it’s a mysterious collaboration until you listen and the mysteries become y/our reality

Then ambient soundscape loops, glitches and beats find my disembodied voice, recorded in moments of joy and pain from far flung corners through all the emotions a time-slipped decades

Then jigsawed together in ways hitherto unimagined until today, and all tomorrows ~ goes out to ears anywhere

Smitten. And you? Fondly, uw

Links:

Bandcamp (preferred):

winterkeep.bandcamp.com/album/ep-thinking-about-not-thinkg-yet-so-much-life (stream &/or purchase $9NZD, about $5.20USD)

winterkeep ~ post rock ambient soundscapes winterkeepmusic.com/

and winterkeep youtube youtube.com/@winterkeep

also other channels but you’re smart and we’ll figure that out

Blurb:

Across oceans and archipelagos, winterkeep and Dave Olson (uncleweed) trade signals like shortwave transmissions in slow motion. This EP is built from missed communications and spontaneous codes, poetry fermented in notebooks and forgotten digital corners until the moment felt exactly right, or the world completely wrong. It is the sound of two lives crossing in different years, different hemispheres, now meeting in the same frequency.

Olson’s words drift from imagined echoes of James Joyce’s Dublin to Jack Kerouac’s San Francisco via Himalayan adventures, rusting jungle tanks in Palau, earthquake-ravaged fish markets and Vancouver alleyway recording booths. Winterkeep’s ambient textures hold these fragments in white-cold heat, stretching them into tides of memory and migration. The result is a highly personal and disjointed map of transitions and interludes: travel and life, postcards and videos, phone calls and time-slips.

This is music as correspondence, circumnavigation and surprise, a reminder that even the most attenuated signals can still find their way home

Postcards: special treat to the wonderful humans who purchase, sending typewritten poetic postcards “night like diving” from Lake Crescent, Olympic Peninsula 2004 on Japanese washi paper

Didn’t get one yet? Let me know

Thanks:

thank you to Ricardo Wang for playing “remnants and artefacts” on Radio Freeform Portland

global soundscapes and poetic riffs creation by me & Winterkeep of NZ

feels like postcards communicate transmitted over shortwave 

listen ~ 

Reviews and such: many music enthusiasts with exceptional taste took time to drop their thoughts so, in a fetching eye mask in the last, i read for a bit of a story time

Radio etc:

do you host a podcast, radio show, short wave transmissions, alien signals, write a music blog, run a label or anything else in this stratosphere? Say ahoy and we’ll send you the whole deluxe ‘press kit’ with blurbs, uncompressed files, video accompaniments and whatnot

someone, a “student” of sorts, decided up boat and weapon was necessary… 

a poem came from a night, jumping into the water hoping the “don’t call it a cold plunge” would help my head understand what comes next

turns out everything and anything and all of it and nothing and all the twist and turns that led me here

now, these are the “hidden track that was so hidden it wasn’t pressed into acetate digital or otherwise” sending as numbered thank you cards to folks who have supported the “thinking about not thinkng, yet so much *life*” EP ambient soundscape loops beats and literary rips & poetic riffs project with magical collaborator @winterkeep.music 

available for purchase for 9 New Zealand dollars (or more) via Bandcamp ~ please note the information i receive about the purchasers is a little bit vague and don’t wanna go prying so if you’ve purchased the EP and wanna remind me to send you a postcard, please remind me to send you a postcard… ink smudges, raindrops, cracked ribbons, typewriter hiccups and everything else 

#SpokenWord #Poetry #JackKerouac #JamesJoyce

{drums, baritone ukulele, guitar, vocals by dave uncleweed olson via words, musings & annotations rec’d in a festive dossier – by matt lazy layzell}

recorded: Giggling Piglet Studio & Consulate, Tsuchida, Okayama, Japan, boxing day 2025

Importantly, this is my soliloquy as a sign post of another checkpoint, with a bit of ukulele of course, expressing my gratitude for friends who stuck with me along the way, expressing a few sentiments about this year (broke so hard, fixed in ways I couldn’t imagine, tidied many life administration things up, built some large things or effectuated the building anyway) and riff about my slightly curbed ambitions yet still so many things to do, I have schemes & list of course (zines & books and songs)

Expressing gratitude and gentle apologies for: UW55: friendly birthday greetz for “double nickels on the dime” – Choogle On #127 (18:43, 28MB, stereo, mp3)

Plus sincere request for understanding and acceptance, maybe even apologies to anyone that I might have slighted, not shown up for, ran my mouth when trying to be cool or figure myself out, and otherwise not at my best. I’m trying, always 

Finally, as an aside a spontaneous expression about this situation where I’m having really vivid dreams about sliding doors, parallel lives and a cognitive déjà vu… There’s a large vocabulary about the phenomenon or circumstance but I’m still sort of piecing it together as I love my life as it is, I’m so happy to be where I made it yet haunted by these various iterations 

Do you have insight into this? More of a vocabulary? A way to frame this as a different mind model or something something? Sure, tell me about that if you like

Anyway, I’m truly shocked you’ve read (or listened) cause it’s just me putting what should be in a diary and possibly private but that’s no fun and the heroes I look towards are the writers and artists who have found their true vocation by floating their deepest sentiments out to the world to spark others treading through this human existence by chronicling their own existence in a manner of speaking, choosing words and forms thoughtfully, tripping over roots, sitting on benches and seeking just the right implement.

Oh right, this has a special surprise at the end the video doesn’t. Not hint: Atlantic City snippet

Fondly, dvo 

Birthday: 8/16 = 55

Originally released as a “slide show” video: 8:16 long, patched together with a buncha photos, mostly around my birthday week but a few others in there to “make weight” and a couple of Easter eggs (keep your eyes out)… 

Lots of peace signs, coffee cups, great hats, and cornball poses plus of course my darlings sneak in here along with a few powerful character characters met-up on this recent ramble

find video at youtube/uncleweed or UW55 friendly birthday greetings – double nickels on the dime

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Video reading of this same dispatch (in moderately different edit) is at https://daveostory.com/film-vids-docs/postcards-video/cereal-and-hypnotists-four-poems-from-the-caboose/

Following recent reading at “Muriel’s Journey” poetry campaign from Vancouver, spontaneously share the honourable-mention poem “Small Box of Cereal” with some related artifacts, backstory, feelings about the poet’s task in creating, the impact the poems have on me and, while drinking coffee wearing dashing pajamas in the caboose — the affectionate name for the recent addition to our home in Okayama, Japan — read a previous piece included in Muriel’s Journey anthology book “Fire Within” in 2022 called “Alchemists confer with Hypnotists” with a bonus side bar included, plus “Osaka Afternoon” which kinda caught me off-guard, and finally a rather sprawling poem (which i relaly dig) called (somewhat cheesily) “Smiling on the Inside (hold on)” which concerns dentistry, pop Buddhism, and finding home.

Bring your own magic: Cereal and Hypnotists – Postcard #93 (44MB, 29:08, mp3, stereo)

Also, express my fondness for this particular inclusive & unique campaign for including lesser-heard poetic voices aside from the usual gamut of MFAs (no disrespect to you graduates, it’s just nice to have something a little bit different) plus the “entrance fee” of telling how you help your community

More Blurb: I meant to run down a list of other poets who read or otherwise participated but well I wasn’t entirely prepared however I did manage to call the spectacular editor/publisher Kyle Hawke by slightly incorrect surname (Hawkes) while I was trying to complement him by mentioning how he treats all the poetry transcripts as they were lost works of James Joyce

And while fumbling and rolling hit into “Osaka Afternoon” with a dedication to Emily & Reb who have chimed in with kind words recently – written at the beginning of what eventually became my “Japan 2.0s” era 20+ years after my first foray into Japan working as a mushroom farmer in Tottori yet here I was in a completely new environment in all possible ways and facets of life yikes – regardless it’s called “Osaka Afternoon” as hadn’t revisited this poem for some time which was written in a time of tumult & confusion while diligently seeking a home it hit me quite hard feeling like my heart was flayed (or filleted) open with all my most raw emotions and confessions

Sigh yet the poet’s task is to channel emotions which might strike as universal and float the kinetic words out into the world – right?

So couldn’t quite end on that note so jump into (another) long-form confessional coming back from Indonesia closing off a chapter of a life with a conundrum in my otherwise lovely teeth feeling completely overwhelmed by the strain of “life” and celebrating the purposefulness of having items that can be evolved and curated into collections it’s not “stuff” it’s materiel to create more because the future is unwritten and history is made by people who write it down

Meandering through forms, I poke back at pop Buddhist riffs and dance around the joy of creation sort-ganizing – was submitted to the same Muriel’s Journey campaign in 2024 yet did not receive an accolade no big deal :-) called “smiling on the inside (hold on)” I think it is anyway

Whew finish with a bit of ukulele a lot more thanks adding in Neal who helped me prepare for the live stream, KK ⁠and his convening community at the planetarium, my dear penpal Monique, other people like Tamara with her bookshop (Western Sky) whom I forgot to mention

So hey there’s all of me sliced and diced as such a request to me your poems perhaps

After all as mentioned in one of the poems I’m home forever now – My address won’t change no more secret hideouts, just one safe house

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“Hand-crafted since 2005 | Field notes & poetry from splendid locales.”

Remember when we all wore disguises? and made sourdough starters, send letters, did needlepoint, crafted casseroles, laid out charcuterie plates, perfected soufflés, crashed pots and pans, figured out how to cash cheques, and maybe purchased black suits?

Spontaneous post-rock poetic spoken word free space in kura – imagine if Velvet Underground were in Jr High and Leonard Cohen was their neighbour and came by to hang out… ha, not really but maybe add Pavement with John K Samson

File under: Foreign Letters Only

I have so much to say but at the risk of not getting to it, desperate for you to hear this new creation in which the magical Winterkeep – on an archipelago far from mine – unearths a long distant version of myself (which takes me right back to sitting at the center at the edge of Gastown Vancouver so many years ago)

Ambient post-rock sound music artist winterkeep applies his glorious musical collages to my messages of peace, peace peace, spieled in somehow (speaking to this version of myself) and eloquent spontaneous earnest way while the various countries were just starting on a whole round of destruction and war which seems so distant but repeating itself over and over again

please listen and thank you to winterkeep for always surprising both contemporary, distant and likely future versions of myself

And yes, peace

PS there are a few other winter keep reimagining of my spoken word throughout this archive on appropriate channels including:

• holy donkeys (original from Annapurna circuit, Nepal)

• streaming consciousness (feat James Joyce’s Ulysses
• postcard, one (different than the album version)

Rain falls while i meander in real time memories the engawa—that in-between strip where house meets weather—inside a former fish-processing shed turned home at the ragged edge of the Noto Peninsula.

Since the New Year’s earthquake, the village is a collage of blue X’s, empty lots, demolition crews, and stubborn rebuilds. We slosh barefoot on warped floors, watch puddles ripple toward the fish auction, and listen for trucks and tide.

Sensei keeps his laboratory of samples and skeletons (yes, a whale skeleton in the rafters), Fukushima bark slides for spectral readings, and the old stories that refuse to leave.

Meanwhile, we practice indoor camping, brew tea, and make scrapbooks as Ichiro eyes the water and fireworks.

Stories from the road: the once-grand Maizuru, a chaotic tea shop and a spotless wagashi counter; a minshuku near Fukui’s Dinosaur Museum; a temple founded by Dōgen; a punk-sticker-covered shrine; and a roadside trove of antiques where a musician gifts an Edo-era samurai saké cup and a signed 1970 seven-inch record.

A postcard from the edge—loss and rebuilds, small kindnesses, and the quiet work of carrying on for the Olson O-bon Onsen Ocean roadtrip, Aug. 2025

Sit in the engawa for: Noto Roadtrip Diary – Postcard #92
(46MB, 29:53, mp3, stereo)

Bonus: Noto Fish Market and Ankou fish butchering

Along the road, we pass through:
– Maizuru, a once-grand “Grand Hotel” town now shuttered and wistful
– a chaotic tea shop and a spotless wagashi counter
– a minshuku near Fukui’s Dinosaur Museum
– a temple founded by Dōgen, where I meet a calligrapher pilgrim
– a tiny shrine plastered in punk stickers (shout-out to Ramen, the one-man Ramones tribute)
– an antique trove where I find a working Sony Walkman, an Edo-era samurai saké cup, and a signed 1970 seven-inch from the shopkeeper’s own band

There are beach coffees, rotating bridges, and rain that turns August into a sauna.

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“Hand-crafted since 2005 | Field notes & poetry from splendid locales.”

[Oops a little editing problem with this pod, some of the audio drops out right after the intro, don’t worry all you eager folk, I’ll get it fixed]

With campstove espressos in hand, cicadas in the mix, microphones tumbling down, way down a road that doesn’t appear on maps, i riff a epic catch-up with “Hermit Wizard” Steve — Navy sonar man turned mountain settler — ensconced in his Nagano valley after fifty-plus years in Japan which includes (at least) thirteen roofs, a few goats, a stash of bottled snakes, big car drives with Admirals and beach beers with Emperor’s bodyguards.

Dude lays it out: from Vietnam gun-lines to off-base life in the loooong-gone 70s, MARS-grams on teletype, to a diner where a lady grabbed his heart, riding out the “bubble” as far from Ginza as ya can get, rebuilding an abandoned hamlet one bath and kitchen at a time before “akiya” was a hashtag. Stories wind through Black Ship festivals, Miasa’s hemp fields, and poetry nights where Gary Snyder read and Nanao Sakaki translated (and who he later picked up on the road with thumb out) by way of counter-culture festivals with tipis and drum circles, Matsumoto craft fairs, chasing snakes, wrangling dogs and foraging for mountain vegetables and mushrooms in a Buddhist-Brigadoon which technically doesn’t exist. Through it all, remember “don’t believe everything you hear”.

Mountain air and fifty years at human pace when all you want is to be left along to read a book or pick at a guitar.

Bring a lighter for: Hermit Wizard’s 50+ years in Japan – Choogle On #126 (.mp3, stereo, 98MB, 1:06:41)

From the archive: Japanese Mountain Satori Time – Choogle On! #48

More Nagano and Steve in Cannabis Culture & Journal of Internation Hemp Assoc magazines, elsewhere in this archive

And a song “Sam Stone” for Steve when laid-up in infirmary:

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Poems on hotel letterhead resplendent with stamps crafted in mountains, on tracks and seas, finding ways to be lost, avoiding pirates and ghosts, bouncing from pastoral Lower Canada across radio waves to a provincial caboose in Japan, onward to find you. 

Read by punk rock guitarist, hockey dad, art theater projectionist, wordplay/visual poet, keeper of Inscriptorium & wrangler of The McLuhan Institute, Andrew McLuhan on his show “the spoken word” on county FM radio,, audio file harvested by Brad Rees

Slow rolling Postcards from Gravelly Beach poetry pods, handcrafted since 2005 all from the very depths of my wee heart

The collection read in pod is excerpts from “Items Forgotten” which  has 10 volumes (Disguise, Ramble’d, Time Traveler, Hubris, Circumnavigation, Espionage, Resistor, Reinvention) + some i forgot – crafted on letterhead, wrought in Himalayan Vedic solace, Arabian pirate seas, Malay traintracks & Mediterranean meanders

Available all the podcast places, I think so anyway, and of course at my creative life archive for your enjoyment and convenience

And I might as well tell you I’ve got a few more communications queued up 

Bounce off ionosphere: Items Forgotten on Spoken Word Radio – Postcard #91
(32MB, 21:52, mp3, stereo)

Along the way, I produced a series of visual freeverse poetry called “Items: Forgotten in Drawers“ – part pirate treasure map, part meanderings stashed in a non-secret hiding place, part punk rock handbills. Crafted at an Ayurvedic clinic the Himalayas, a ship in Arabia and ruins around Mediterranean, then attached to vintage hotel letterhead acquired from at a Greek Monastery store Montreal neighbourhood, assembled in off-strip Las Vegas, shared in Utah canyons… and now distributed to points unknown. Further batches were assembled on Nusa Ceningan, Indonesia with scraps printed here and there.

So much more to say about all of this but for now, you can investigate the originals “Items Forgotten in drawers” on 6 or so collections (Disguise, Ramble’d, Time Traveler, Hubris, Circumnavigation, Espionage, Resistor):, here’s a blurb:

Along the way, I produced a series of visual freeverse poetry called “Items: Forgotten in Drawers“ - part pirate treasure map, part meanderings stashed in a non-secret hiding place, part punk rock handbills.

+ Back Story
The poems started in an Ayurvedic clinic the Himalayas, a ship in Arabia and ruins around Mediterranean, then attached to vintage hotel letterhead acquired from a tiny Greek Monastery store in (a heavily Hasidic neighbourhood) Montreal neighbourhood, assembled in off-strip Las Vegas, shared in Utah canyons... and now distributed to points unknown. Further batches were assembled on Nusa Ceningan, Indonesia with scraps printed here and there. 

+ Process
Sometimes, i don't have a printers, other times Internet, often no typewriter so i make do with what i have: scissors, glue, paper... 

When i write, (usually) starts as scribbles in notebooks and then gets hastily transcribed into a digital form and printed when opportunity strikes for editing - in this case, the editing leaves errors in typing and structure and instead cuts and pastes (like Burroughs to Bowie would do) and then reassembled in various ways. 

+ Form
Each substrate (hotel letterhead, aerogramme, envelope, shown is uniquely augmented with stamps – both postal and ink – and other ephemera, carefully selected and then applied as though it wasn't. Sometimes, lettraset letters, fuzzy Lomo photos and bits of typewriter come along. 

+ Themes
Overall, the pieces explore themes of wandering lost, losing self and others, scraping beneath the crust of culture and myth, remixing identity, connecting the history to the present in all it’s vagaries, and considering what becomes of our story when we vanish... naturally made with affection.

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“Hand-crafted since 2005 | Field notes & poetry from splendid locales.”

“Raise your antenna high for today's transmission. Bounces off the very underbelly of the solar system. Originating from a public radio station in Prince Edward County, Ontario, and relayed through an unlicensed transmission depot at Tsuchida, Okayama, Japan, and then onwards to your delightful ears wherever you might be.

This comes an excerpt of the spoken word presented by Andrew McLuhan. If you recognize his name, perhaps you'll know the lineage of which he carries, of his father, Eric, and grandfather, Marshall, and he now is a media theorist, for lack of a better term, as well as a projectionist at the local arts theater. He's a hockey dad, a punk rock guitarist, and the keeper of the Inscriptorium, occasionally dispatches come of marginalia and annotations from an epic, in the truest sense of the word, library.

If you are someone who cares about the information about information, well, please attenuate accordingly. He's also the curator, the captain, the wrangler of the McLuhan Institute, TMI.

These days, he rambles widely around the globe, presenting to audiences of all sorts, telling them about what the future looks like, because he knows, because he pays careful attention to the past, and observes[…]”

Analog loops, guitars, feedback and poetry about impossible alleys, 8 seat bars, villages with book shops, woolen scarves, Fado, Kathmandu mud, and umbrellas thwarting tactility.

“Rainy Mystery Alley” – made by “Thorvald and Thurston” in a Provo basement, 2018

Read along: Rainy Mystery Alley poem

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A song for a brilliant fella who’s flame burned out too fast (21 y/o) decades ago now but a conversation about “where did his artifacts go? where do all are items go? especially made in youth without cynicism and with hope” sparked this song. I wrote in Nepal, sent to pal Mikael who wrote music and performed… and this memory of Foster Harrison was crafted.

“Wildflower (for Foster)” 3:25, .mp3, 10MB

Words by Dave Olson with Mikael Lewis written in Pokhara, Nepal
Music, vocals, guitars Mikael Lewis, recorded in Utah, USA

A podcast storytime also under “Postcards from Gravelly Beach” banner is also stashed around here, as is a video of Mikael playing the song live in Provo (coincidentally on my birthday whilst passing through)

##

Wildflower (for Foster)

Foster can you tell me
where the hell you left those tapes?
I was riffing on my first guitar
you were mouthing poetry scapes

I'd go to visit your gravesite
but I'd hate to waste that precious hour
you don't belong in flat mown lawn
when you are a wildflower

Recorded in my parent's basement
our earnest, green, unflinching truth
unaware that three short years later
you'd be cashing in on your youth

Don’t need to pour one out for you
or leave a fat one rolled
I'll just light the signal fires
To make sure your story is told
The tale of the wildflower

I ignored their useless platitudes
self-serving, cliched and quaint
You and I both know what the truth is
And so I share this brief lament

I visit you atop the mountain
Where freedom lives and truth is found
When morning light first hits that meadow
I’ll have proof that the wildflower lives

April 1 & 2, 2017
Words by Dave Olson
Music and all performance by Mikael Lewis (who also remixed the lyric for his stylings)

A ukulele spoken song about not replying in a timely manner because my brain is broken and I’m really tired and confused and worn out from too many channels, but you can give me a call or send me a postcard or a telegram (that kind delivered by a chap in a cap, not the app)

{Alternate version of lyrics}

Forgot your Internet

My pardons if I didn’t click 
You’re evidently awesome Internets thing

I’m not trying to be mean 
just when I fire up the robot machine 
I forget what all of this really means

Suppose it’s easier when you have a working brain
Mine only works four hours a day
And when I start to reply 
it just goes
Uhhhhhhh _______

When when the synapses spark 
I’m usually in the bathtub 
and can’t connect
fingers to the wires 
or in the best of times

Manage to be more concise
Then re-writing “when I paint Ulysses war & peace” by Henry Winston Kerouac

Plus you got your twitternets, facespace, instabook, whatsagram, messenger-es (no not twitch, tiktok as I am purely Gen X which means I still have a skype account but no, no more icq and yeah I heard that you were on mastodon, do you need a certificate?

Plus I don’t know about you but at some point I thought having several email addresses was a good idea
I’d keep them all sorted and organized and filtered and brilliant 
but then I realize…
I got laundry to fold,
Dishes to wash
And poetry for you to ignore (that’s fine, really no big deal)

Anyhow, I do my best
With postal correspondence
With help from stamps & Providence
(no help from the USPS “How has that guy not been sacked?”)

so as unrequested & unadvised course of action
In lieu of a fax (which would be super cool) or telegram
(the one delivered by a chop and a hat, not the app or a singing vixen) is to postcard me back at the cottage 

Tip: just Bing up “Dave Olson postal address”

or heck
Give me a ring 

I would call you but it shows as a “restricted number“ 
So you never seem to pick up
And heaven help me if I’m going to leave a voicemail (except for you Larry)

I can see us now chitchat 
like sweethearts in the 1980s
But without those stolen sprint cards 
Our parents hollering “I’m expecting a call”

But I like the idea
Of payphone booths on a rainy day
Will come up with codenames
And put in various coins

I’ve requisitioned 
Numbers both foreign and domestic 
for your convenience
And have been assured
Operators are standing down

OK bye for now
[No *you* hang up first]

A Hungarian habit of recollection from creative endeavors to life admin, communiques and campsites, flowing in freeform from Kura barn with “Olson Family Band” riffing on drums, ukulele & vibes with moments left in a topsy-turvy 2024 – with special hat-tip to Paprika-san

Reel in the year: 100 Items, for 2024 – Postcard #89 (with Olson Family Band)
(52MB, 26:48, mp3, stereo)

Bonus photo

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“Hand-crafted since 2005 | Field notes & poetry from splendid locales.”

The poems are visual as they are literally cut and pasted onto various substrates, mostly hotel stationery and also aerogrammes, sometimes are typewritten, sometimes added onto envelopes or in passports with stamps, both inky and postal and other ephemera

Andrew jumps right in with a variety of the poems – after the usual intro music, radio station ids and blurbs – and with a tender hearted reading, rolling with some of the steps, typos and place names like a gentle dignified champ. The canonical source is https://archive.993countyfm.ca/ – archived here as unsure if the shows *expire* after a time (btw, the studio is location at: 2 – 38 Cold Storage Road beside the County Farm Centre)

Written in various forms at an Ayurvedic clinic in Nepal for the most part and also while transiting from Abu Dhabi to Rome via the Suez Canal on an ocean liner, then combined with other bits found in lost notebooks reuniting along the way – later transcribed from originals (from menus backs to coasters to notebooks) and printed out on standard paper with default typeface thinking i would work through and correct or change or whatever but instead, following the inspiration of William Burroughs, David Bowie and others, eager to make the words alive, i cut up and pasted in a way which made sense to my swirling brain – typos, digressions, hard turns, coffee stains and watermarks and all, onto the substrates, many of which were acquired at a Greek monastery shop in Mile End neighborhood of Montreal (thanks BM)

The poems explore themes of identity, geography, cartography, history… All combining to wonder “Who we really are? Who did we come from? How do we choose the way in which our societies are structured?”

I imagined hanging these up on telephone poles and grocery store bulletin boards next to lost cat posters and leaving them on bus seats and whatnot, in the meanwhile, printed some basic copies and personalized on a ferry from Newfoundland to Cape Breton, and mailed around

Later scanned, compiled with some other found items from my archive and crafted hand sewn chapbook series (letter-size cardstock in color, thank you brother Andrew for use of your printer in Vegas), folded and hand-stitched and shared with friends, mostly in Utah. Not sure if anyone read but i had fun in Marty’s yard putting ink stamps and thumb/toe prints to make each unique

Thinking about it, some of them are water colored “telegrams” made at drawing room at the Majestic hotel in Kuala Lumpur, others on Nusa Ceningan, Indonesia – now 7 or 8 “volumes” [update: 10 volumes, named thusly]

1 Arab disguise

2 Earth rambler

3 Time traveler

4 Gone to Sea

5 Hubris

6 Circumnavigation

7 Interlaken

8 Fragile 

9 Lost mostly

10 Reinvention

PS There’s also a page in this edition which is kind of dedicated to Andrew himself in a roundabout way featuring some of the artifacts he mailed to me combined into a collage as another “item, forgotten”

By the side of a pond, thinking about generations passing, generations flourishing, so much more to learn, so much more to grow… {And thinking of my darling wife dancing to this song at our wedding}

Happy birthday Myra O Thanks for the music Phil Lesh