From the Marcellus Shale in the Appalachian basin in Pennsylvania, where the fracked gas boom is in full force, to Trenton, New Jersey, just south of Washington's Crossing––where, on December 25, 1776, General George Washington and his troops made their famous crossing and launched the Battle of Trenton––the question moved from neighbor to neighbor in the communities along the pristine upper reaches of the Delaware River, one of the healthiest watersheds in the United States.
For a philosopher, staying with the open question means turning it around and examining it from all sides, without trying to force any particular answer or conclusion. But it also means not being afraid to follow wherever the argument leads. Evan Thompson, Waking, Dreaming, Being: Self and Consciousness in Neuroscience, Meditation, and Philosophy
I would like to say that we were happy with what had happened in the last few hours in El Segundo, but that would not be true. There was a sense of relief, but not of joy. One search was over, but another was just beginning.
During a slow-warming spring in Minneapolis, my application to a creative writing program was declined. When I read the form letter, sent via a website, and addressed to me by my first name, Iyabo, I experienced a kind of dissociative moment. My mind, befuddled by the disappointing news, rejected the name, deeming it not mine.
The wide world outside your intimate circle will ask you to do more than become self-aware. Readers will want to identify with the “you” who is fully created upon the page. The memoir is like an open door for readers to walk through and become you...And the reader has expectations. It's like the difference between cooking for one and cooking for a dinner party. Be generous.
Benjamin Franklin said “A penny saved is a penny earned,” what say you?
Miguel Cervantes: A little in one's own pocket is better than much in another man's purse. 'Tis good to keep a nest egg. Every little makes a mickle.
In celebration of Wild River's launch of "Brief Eulogies at Roadside Shrines," we invite you to stop a moment, create a shrine and photograph it. Or maybe photograph a shrine you find on the street. Post it on our Facebook Page - Brief Eulogies at Roadside Shrines.
Harvey Finkle is a documentary still photographer whose interests are social, political, economic and cultural. His career has centered on photographing marginalized and disenfranchised communities and their movements, including low income and homeless families, refugees and immigrants, the disabled and the Deaf, as well as groups working for economic equality, peace, justice, human rights and civil rights.
One of the rarest and environmentally sensitive land and sea eco-systems in the western Pacific is again under threat of mega-development.Punta Arena (Sand Point) on the edge of Cabo Pulmo Marine Park–a UNESCO World Heritage site protecting the only hard finger coral reef on the North American Continent and just 60 miles north of the resort corridor of Cabo San Lucas on the East Cape of Baja Sur, Mexico–has successfully fought two previous mega-resorts. It now faces a third, this time called Cabo Dorado.
Eyes bulbous and rolling, he was toad-like on his haunches drawing twisted, disjointed figures on
the sidewalk, his long, yellowed nails scratching the concrete as he sketched, mumbling in rhymes.
I’d asked him if he’d seen this young woman recently, this brilliantly beautiful young law school
graduate in the picture—“Have you seen her? Please, sir, have you? She’s my daughter.
Red ochre, the red of fire, strength, courage, invulnerability. The color of birth and life, of the butcher and the battlefield, of hope and despair. Brown ochre, lighter than umber, darker than sienna: the color of the earth, of all things natural, of adobe and deserts, the brown skin of our tribes. Tlaxcala red: the perfect mix of ochres, red and brown. Of passion and vengeance and rage and love, glory and loss, succor and treachery. Of hope and possibility.
When I was a child growing up in the Bahamas, my grandmother came to visit from Germany. One day, while we were building sandcastles on the beach, she paused to tell me about East Prussia – a place of great beauty where Trakehner horses pranced across dandelion meadows and elk herds swam in green rivers.
“Ost Preussen,” she said, with a soulful sigh.
Hearing the sadness in her voice, I glanced up sharply.