Without a Paddle

Literature & Fiction

Rearden, Don

Poetry

Transcend

<p>Quarrymen dig, so I opened my bloodline and did just that. And I exhumed all the words I could not say. Or face.The epiphany to excavate myself came one morning around 4 a.m., when I typically have my most honest moments. It was not a bolt of lightning but rather a spark. In the receding silky darkness, I laid in dynamite, struck a match, and blasted my comfortable and confining crypt to hell, a trail of teeth, shards, and shrapnel, my result. And I kept digging, frantically.I was living a subterranean life-the faces, the voices, the eyes, and their heavy breathing jangled angry, a mountain of pennies in my lungs.Breathing was labor.The practice of burying me was methodical, mechanical. The only exchanges I was having were with myself. I was a cluttered labyrinth with no distinguishable door nor window, a seamless box, nested in countless boxes, fashioned by my careful hands, padlocked, and plunged into a hole, paved shut.Like a hoarders' heaven (haven), I collected and stacked and cataloged exchanges, unwritten letters, tender tidings, retorts, tirades, confessions, and gory screeds. A lifetime's worth, or so it seemed.And now I rise, each page of this book a slug of new air.</p>

Anvil Rising: My Rarely Gentle Thoughts

Self-Help

Jones, David Pierce

Relationships

I Smile at the Sun: Verse for Children and Misidentified Grownups

Children's Books

Lawson, Judith Barrett

Fidelman: A Body of Work

Arts & Photography

Fidelman, Dean

Individual Artists

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Books by Transcend