and the rink was exactly how I remembered: it looked like a corrugated metal airplane hangar with a crooked white banner hanging off the side advertising in blocky red text the FREE COMMUNITY SKATE—right behind it, still, the American Legion post sat sagged and tired and it was mostly the same, but now the paint job’s gone from seafoam green to red and white stripes…
I’ve long loved the work that Pidgeonholes publishes, and I’m grateful to editors Jennifer Todhunter and Cathy Ulrich for picking this up.