Part Journal, Part Journalism
A trio of Utah creatives launches a music venue and community events center that promises to spontaneously combust around the state.
I went camping and the moon was full and when it reached in the sky to eleven o’clock I abandoned my fire and walked. The San Rafael River gargled like the sound of a thousand thrushes in the distance. The desert sand glistened.
Misfits threaten to diversify Provo, Utah, with The Boxcar Studios—an atelier and community events center.
I presented the following speech at UVU's My Word!, a ceremony that celebrates student art and writing as published in the English department's journals.
Frank is owed a pension, but he can’t get it. Payroll won’t dispense it unless Frank has both an address and a bank account, but he can’t get either of those without the money.
Five years ago, when I got clean, there were a handful of people who said I was doing sobriety wrong. There still are. This article is for them, and for anyone in recovery who senses that sometimes it's the people who want the best for us that hold us down.
The first rule is to know that you will die and, barring a house fire, your photos will not.
When Steve and his brothers puffed stogies in the woods, they felt like men. They felt as free as the smoke that wafted from their faces up into the ether.
Free from delirium, I am full of delusions. Or am I? Where am I?
The skies are clearing, the days warming. I don't mind the pain.
A profile of a young addict prompts reflection on the American way.
Had death come for Willy in that moment, in that matchbox garage, I suspect he wouldn’t have shuddered. Nor would he have succumbed without a terrible fight.
I believe, as Freud and Nietzsche do, that our motives remain unknown to us. So I can't tell you why I do photography. But I can theorize.
When Tiff was a toddler, her mother would send her to the neighbor’s to borrow a loaf of bread, which would serve as family dinner.
The Delta Bike Project supplies the community of Mobile, Alabama, with transportation, recreation, and simple work opportunities.
Do you ever feel exhausted or alone or confused so badly that the answers you normally feed yourself about life and meaning lose their efficacy?
"It looks like I'm kind of a hellraiser and shit, but they think I'm an angel."
"Music is a shared form of art. It's one thing to play a song and enjoy it, but it's a whole other thing when you perform in front of an audience."
"I have no address, no bills, no power, no gas, no rent. I don’t have a care in the fucking world."
"That’s been a huge awakening for me: I am who I am. And whatever God is, he's not mad at me."
When Hill first arrived in Moab he had no intentions of settling down. He believed he could always live happily out of his truck. But over time Hill acquired—as he puts it—“a bunch of stuff.” Which includes a store full of bikes.
When Mama Peaches told the police she had been raped by the man who employed her, she wasn't transported to the regional hospital for a rape kit as you'd expect.
“I got cancer in my leg when I was 16, but the doctors were able to save me and keep it from spreading."
A few years ago, a tree nearly took Glenn out. Cracked his head, shattered his left arm. But he's still going.
People have been teasing cats with cucumbers. According to some, if you laughed at these felines’ expense, you’re wrongheaded. And if you went so far as to sic a cucumber on your cat, just to see what would happen, you might even be sociopathic.
I went to Burning Man to make a cultural study, to find and contribute to an engaging community, to make art, and to party my ass off. But I'm not sure I'll do it again.
Not everyone who lives on the streets is derelict, addicted, or unstable. Some of them we might even learn from. That's what I aim to do.
Reflections on my photography and writing and interests.
Meditation has inspired me to "let go." But how can I engage the good fight if I give in?