An experiment. This piece I wrote while sober (honest!), listening to Pink Floyd's "Interstellar Overdrive". It's a psychedelic Syd Barrett composition that appears on their 1967 debut album, "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn", at almost ten minutes in length. The images here are what came to mind with each individual riff. I took brief notes, then fleshed them out later according to the vision held in my memory. Don't ask. I don't know either.
TRIPPING WITH SYD
clanging sensation skyward...
planes unfamiliar, onslaught of haze,
fiercely intense, a great wail of
whorling, strange music of
water, cold tattered wind...am I out
of my own corrupt orbit?
I find light, with mineral and liquid to
reflect them, then on to a likely
extreme end of it all, like poles of
the earth where sun strikes
obliquely, where the slow exchange
between light and dark is
monotonous, an aurora reflects
the fireworks of hell...are these our
lands, these analogs of death?
finally, a door.
a door I must enter past
shadowy sentinels charged with
mystery...no gardens here, just
phantoms in twilight...are
they kin, friend or Borg?
I enter to weeping, tearing
of shrouds, loud clanging
of souls, small children playing,
bouncing balls off my head.
what hides in the tin and fine brass?
where is the starscape, the moon?
things move here with impudence,
drums leaden and brusque
segue: something ethereal, light
and mysterious, a delicate buzz,
a strange sort of lightning softer
than webs, passing like breath,
silent as stones
quick leap to the luminous, small
voices chirping, interrupting like
crickets along the long
baseboard of eternal design...
sonar pings yo-yo-ing
fast, then faster, then
silence
now mandarin music steams
over mazes, exotic and rolling
from age to long age, brash
elbowing in a market, manic
madness of desire...
the twirling ball divines opium
and cool, sleek decor, a low
pulsing of drums
quiet interlude next, on
banks of a still, acid
pond under cyan blue clouds
in a foul yellow sky,
occasional death missles
whistling past
faded harridans
reflect on the water, waist chains
atinkle, writhing in bodies of
every wrong size, gnawing
nourishment from bones of
debauchery, and above
them, the backward muses,
queued up for their
morbid use
merge to a scene of
misunderstanding, rumbling in
the ranks, curses and blasphemies
over war drums in the distance;
guards on a thousand
citadels burn crackling corpses,
cacophony growing as war
looms close and smoke
signals bombs
factories, thumping toward
doom, spiral out of control,
plummeting, down, down
down, into the cauldron of
greed and discord, and
give pause to our impoverished
muse, eyes stocked with visions
of Spock and stars, finding
earthly horror instead
screaming shrill, she
floats past with blood-blurred
vision, tasting nothing of
milk or human kindness, but
only ash on embers of rust-bitter
wreckage that smokes away
hope, long decayed in
remains of this day
--Jo VonBargen 2012
"Now that my ladder's gone,I must lie down where all the ladders startIn the foul rag and bone shop of the heart."--William Butler YeatsOkay, lovely readers. You heard right. Your old-bird professor here at the Rag 'n' Bone is gonna take a long walk off a short pier and go against current marketing wisdom. I'm dumping the hoop-dee-doo! Last chance to place your bets!I've been thinking again. Oh, dear. Don't you hate when that happens? It's been gnawing around the edges of my intellect for some time now, after reading something my good friend, Christina Carson, said in one of her wisdom-packed blogs some time ago, The View From Here. Matter of fact, the gnawing comes from several somethings in many of her blogs that have stimulated my own nature and original beliefs to rise again to the surface.Having been somewhat a rebel and independent thinker from birth, I've never cared about acquiring "things" nor have I ever spent much time worrying about money. I just figured if you spent it all, some would come in soon to replace it. Living within a framework dictated by others has just never worked for me. I've always written what was in my heart or whatever my intuition put forth without regard to what society or my family would say...come hell or high water. Where I lost my way, it seems, was in publishing my books and then trying to fit in with the current, chaotic marketing wisdom of which I've clearly read too much. I've twisted, turned and tweeted so much that if you printed them all out you could paper the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel a thousand times over. Selling books is not why I write. I knew that, I knew that, I knew that! I write because I want to illuminate something for the reader. I write because perhaps someone needs help and could benefit from reading my experience in that area, if only to see that they are not alone in their plight. I write to give voice to the voiceless. I write for a hundred reasons...to find out what I think, to see a path in the dark, to capture a moment outside of time...but again, it's always to illuminate. None of these reasons involve money. I've never written a piece with dollar signs in my eyes. It seems that somewhere in there I began believing my own press and these rebel eyes got big at the sight of a Brink's truck.Shame. Shame on me! It's totally embarrassing that I've abandoned my core principles and gone down this road. So, an about-face is about to occur. Simplicity has always been the key to my comfort....I need to simplify. My good friend, the witty and wonderful British poet, Oscar Sparrow, recently emailed me expressing similar thoughts, a longing for "calm and focus". He rues the "many layers of interface and distraction", as do I. It truly boggles the mind how much more time I've spent chasing a dollar than I have actually creating. My intuition has always told me that the universe would get my writing into the hands of whoever needed to read it, even if it was only one person, at the appropriate time. How could I have forgotten that?True enough, many writers do need to make a living from their works, and must throw themselves into the dirty economics of the fray. God bless 'em, I would never deny them that choice and I will certainly continue to lend my support to those who make that choice. Independent writers must have the toughest skin on the planet for all they have to learn to do and put up with. I wish everyone nothing but the best in finding their own way in a dog-eat-dog business world. Christina said in one of her blogs that the most important thing for each of us is to "find our purpose", and that will naturally be different for every writer. So again, this post is not meant to disparage anyone or their pursuits; we all do what we have to do. I will return to taking my cues from nature, a habit that has always served me well. Nature does not tolerate extremes for long....there will always be a return to balance and harmony. Trying to gain visibility or becoming self-serving has caused an unstable situation for me, personally. I have to discard these social fixations in favor of a simpler me. There are so many of us out there trying to be "first" that the natural balance of the literary world is rapidly taking on water and is in danger of capsizing. I'll be busy doing what I do while this situation evolves, as it will, naturally. All processes cycle in the direction of their opposite...it's the law of polarity.If I depend more on my intuition and vision and rub elbows with those who also cultivate these, I can only grow and add immeasurable dimension to my actions and thoughts. My writing will be done without expectation of reward; the process of creation itself continues to be my great joy! I think that seeking honor and prestige will only separate me further from those for whom I write, the human tribe. I am one with all: their joy is my joy, their pain is my pain. To sully this interconnectedness with a money chase is beyond unworthy for me personally. The harmony I feel at this moment is the harmony I want to feel tomorrow. And so it shall be, dearies, so it shall be."Be as you are. Know what that is. Live only that." --Christina Carson in "Books That Disturb Us"(And now, for the entertainment...) CONNECTION
In the rose garden,
protecting the faucets
from freezing, I spy
in the beam
of the flashlight a
skittering trail
of mole paws
Garden tools ((glisten)) with
cold, cautious beads
Blazing among the barren canes
are puffed, hard hips,
swollen red with promise of
Spring and new roses
Rapt, I listen, holding my
breath as kindred souls {fuse} with
mine in the dark
The idea of connection, of
some vast oneness,
descends
♪ ♫ ♬ music surrounds ♪ ♫ ♬
poets *whisper* cherubic odes,
writers expound
puffs of lone heart songs
~ wafting ~
beckoning me to
share
begging me to hear
yearning only to give
and receive
small comforts
and I feel
the warm mist of Spirit
~ hovering ~
blanketing me, you,
the roses
--Jo VonBargen 2012
"Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart."
--William Butler Yeats
The Blog Refurb
Let's just say you're going to spruce up your blog a little and make it more attractive for current and future followers. What paint do you pick for a finish? Dull matte or a sparkling gleam? I refer here to your writing, believe it or not, instead of layout or background, although those should be pleasing as well.
So, dearies, about those words. Poetry is not just for poets, you know! Dare to work some surprise, some beauty, some depth into your content writing. They'll remember you. No need to get all purple prosey, but spice it up a little. Tell short stories. A touch of humor can be delicious!
Google some search terms such as "power words", "emotional words", "motivational words", "impact words", etc. Insert some of these into appropriate spots in your blog piece to increase interest and action on the reader's part. I know you know this, but it bears repeating! Words create impressions, images and expectations. They build psychological connections. They influence how we think. Since thoughts determine actions, there's a powerful connection between the words we use and the results we get. Well chosen ones can motivate, offer hope and create vision.
Let's look at your readership. Want to make a better connection with this body of fine folks? Well, duh. Don't we all? Here's a little tip. Visualize one person (your ideal follower) right down to their shoes. Then pick another. A great marketer once said to a soap manufacturer, "Your customer isn't a faceless moron; she's your wife."
Hmm. Consider that. Wouldn't you write a little differently to someone you knew well than you would to a group of persons you're likely to never meet? Perhaps you'd give it an easy, more conversational tone.
So, you've leaned back and visualized what a couple of your readers might look like...age, sex, lifestyle, interests...and have gotten a mental picture set in your mind before you start writing. Think about the worries and frustrations that your readers might experience, perhaps fears that they have, themes that dominate their lives, etc. The more you can tailor your content to giving these readers some sort of work-around to make their daily lives easier or more meaningful, the better chance of success you have.
I know that many of my fans and followers are writers like me, with wonderful books on Amazon and other places that they've birthed, polished and slaved over for years and would truly love to get into the hands of more readers. Perhaps, as I do, they sit down to the computer with a mug of coffee or a goblet of good red in nightgown or skivvies and prepare to whisper, scream, bleed or sizzle words onto a page well on into that good night. All of us are full of hope and dreams for a better tomorrow.
Bottom line is, know your reader. Who is your target market? How can you tailor the content so that your blog is relevant and interesting to this market? Think of the issue in terms of a bull’s eye: how likely are you to hit it if you're blindfolded? A great question to ask yourself is “What’s keeping your readers up at night?” Then write a lead that acknowledges that problem. Headings, titles and leads are critical in getting attention, by the way! They're your first contact with the reader and if you don't reel 'em in there, they won't read further.
Lastly, in thinking about what works on content marketing, the most effective writers also remember that classic piece of wisdom from Grandma: "You have two ears and one mouth. Listen twice as much as you talk." Listen and read, lovely peeps, listen and read.
(And now for the entertainment...) oh my, it's here.
dense clouds of bugs
whirl dizzily round the lights,
their dried bodies
strewn on the ground,
shrouds crunching like
sugar underfoot
heat demons zoom from
dark caves, Hellmouth
yawns, lurid and gulping.
windows bolt against
stir-fried air,
berries and tallgrass
denying the siege
bid good riddance,
though, to that
sullen cold, lovely
night frost of the dead,
ghosts in the wet mud,
wrecked scattering of
shattered snow plows
Thor rumbles.
jewels furrow the air
drop soft, hot rain
on sucked-dry angels
hissing like fire,
sun-seeking dragons
crane burgeoning necks,
and like us, sprout out
--Jo VonBargen 2012Listen to Hissing Like Fire on youtube, brilliantly read by esteemed
British poet, Oscar Sparrow!Oscar's website
Well, it's come to this, has it? No longer am I the flower-child poet of my youth intent on saving the world. The world obviously doesn't want to be saved, thank you very much. It's tough enough saving my own skin.
The one thing I didn't count on when deciding to self-publish is that there is no end to the new technology, terminology and tactics that a writer must stuff down their craw if one is to be successful and sell books. Not that we're in it just to sell books (but go ahead and buy one if you want to...Mama needs a new pair of shoes)! I'm not sure I have that many brain cells left to hold all the new stuff! Thank heavens, there's always the blogosphere to look up new tricks. No more memorizing. Bookmark and you're done.
I truly love my readers, I do. They've stuck with me through all the ups and downs through the years and I've gone merrily along, simply posting entertainment for them via poems, stories, occasional opinion pieces, etc., but I'm not so sure that's enough anymore. People, even fans, are busy. They want value in exchange for the minutes they spend at your blog site...something that will not only entertain, but that will make their own lives easier! So I'm supposed to teach now in addition to tap-dancing and juggling? And so I will. Far be it from me to be out of step.
So. I've decided to redefine what I used to think blogging was: a vehicle for boring people to expound on the who-cares minutiae of their boring days. (Which was certainly true in some cases.) Now I see it as an art, no different than any other method of self-expression. Some are better at it than others, of course. But we learn by blogging...and reading other bloggers. And don't forget commenting. Usually we speed-read and shoot out of there. As writers, we all deeply appreciate hearing what readers have to say about what we've posted. Not that we need validation so much as we desperately need connection.
In reality, defining "blog" can only be a fool's errand. Our blogs are whatever we make of them. They can be a collection of prime info and links or our own private memo to the world. Lest anyone make the mistake of thinking it's also a safe bully pulpit, let's be clear. Your readers can and will respond with much more devastating venom than rotten tomatoes. And remember, the internet has no eraser.
Anyway, while searching around for "value added" content for future blogs, it occurred to me I might need to name it. Right away, William Butler Yeats popped into my head with his poem ,"The Circus Animals' Desertion". I've always loved these last lines:
"Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart."
Since what I thought I knew has changed now and all my ladders are gone, I've decided to call my new undertaking the Rag and Bone Blogiversity. So, give me a little time to collect ideas to write about, and maybe you'll see that new name around the blogosphere. I'm not likely to change it...unless I do.
In the end, blogging success will be the sum total of small efforts repeated day in and day out and, like anything else, perseverance is key. As the farmer once said, you can't plow a field by turning it over in your mind. I say dig in behind that mule's arse and leave no stone unturned!
(And now for the entertainment part...)
TWO-BIT BARD
Otis Redding:
"oh, I've been loving yoooo ooo ooo"
hey, peeps, chill...
here in the woods it's just us
shhh, listen...
"just a little too long"
man oh man...that voice goes all over me...
oh, c'mon...I'm not all that
I'm just a two-bit bard in a two-bit town
with two bits of wit
"I don't wanna stop now..."
naw...I don't care about fame...I just write
Argue lofty intellectual points with
the prick pundits...who cares?
I damned well get the big picture, though,
with my sieve of a brain...not that
it matters
Fifty years from now what they thought
what I thought
what anybody thought
will just be cow plops in the flower bed
somebody throw a log
on the fire, huh?
look...
I just want us to sit here
on this moldering stump of a
crumbling log and light up a poem
in the smoldering dark,
pass it around
hold...
hold...
hold back the inevitable
one more night
...just handsful of dust
waitin' on day and
the whirlwind
Jo VonBargen 2012
Dino Dogan and his Triberr crew have taken a look at successful blogs to figure out what makes them successful. They look for what they have that the smaller blogs don't and what leverage they're using to reach so many readers. Then they build the tools to make that leverage available to us, the luckyTriberr users! Read Dino's post on DIYBlogger.net and be amazed!!
Guest Blogging is Dead and I Killed It
By Dino Dogan
_People've been talking a lot about you lately, old friend. Were your ears burning? It put me to thinking. Just how much you mean to me. Didja know, old Word, that folks like Maya, Ginsberg 'n me think you're holy? Don't laugh. Ith twue. Think about it.
How old are you now? 3000? 5000? Look at you, still smooth as a mirror. Still sharp as a Don Rickles barb. Unstained by our spatterings. Unmoved by the cold wind of centuries.
Remember when I first went into your closet? Jeez, all that wondrous garb in such a vast place. Like running my fingers through a rainbow. Winding fine silk around my body.
It was magic. Right there I was healed of my crime of birth. I imagined death as no more than a starlit staircase. I could walk our ancestral nights with unbated breath, imagine that. You set the intellect wandering. The dark was a fine friend.
I loved trying on your most elegant pieces. Like serene and divine. Noble and brilliant. Picturesque and peace. Shimmer. Glisten. You had them in every color. Vermillion, sienna, chartreuse, French rose. Thousands. Millions, truth be told.
I was ecstatic. My own magical image in your mirror made me want to try them all on. I was victorious in new-found courage. Jazzed. Enchanted. Gloriously alive.
Oh, yeah, I saw those duds around the perimeter. The darker ones. The malevolent, the venom. The horror, disgust, the bile. Enmity weighed heavy though, and I figured I'd never wear 'em. Boy, was I naive!
The war room was separate. You had a reason, I suppose. Pretty dim in there. Cold. Danger in the air. Brutal shadows. Death. And that cute sign on the door, "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Do I seem nostalgic? Yeah, I guess. We seem to pick the lovely garb less and less these days. We like the whine, the vitriol. The despise and abhor. I feel a little ashamed.
Glad to see, though, old chum, where you've got those seven man-banned words. Right in with the power, the emphasis, the take-that. You see right through that morality BS. I've always loved you for that, homey. Those duds are better than a bullhorn any damned day.
You're a good friend, old Word. You're so giving. You don't care what we wear or don't wear outta that closet. You offer your selection freely...to all comers. No need to declare intent. Result never questioned. You're just glad to be useful.
Even though you're an old fart now, you never had to endure the toil of growing up. Or come face to face with your sins. Or had to know the unfinished soul and its pain. I wonder what that would be like.
Being immortal and all, you get to let us wear all that stuff and you live again and again. I guess we don't borrow the glittery robes much anymore. We'd rather itch in the dark wools. You know. The ones that are too cold, too hot, and show our faults in the best light.
You never even complain. We get blood of our victims all over your finery. You just clean 'em up to lend out again, to be soiled, ripped or used to abuse. Thankfully, you furnish 'em pristine, in case we have to eat 'em.
You're a good friend, old Word...really. You gave me my voice, my life back. Such sweetness flows from your breast when we laugh, when we sing. When we slip into thankful mode. We really should do it more often, but you wouldn't notice. We get butt-ugly and you couldn't care less. You just smile and think how good every line looks in your stuff.
--Jo VonBargen 2012
(And we went down into the longboats, flushed with excitement,
expecting a short row to the Island of Truth.)
Computer Age children, like frontiersmen of old,
E-book sophisticates, now data-base bold,
sailed the sea's fathomless promise buoyed
by our knowledge that books we'd held and enjoyed
could now be caged, dusty and dead,
to wonder posterity how, paperless, we read.
(O shimmering Isle, forever horizoned, receding our reach...
how far are you now?)
Our arms labored, aching, with infertile rowing,
sweat mingled tears, hotly reflecting our hate
of his smile...Apollo, bright glowing...
radiant beaming our dehydrated fate.
But....there! In the distance...mirage? Could it be?
Elliptical hills swelled up from the sea
to feast our starved eyes, now nearly blind.
O, Isle! Promised Land! Truth of Mankind!
Our limbs became limber, in vigor renewed,
and we, fueled by hope, so effortlessly flew!
Again we were sailors, Odysseus's elite...
sculling in rhythm to songs...magic, sweet!
(But...alas! Progress checked, those dread rocks unseen,
we haplessly wrecked on the coast of Cyrene!)
Struggling to shore, near-drowned and bedraggled,
we collapsed in the sand, all begging Apollo's
forgiveness our cursing him, fruitlessly haggling
our souls and our fealty in exchange for what follows:
For sun to shine through the low-hanging clouds,
his smile to unravel our burial shrouds!
But, exhausted, we slept...in long dreams enfolded...
Apollo's bad children, sent to bed scolded.
While slumbering, healing, immense shadow loomed,
presaging its owner, by whom we'd be doomed...
a Giant! Colossal, flag-cloaked and bright plumed,
fearsome, yet thrilling...magnificent groomed!
To his gilt lair, he bore us asleep, no fathom, no care,
laying us gently on cushions of down...
We woke with a start...a Giant was there!
And we in silk robes...orange blossoms our crown!
Scrambling for cover, we wrenched quilts asunder,
and burrowed like moles...necks stood every hair!
With resounding guffaws the Giant fair shrieked,
he shook and he rolled as we surfaced and peeked.
This object of dread, now helpless with laughter
made us fear less the danger...but what was he after?
Curiosity piqued, we grew calm and bold
and listened, amazed, to the bright tales he told!
It seemed that that our audience was all that he asked,
so, fully absorbed, in his brilliance we basked!
He plumped us in cushions, plied us with wine...
on bits of his Truth, sumptuous feasts, we did dine!
He honed sharp our crave of elaborate fare
and our standards of verity, altered...with care.
Castaways always...and so we had thought.
But, look! We were here, at the island we'd sought!
As greedy we grew, years glossed over who
we were way back when...now mindless addicts,
bathed in his silver rays, we marveled anew
his cloak of our colors...red, white and blue!
Our fixes delivered in dosage slow-dripped,
we no longer cared if we feasted or sipped,
absorbing his edicts in worshipful stare,
we loved...how we loved...that damned silver glare!
He auctioned our womanhood...sex packaged slick...
and we, cheapened, bought it, our glory gone sick.
Non-whites were measured and swathed in pure fiction...
he sold us our loathing of difference in diction.
(And...holding our passion for humanity at bay,
he molded our pattern for living cliché.)
On racks, we were tortured with charts of height/weight,
our skins plied with potions against aging's fate,
white hides tanned and cured...but what's even worse,
we worshipped our sameness; abhorred the diverse!
Poor babes, born addicted, suffered the most;
his ravings of Name Brand stunted their growth.
Into molds photogenic, their purity shoved...
not carved clean of warts, they couldn't be loved!
Like us, they shunned contrast, minds dipped in bromide...
teaching tenets of genocide to both peer and heir,
living long, but souls dying young,
a legacy share of the Kingdom of Glare!
This won't be the end of that long, forlorn tale,
that we'd hoped...oh, we hoped...couldn't turn for the worse.
Ebooks remained, though their content was pale,
Herr Giant corrupted with chapter and verse!
(So sad that this tale would never be read, for from that
day, forward, and on through the ages, dusty and dead,
paper books lay in cages.)
So it was that the Universe had had more than enough,
and would heap on the Giant his only fair due.
From then on the going was going to get rough
for everyone here...what I tell you is true!
Leaving heaven, a slumbering body swooped to Earth,
trailing pure pandemonium and deadly, dead ice.
Half the size of the moon, the rock would give birth
to mass fires and floods, not a bit of it nice!
In a blue, smoky haze, the Giant disappeared,
along with most of the world and its shame,
along with everything we loved and feared,
along with electricity, fortune and fame.
(Dreams dead in a heap, like ants.
No widow's black veil, no plea for mercy,
no banished Winter vanished to Spring,
but a gossamer shroud, curling the last global pall.)
And after that day, that Earth-shaking day,
this story, for eons, was told drum to bone...
'til a child of New Earth left his cave to go play,
and found he could carve pictures into a stone.
--Jo VonBargen 2012
no more shade from the skeletal
red buds in the yard, no tree frogs,
no trills of the poor
short-lived cicada
no longer the Spring of your
life, nor time for
heat-seeking satyrs who
devour up the lonely grasping
hard at some breath of heaven
you, deep-rooted, yet consumed
by the sun, are fragile, lost...
you, to whom zenith, nadir,
and zodiac are all one big blur,
have changed...turned with
the leaves
eventually all faun gods save one
returned to their
unbounded heaven that
transmutes all, but your breath
still catches, fastening onto
those youthful images
and words
the war was inside you, only
child's play at first, but
from then on, with
the faun you chose,
the going was harder;
now your friends are all tired
of your tears
and who more than you
hates whining
so you've made your peace,
but what lies beyond the horizon
lures you still, and you'll
eventually hurl yourself up, up
out of the mire at the glimpse
of a whole, orange moon rising,
beckoning tide and love
like the Sirens
to lap, lap away at
your heart
--Jo VonBargen 2012
 Foggybonnets
Shhhhh.
Don't think.
Just be.
This message brought to you by the Universe
 Now that's a travel adventure for the ages! Laura Enridge has written a delightful memoir of her solo travels through several countries in West Africa. This was a bold undertaking for even well-seasoned travelers, let alone an unaccompanied single woman in her thirties!
Her experiences were, shall we say, very down to earth...literally. As in dirt. Mud. Pounding rain. Sweltering heat. Creepy-crawlies. Very questionable food. Rickety transportation manufactured shortly after the wheel was invented. Yet through it all, her strength of character and delightful sense of humor carry the day.
What she discovered, for the most part, is a wonderfully simple-living citizenry that is quite content and uncomplaining and indeed charming in its colorful customs and lore. On the flip side, she can see the frustration involved in trying to introduce progress of any kind into a system that is root-bound by respect for the village elders, who of course are not inclined toward change of any kind.
This was not an easy trip by any stretch of the imagination. Grueling is more like it. And it takes an extraordinary individual to pluck out measurable reward from the daily misery of simply getting from point A to point B, or getting fed, or getting clean. Extraordinary as in the fearless Laura Enridge. If I didn't know better, I'd peg her for a good ole corn-fed, kick-ass Texas gal...so I hereby declare her an honorary one!
Everyone who loves adventure should read Laura's book; there's nothing better than a true-life one, especially one written by this special lady with such a remarkable and unbiased joie de vivre. A truly vivid and strikingly detailed memoir, with wonderful photos as well!
--Jo VonBargen 2012
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