tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52351477445438740572012-02-16T08:30:34.249-06:00Past fertilizes PresentSolushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.comBlogger191100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-63311386604240148812008-04-15T16:45:00.001-06:002008-04-15T16:48:37.640-06:00

This is where the new website liveshttp://web.mac.com/borealwalden/Boreal_Walden/Welcome.html

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-31615077334275959432007-03-17T17:48:00.000-06:002007-03-17T17:49:48.465-06:00

[scroll down for previous chapters]The young man paused stared through the floor and into the memories beyond. He glanced up at me, held my eyes for a moment. His gaze was steady. “How long have you been alone?” His voice soft, deep, old. “Years, since I moved north. I don’t sleep easy. Was hell on the relationship.” “You should understand. Being chosen… It’s not about belonging, it’s about

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-77115879818744236302007-01-16T12:00:00.000-06:002007-01-16T12:02:24.538-06:00

[Scroll down for earlier chapters] He shook his head at the memory. Paused, stared at the palms of his hands held open on his thighs. He took a deep breath, gathered himself and went on. Jamison warned me. “The Devil is everywhere, disguised as innocence, beauty or even the power of Christ himself.” I was not chastened. The Lord flowed through my voice and through my hands, I could feel his truth

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-53676198289701882252007-01-10T13:11:00.000-06:002007-01-10T13:13:56.179-06:00

[Scroll down for first chapter of story]“Don’t care about the legal,” the young man said, staring hard into my eyes. “Just want someone to hear my side. I feel you’d understand. I’ll make you understand.”He looked away from me, kept his head down and let out a long breath. “We had a guest preacher, a beautifully sculpted black man, beauty impervious to the arrows of race, he spoke in a rich

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-43028631173003852582007-01-05T13:17:00.000-06:002007-01-05T13:18:41.096-06:00

1.“You believe in God?”“Sure, don’t think he likes me though, had a falling out a while back, I still won’t talk to him.”“I just need someone with a relationship to god, even a bad one.“You’ll do.” I looked around the cell, steel bunk, steel toilet, thick flat beige paint marred with scuffs and scrawls tainted with rust on the bars. Not a jail, a holding cell, closest thing to a jail in this one

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-56469183165262975202007-01-04T13:35:00.000-06:002007-01-04T13:37:33.841-06:00

I've been afflicted with strange dreams.Dreams that are strange and repetitive enough that they are like memories rather than dreams, difficult to pull from the pool of experience and toss aside with the reminder: this isn't real.One in particular, or rather an action, since the context and setting vary, but this action repeats, repeats enough that I stand in the shower and puzzle over whether or

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-52368327422060005632007-01-04T13:03:00.000-06:002007-01-04T13:09:08.704-06:00

I met the Stubby Stalker when he came to the restaurant I run looking for a job. He had experience, wanted to live in this part of the world and appeared for all practical purposes a “normal” human being. A little strange looking, short and barrel-chested, his lack of height a function of short legs more than anything else. His face was pleasant and he seemed happy and confident. Plus he was good

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-311467054575519232007-01-02T11:54:00.000-06:002007-01-02T12:00:09.398-06:00

The dog woke me early on New Years Eve. A sudden startle to consciousness before dawn, she’s downstairs making loud repetitive guttural coughs and I spring from the bed with the hope that I can hustle her out the door before the coughs are interrupted with the splash of liquid on to the floor. I’m lucky this time. When I shove her into the pre-dawn light I realize it’s raining. December 31 in

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-70263099903593571002006-12-28T13:43:00.000-06:002006-12-28T13:45:43.987-06:00

To meet the family for Christmas I drove five hundred miles to south eastern Wisconsin and the town and home I grew up in. When I was a child we usually had a white Christmas, sledding, skating, a trip to the ski hill while school was out.On Christmas Eve my older brother and I took a long walk through the town we grew up in. As we started down the hill to Lake Michigan a flock of geese flew over

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-49003272915053607582006-12-19T11:55:00.000-06:002006-12-19T23:18:41.813-06:00

Sunrise @ -51My hovel is perched upon a naked outcrop of bedrock on the top of a ridge above a small lake. It was built in the early seventies by an energetic hippie who would later become quite a successful contractor. This was his first building, and as such suffers from quite a few flaws, one of which is insufficient insulation. Through the years I have addressed this where possible, tripling

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-34133215312016576572006-12-17T18:37:00.000-06:002006-12-17T18:40:17.682-06:00

Among the cast of strange characters that populate this town at america’s edge.I met Primitive Man (PM) while working construction during my off seasons. PM was not a regular on the crew but was brought in for remote jobs or on days that required extreme forms of human strength. PM is relatively short, but large and lean with tremendous pride in his strength and build. Despite working with him

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-54938526316121621602006-12-16T12:19:00.000-06:002006-12-16T12:23:47.669-06:00

Saying goodbye to "the house"This is the homestead. My family’s gathering spot, museum, and warehouse for the last forty years. I moved into this Victorian mansion with my four brothers and sisters at the age of three. It has been “the house” since. My parents moved out in the late seventies, but my oldest sister has owned it since. This is where we gather each Christmas from out “adult” homes

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-11722467968733357442006-12-12T21:54:00.000-06:002006-12-12T22:00:45.359-06:00

I escape up the trail, excused….I need to get a fire in the box. I must admit, I love it up here, love the quiet, the slant of the winter light, the blueness. The solitude… no one to watch my face. I can throw shit on the floor, let the dishes pile up and my desk hide the impossible state of my life beneath a slew of papers. To feel the raw heat of the wood stove, the cold edges of the

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-62778164128077309472006-12-08T22:48:00.000-06:002006-12-08T22:50:48.993-06:00

Two afternoons ago as I was loading wood for the coming sub-zero night my task was interrupted by the approach of a siren along the narrow twisted road that leads to town. This is a rare thing. In my sixteen years of life at this address I only remember two or three sirens splitting the quiet, and on one occasion I had summoned it. Later that night I heard that two men, locals, had gone through

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-10960335256903661582006-12-07T21:33:00.000-06:002006-12-08T01:34:34.421-06:00

I am in love with coffee.Just coffee. Don’t doll it up with sugar or dairy or soy or any of the myriad additions that can push your caffeine toll above the five-dollar mark.I want it hot. I want it straight. I want it strong.My morning starts with the roar of a burr grinder followed by an interminable wait while my stove makes the water hot enough to push through the sacred grounds encased in my

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-86550252482482986042006-12-05T23:02:00.000-06:002006-12-08T01:35:23.839-06:00

“I have a story for you.” “Hmmmm, that was nice” They lay together on the large firm bed that filled most of her small room at the top of the house. Isaac curled closer to her and pulled her warmth against him; soft and sticky, spent but not sad. He pulled a breath from the soft skin of her shoulders. “I’m not ready .” “No. Listen” He let the quiet settle into the room until it was just the

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-48000840066153315482006-12-04T16:45:00.000-06:002006-12-04T16:58:59.483-06:00

On starting over:I am on the edge of jack pining, burning the past to start anew. Torching the job, the significant other, even vacating the land I love. It’s been building for quite a while, years even. This wood has been stricken by drought, aging and drying waiting for the spark. I only hope that the seeds are ripe and the ashes that remain are a fertile bed for germination.

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-21280731128902795172006-12-03T11:59:00.000-06:002006-12-08T01:38:18.563-06:00

I live on the edge of America, just a few short miles from the Canadian Border though hundreds of miles by car from any legitimate border crossing. The view from my windows is of snow-covered forest. It’s twelve miles of twisted road from Axe to the top of this bedrock ridge where my hovel is perched and a fifty miles further to the closest community with a population measured in five digits (

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5235147744543874057.post-37983952921722274672006-12-01T16:50:00.000-06:002006-12-08T01:39:27.498-06:00

I live at the end of the earth. I say the end of the earth, but what is the end of a sphere but a point on its surface. In reality I’m not that removed from the dead center of North America, trust me, it qualifies as an end. Two roads enter this little community (I'll call it Axe) and both end within the confines of the town I call home. If you flew north the two thousand miles required to reach

Solushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16471290750341875934noreply@blogger.com1