PJDominy

(Remember how I talked about a companion piece to my “Woods Out Back” essay I shared with you yesterday? Here it is now! I wrote this for the same creative nonfiction class, in the same month I wrote the other essay. I won’t bore you with a lengthy preamble. Let’s jump right into it!) It is a quarter past noon on Sunday, September 18th, 2016, when I finally get a chance to return to the woods I used to roam back in my childhood. I’m still wearing the outfit I wore to church that morning, although it’s nothing that fancy: just a cerulean blue shirt with dark grey dress pants, plus I’ve swapped out my dress shoes for a trusty pair of sandals. I’m walking over to the Three Stone Pile Field via an ATV trail that runs on the edge of a wheat field, grasshoppers scrambling to escape my trampling feet. I’m mainly going on this excursion to maybe resurrect a few old memories and maybe remind myself just why I love the natural world in the first place. My first stop is a small grove of pine

(Hey guys. Progress on my newest articles has been slower than I anticipated this month for several reasons, which I’ll discuss in the author’s commentary. For now, though, I’m digging back into the well of my old college essays and presenting you one of my earliest creative nonfiction pieces from all the way back in my sophomore year in September 2016, waxing poetic about the wilderness behind the North Country farm where I grew up. Enjoy!) Nostalgia is a funny thing, isn’t it? One day, you’re just enjoying the life you’re currently living, reveling in the discoveries you made in your teenage years as you crossed the bridge from childhood to adulthood. But then there inevitably comes a time when you start to miss those things that used to be dear to you back in those carefree days. Like that stuffed animal you gave to charity. Or that Saturday morning cartoon that was canceled ten years ago. Or maybe those weird games you and your siblings used to come up with that perplexed your

1.    1.     Pauvre Pierrot (10/28/1892) 2.     Autour d’une cabine (1894) 3.     The Enchanted Drawing (11/16/1900) 4.     L’Oeuf Du Sorcier (1902) 5.     The House of Ghosts (1906)(H) 6.     Humorous Phases of Funny Faces (4/6/1906) 7.     Katsudo Shashin (c. 1907) 8.     The Haunted Hotel (1907)(H) 9.     Dreams of Toyland (1908) 10.  Fantasmagorie (8/17/1908) 11.  Little Nemo (4/8/1911) 12.  How a Mosquito Operates (January 1912) 13.  The Cameraman’s Revenge (10/27/1912) 14.  Gertie the Dinosaur (2/18/1914) 15.  Mutt and Jeff (1916-1926) 16.  Out of the Inkwell (6/10/1918-11/4/1963) 17.  The Sinking of the Lusitania (7/20/1918) 18.  Feline Follies (11/9/1919) 19.  Cinderella (1922) 20.  Felix in Hollywood (7/15/1923) 21.  Alice Comedies (10/16/1923-8/22/1927) 22.  Oh Mabel (May 1924) 23.  The Adventures of Prince Achmed (February 1926) 24.  My Old Kentucky Home (June 1926) 25.  Trolley Troubles (9/5/1927) 26.  Eveready Harton in Buried Treasure (1928) 27.  Dinner Time (August

(Disclaimer: This is not meant to be taken as an endorsement of David Paulides or the Missing 411 conspiracy theory. It’s simply an idea that came to me during a nature walk inspired by similar stories.) I met the entity on a cloudy October afternoon just a few days before Halloween. It was on my daily walk that I always take with my Golden Retriever, Rudy, after lunch in the woods behind my house. I guess I do it because it’s the easiest way for me to get some exercise (it’s way easier than sit-ups, that’s for damn sure). I’m sure Rudy appreciates the opportunity to stretch his legs as well. The walk started like any other. Nothing was out of the ordinary as I walked underneath the warm autumn colors of the forest canopy, wearing a dark red hoodie to protect me from the 43-degree weather. I jumped a six-month-old white-tailed fawn, and Rudy chased after it but failed to catch it. The bird song wasn’t as plentiful, with half the species endemic here in the spring and summer having

(This was originally written as a writing assignment for a college poetry class in May 2018, in which we chose a specific poet to describe to the rest of the class and a single poem of theirs to analyze in detail.) Joy Harjo was born on May 9, 1951, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, as a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation of Native Americans. She had a rough childhood; her birth father was an abusive drunk, and her stepfather was a racist who kicked Harjo out of her house when she was sixteen. She moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she enrolled in the Institute of American Indian Arts. At first, she pursued painting as a means of artistic expression. However, she was inspired by several Native American writers, including her mentor Simon Ortiz [Acoma Pueblo], to pursue creative writing (although she has stuck with painting as well and has illustrated all the covers of her poetry collections). Harjo would earn a B.A. from the University of New Mexico and an M.F.A. from the University of Iowa.

(Originally written for a literary nonfiction class in college in October 2016) Around where I live, January 1998 has gone down in infamy thanks to what has become known as the Great Ice Storm of 1998. The storm lasted from January 4th to January 10th, affecting large areas of Ontario, Quebec, New York, Maine, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia. In the areas worst affected by the storm, up to 130 mm (5 inches) of ice accumulated, destroying or severely damaging entire forests. Destruction of power lines meant millions were left without electricity for up to three weeks. Roads were rendered impassible due to the thick layers of ice, and 35 people died as a direct result of the effects of the storm, 28 of them in Canada alone. I was only two-and-a-half years old then, so I don’t remember anything about what happened. I recall some of the stories my parents told of the events, especially a video my father took of some iced-over trees in the backyard of our house in Norwood. In preparation

(Originally written for a creative nonfiction class in college in February of 2018) I picked a hell of an evening to go to the movies, didn’t I? I’ve just returned to college after a four-day weekend, and it’s rainy and misty. But my professor has asked us to write a travel piece by this Friday, and I suppose now is as good a time as any to see a movie at the Roxy, Potsdam’s resident movie theater, which is within walking distance of the SUNY Potsdam campus. I check the online listings for films showing at the Roxy this week. There are four options available: 15:17 to Paris, which I’ve never heard of; Peter Rabbit, which looks like nothing more than bland juvenile nonsense; Fifty Shades Freed, which I refuse to touch with a 39 ½-foot pole; and finally, Black Panther, the latest entry in the much-lauded Marvel Cinematic Universe. Having already seen several other MCU entries, with my experience with them being mainly positive, the choice is easy for me. Besides, I feel like this would

(Originally written for a college creative nonfiction writing class in March 2018) One of the things I like best about snow is its ability to easily record the movements of living beings across its surface. This is especially apparent with the tracks of animals. During a walk in the SUNY Potsdam quad last Friday, I noticed squirrel tracks coming out of a bush in front of the Crumb Library. This bush is behind that grey metal statue my dad once mistook for a phallic symbol. That got me thinking about how I saw grey squirrels coming out of hibernation late last month. I remember wondering if it was a bit early for that. I thought about how they may have reacted when the winter snow started returning these past two weeks. Would the continuing winter have a negative effect on their health? Then I looked on Wikipedia and discovered that eastern gray squirrels don’t actually hibernate…damn it. When I went home that weekend, I looked around the barn on my parent’s property for signs of a

You said you had been "Way beyond the universe" in one of The last songs you recorded And "saw things you could never tell." Is that why the universe took you Away so soon? Did the sign Of the southern cross rear its ugly Head, say "Shame on the night music," And cast its evil eyes on your soul? Did it send a tarot woman To silence your cries of "Kill the king!" By sending a poison dagger Straight through the heart? If so, the universe made a bad call, For you certainly had a lot Left to teach us. There you were On the stage, making us believe We could catch the rainbow, Telling the lost rock 'n' roll children That you were there for them, Telling them to stand up and shout For their beliefs. The lost children Of the sea made their love for you Heard in Heaven and Hell And everywhere in between. And still, For one night in the city, we continue To turn up the night in your honor. Goodbye, oh great voice of a metal Generation. May your sacred heart Continue to burn in our

How on Earth is it possible That a man as uproariously hilarious as you Could have carried such sorrow deep inside? I can remember a thousand and one nights When you brought a smile to my six-year-old cheeks, Shooting jokes at a rate of perhaps sixty a minute With a tongue that must have been touched by None other than Thalia herself. Did the emptiness you felt inside drive you To try to banish such negative emotions From the lives of those you told your jokes to? If so, thank you, for making the world Shine a little brighter when the spark of madness That was your talent burned at its brightest. Maybe your example can teach us all to burn a little brighter now.