The Seattle Art Museum, three times a year, throws an event called SAM Remix. The latest event was “inspired by SAM’s exhibitions Graphic Masters: Dürer, Rembrandt, Hogarth, Goya, Picasso, R. Crumb and new art at the Olympic Sculpture Park including Tamiko Thiel’s ‘Gardens of The Anthropocene’ and Victoria Haven's ‘Blue Sun.’” The night allowed participants to choose their own adventure in an “evening of performances, tours, dancing and more at this creative late-night out.”

Down the long lawns and manicured gravel paths of the Duncan Perennial Gardens of Manito Park in south Spokane, there’s a small stone bench. The bench—a garden variety sort, concrete, smoothed, gently suggesting the impression of marble—is one of three cumbersome examples to encircle the round reflecting pool installed there, as part of a 1995 renovation. The whole setting, the less-imposing cousin to the Duncan’s larger jetted fountain erected from quarried stone, which sits

It wasn’t that I had forgotten. I couldn’t, even if I tried. The last time I was in this little coastal town was three years ago. It was March, our anniversary weekend. D rented us a little room at the Commodore Hotel. On our second night, we had dinner at Fort George Brewery, because it offered non-seafood mains, because I’ve disliked seafood since I was 6 years-old going on forever. After dinner, D led me out to the pier at the end of 14th Street. We couldn’t see the water,

Recently I found myself at the Frye Art Museum, a modernesque building enmeshed amongst the old Catholic area of First Hill in Seattle, WA. Surrounding it is a hundred year old cathedral, a Catholic grade school, a Catholic retirement home, church offices, and a priest’s home – basically an area you might not expect a museum devoted between modern art and showcasing classics in an unusual style – somewhere a more progressive museum can stand out. I happened on the museum duri

If you’re ever a Mormon missionary, go to London for the food. I know what you’re thinking: “Said nobody, ever.” I know what else you’re thinking: “Aren’t Mormon missionaries given their assignments? As in, they’ve got no choice in the matter at all?” But I’m bearing my testimony here, the food in London is incredible! There’s a chippie in North Finchley—“chippie” is slang for “fish and chips shop”—that will change your eternal life… And curry. You wouldn’t believe the Indian

Things change. I knew that. But when did this young man start towering over me? And when did this neighborhood we were strolling through become an urban hot spot? It was one of those Portland winter days when I was happy the overcast sky didn’t threaten rain, or at least that’s what I told myself. Seventeen consecutive days of rain had grown tiresome, and my son and I needed to get out of the house, so we pretended the clouds were white and fluffy and headed to Williams Avenu

It’s a strangely chilly August morning and I’m on a train in southern Belgium, waving goodbye to a tiny, grinning woman and her two teenage daughters. I’m hoping the dirty window obscures the tears streaming down my cheeks. As the train pulls away and I can no longer see them, I sit back and take a deep breath. I am alone. Despite having lived in Belgium for almost two years during my early twenties, it is only now, more than a decade later, that I’m alone here. The train pic

It’s appropriate, I think, for me to write on the topic of place. For the past four years I’ve been bouncing around, constantly defining and redefining my environment and sense of home. My last move was across the world. A year spent working and traveling in the Southern Hemisphere. When I got back to Portland I wasn’t yet sure of my footing. So I did what any uncertain wanderer does: found a way to get back out on the road. My escape came in the form of a summer gig working

On June 21st, 2007, I found myself in London walking sleep-deprived and jet-lagged through Hyde Park and the Kensington Gardens with two friends from high school. We had just graduated a few weeks before and were greeting England for the first time (and my only time so far) at the beginning of what would be a month-long tour. Leaving Salt Lake City at 8 AM and arriving in London by 9 AM the next day was an exhausting journey. The atmosphere of the city was warmer than I had e

Recently, while I was in New York, and Matt (Matthew D. Kulisch) was in San Diego—I emailed him a link about how we could, for $10 each, join a live Jedi vs. Sith lightsaber battle in Washington Square Park. My subject line read, “aren’t you sad you’re not with me in New York City right now?” That innocent and playful email ended up spurring up a larger conversation about grief and friendship, travelling, internal space or lack-there-of, and love. Then in a post-post email, M