B E Y O N D   ·   P L U M   ·   C R E E K

Life's a trip without an itinerary.

Words and images of a SHākē persona, with the help of a gaggle of enigmatic creative peons.

"My soul, a hand. My heart, a crayon. Together they colour in between the lines of what eyes see, but cannot feel."

The Creative Peons       

Unfettered we dissolve into evil plots against ourselves.

Spinning inside the mind polishes the hurt.

Cuts rough, bites jagged, rubbed raw, spits diamonds.

If not for the servitude of expression.

Eyes and mind wander estranged from life itself.

Hudson Howl Principal Enigma In Charge of Principles, Scruples & Fictitious Truth

Beyond Plum Creek's SHākē Laureate in Residence. Part muse. A dapper Gandhian-like Mad Hatter, who goes about life throwing paint into the air in hopes something just might stick. And, he wears a cool hat.

Ol' Raven Curmudgeon at Large

A one-eyed old crow that thinks he is an Eagle. And tells it like it is, with a somewhat polluted angry bird philosphy.

Ruthie A Dirty Unkempt Fairy

An ugly star. To an adolescent breeze on a tear. Simply the compassionate vagabond. Content to curl up in decay and poverty. Home for her; where no one else dares. First to throw a lifeline. The first to bite if poked.

In The Foreword Was Written

Light Lines. They fall. And you know they will. You pick them up. They disappear. Still. They fall again. And I would have told you, had I known then. Slow it down. Quietly step back. Be still. Listen. Listen with your eyes. Hear what the light has to say. As shadows bend across your mindset. And again, I would say, had I known then. Oh how I wish I could think without thinking. To see things simply. As they are. Just to have it all fall into place. Making complete and perfect sense.

*A note to you the Visitant: Beyond Plum Creek is still under reconstruction. Don't worry it won't collapse on you. No loose high voltage wires dangling hazardously close. No unexploded charges used in demolation. Your safe here. So in the meantime while work continues, chill to Ron Sexsmith's WORDS WE NEVER USE.