Note 1: The Beginning
I'd like to say it all started with the classics—
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Greek mythology,
you know?
But that was much later in high school when I gave my first speech about The Odyssey.
It actually started earlier.
I was naturally very curious about the way the world worked.
And I had a powerful imagination.
Space freaked me out.
Wait, those stars are planets?
And they have other solar systems?
So, there’s more of us there?
Time tripped me out.
Hold up, there were dinosaurs here?
How did anyone survive?
Wait—they went extinct?
What is that?
Oh.
Can we go extinct?
What happens when we die?
Time keeps moving on?
Mom and I took a lot of trips to the local library—
wherever we were.
Bill Peet books captured my attention.
I think we read them all.
His work lit a fire in my mind:
a pacifist dragon,
a caboose in search of adventure,
a crab searching for a new home,
these were my friends.
Suspending disbelief was my baseline.
And the Muse –
the Muse became my partner on this Odyssey.
Note 2: The Multiplex in my Mind
Growing up I wanted to be a farmer —
like my grandpa and my uncles.
Then I tuned into the Electric Company,
and discovered “Spidey Super Stories.”
“Spiderman, Spiderman,
Does whatever a spider can,”
I was infected!
Scaling skyscrapers in my mind,
wearing a Mom-designed Butterick stitched suit,
foreshadowing Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker,
spinning webs on the big screen.
3,000 miles from the farm to Athens!
Like Kermit the Crab,
leaving my shell in search of a new one,
our little yellow four door Datsun caboose,
let loose across the nation.
Mom reading The Hobbit aloud brings Middle Earth to life —
Bilbo's determination,
Smeagol's ambition,
What's my precious?
SMAUG the terrifying!
Vivid dreams of scales, coins,
the chink in his armor.
Such a contrast to docile Drufus!
The animated series comes out,
and I compare it with the version in my head.
Discovering differences in artistic interpretation.
But Tolkien was tops!
Then Star Wars happened—
Luke on the farm,
haunted by his father,
dreaming about space travel.
"Obi-Wan, you're our only hope."
Lightsaber battles (sound effects).
Wookie growls.
Droids beeping.
“Turn off your computer.”
A religious experience.
I floated out of the theater,
got more money from my mom,
bought another ticket and went right back in.
Note 3: Library of My Memory
In the architecture of my mind—
shelves stretch endlessly,
stacked with worlds once wandered.
One moment,
I'm tangled in Charlotte's Web,
the next, I’m tunneling through Watership Down.
The stories grew more complex—
dice roll across the table,
maps and monsters,
stats and stories,
campaigns where I could be brave.
To Kill a Mockingbird arrived—
where justice wore a crooked smile,
and Atticus stood alone against a town's easy hate,
Somewhere in those stacks,
I start reading Homer.
Why was everyone insane?
Were those water monsters left over from the dinosaurs?
Why did Odysseus talk so much shit?
The only sirens I’ve ever heard
were harsh—
flashing red and blue,
and screaming down some country road,
not some smoking hot psychotic mermaid.
Was Circe in Witches of Eastwick?
’Cause if she looked like Michelle Pfeiffer,
I would spend 10 years in her spell...
Steeped in a steady diet of 20th-century heavyweights:
Hemingway — lean, sun-drenched, intoxicated
F. Scott — jazz-soaked, tragic
Joyce — dense, dazzling, Dublin
Faulkner — tangled and Southern
Steinbeck — dust and dignity
Vonnegut — dark wit smirking in the smoke
Kerouac — a road-drunk soul
Kesey — electric chaos in a stolen bus
Deeper into the stacks—
I wandered beyond the Western canon.
Wazzu's multicultural buffet fed me:
One Hundred Years of Solitude,
Things Fall Apart,
The Satanic Verses.
Further still—
across continents, back through time:
Lao Tzu, quiet on the mountaintop,
Tao Te Ching,
soft as fog Rumi's spinning flame,
Siddhartha's river of stillness,
Buddhism whispered:
mind = parachute—
works best when open.
Gives me great comfort to return,
to the library of my memory—
a quiet patron of my own mind,
wandering still through corridors,
built from every story I've ever loved.
Note 4: Breaking Through
Oliver Stone's The Doors —
Are you kidding me?!
“Break on through to the other side…”
If Jim Morrison wrote poetry, it must be cool.
Maybe I could be cool too.
RIP Val Kilmer —
Ice Man gone too soon.
Palousian Poets Press.
Dropped the f-bomb at a coffee shop—
testing the weight of rebellion,
seeing if I looked like a poet yet,
in the window's reflection.
Mad Max plays HAMLET—
Turns out Shakespeare is the way to level up:
"O that this too, too solid flesh would melt…"
My notion of myself,
the party boy mask I had learned to wield so well,
was melting.
Dead Poets Society—
a soulful lightning bolt:
"Lean in, boys:
Caaaaaaaaarpie… dieeeeeeeem…"
Robin Williams, RIP.
”Captain my Captain,”
channeling Walt Whitman—
could a farm kid from Potlatch channel something too?
But wait,
I came to college to learn how to make money,
not art.
Right?
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then I contradict myself.
I am large. I contain multitudes."
Ironic trash talking with the Running Penguins.
Debating As You Like It quotes with Grandpa Buster—
he won and then proceeded to whip me in Cribbage as well.
Family favorite from Robert Service:
"The northern lights have seen queer sights,
but the queerest they ever did see,
was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee."
Jurassic Park on the dash of the pickup,
planting chaos theory seeds.
Discussing the laws of thermodynamics and entropy
with Uncle Jim while filling up the combine with diesel.
Oversharing philosophy notes with my OG cousins.
Handwritten notes in the grain truck during harvest—
poetry ripening with the winter wheat,
while the radio played country and weather reports.
Developing Love, WA,
a novel about a daydreaming farmer,
not named Luke Skywalker,
who tries out for a baseball movie
not starring Kevin Costner.
Writing what I knew but wondering if I knew enough.
Daring to share my weirdness with those I loved,
uncertain how to frame this hunger for something bigger than the horizon.
Note 5: Boise Beckons
South before snow.
Palouse hills fold.
Sunset rides shotgun.
Boise waits.
Justin Stephens—
fellow former pine-timer,
from Loggers JV Bball,
battling for 6th and 7th man,
thinking "this is stupid,"
our Coach sucks,
our offense is lame,
so why do we care so much?
five passes, fuck it -
if I'm open I'm shootin' the rock!
(they had just added the 3 line -
was a new day!)
Dreamers in warmups,
"Got a date for the dance?"
"No, these girls won't talk to me."
"Hey, let's head to Moscow,
maybe we can find a Goldilocks
with all those Bears."
We were the PHS Beastie Boys—
”You've gotta fight,
for your right…”
Later transformed
by a yearlong grounding—
thanks to my breakup with Gina,
and exit at the party,
her freakout,
his totaled pickup,
which resulted in costing him a year—
but opened the door,
to cycling, Bob Dylan,
and classical history.
"How can I get outta here?"
Five years later,
house-sitting in Caldwell,
freshly graduated from College of Idaho,
a new sense of purpose and scholarship,
waiting for the good word from UC Santa Barbara,
graduate work on the horizon.
Endless bottles of homemade wine -
the good kind.
watching The Godfather series on VHS.
Killing time reflecting,
where we've been,
from snowmobile chases,
parties at the dredge,
chugging Bartles and James,
Lapwai rivalry,
to leaving the Latch,
moving forward,
“Into the great wide open…”
RIP Tom Petty.
Chris Farnsworth—
Justin's classmate,
already knew his destination,
while I was still mapping possibilities.
Debate champion.
Smartest cat in the room.
Framework for everything—
story structure, character arcs,
the business of being a writer.
Inspired me to sharpen every argument,
choose words like they mattered,
level up just to keep pace.
His certainty sparked my questions:
Writer? Actor? Both?
How do I get back to Hollywood
when I'm broke as a joke?
Spring break road trip,
SoCal bound.
Discussing life, writing, the road ahead.
Cheap hotel in Carson, Nevada—
little did I know that would soon be my home.
Back in the valley,
friends I hadn't seen since ’91,
asking me when I’m coming back.
Soul check—
but I chickened out.
Chris already had his answer:
massive talent + focus + vision.
Boise Weekly bylines,
words sharp as scalpels—
a prelude to what was to come:
crime beat to screenplays,
novel series with vampires and presidents.
Crackin' the code.
Hats off, Idaho boy!
Jerry Mooney—
fates connected us at Olive Garden,
"from the pasta we make,
to Lasagna we bake…"
(clap clap clap clap)
Sweeping the floor,
quoting Last Picture Show one second,
Tombstone the next—
“I’m your huckleberry…”
drinking beer and talking hoops,
arguing about fan loyalty to sports teams—
what’s loyalty to him is laundry to me.
"Slut!" is what he’d say.
Guilty.
Pickup hoops lead to stitches,
buckwheat pancakes at his Grandma’s house.
Contemplating going into teaching,
but then doing the math,
and realizing that we’re making more
waiting tables...
(WTF is up with our priorities?)
Turns out he lives off the same road,
introduces me to The Way of the Peaceful Warrior,
and The Alchemist,
only a few years older,
but worlds more experienced—
Germany, CIA, National Guard behind him,
fearlessly singing tunes in public,
composing insights on the fly,
ready for adventure.
A professor of portals,
exploring what is “normative,”
leaning into the Merry Pranksters.
On the Boise River Greenbelt—
the universe cracked open.
The trees were breathing secrets I wasn’t sure I should know.
The river started humming in a key I didn’t recognize,
but somehow remembered.
Colors got louder,
and time forgot its job.
I tried to tell Jerry the grass was winking at me,
but I couldn’t stop laughing.
Suddenly I understood math and forgot my name.
He steps on stage at Idaho Shakes:
"Shhhhhhh — we must be vewy vewy quiet…"
Shame the Festival was dark that night.
The raptors approved,
but the pterodactyl got self-conscious.
Crashing the art gallery on campus—
didn’t know that oil paintings could dance.
Connection with Troy.
RIP — gone too soon.
Chop wood brother, carry water.
Next mile waits.
No Wi-Fi.
No feed.
Only notebooks and nerve.
Pre-internet promise:
The road makes you what you have the guts to become.
End of an era.
Wonderful! ❤️