Sunday, April 18, 2021

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee (April 18, 2021)

 Friends! Every Sunday, I read good poems by other people while we all drink coffee. Join us.

  • 7ish AM (Pacific Time)
  • Sundays
Here's today's installment:

Thursday, January 14, 2021

Pandemic Meditations: Walking and Dreams by Kate St. Ives

Dreaming is Believing by Humphrey King, used under CC license

Walking and Dreams

by Kate St. Ives

My first dream of the pandemic included a siren. It was the third week in March and I still lived in Indiana, in Bloomington. I had an apartment right up next to a one-way street that ran north-south, and I often heard sirens at night--ambulances rushing down the street so that they could turn right at the end and come north again up Walnut to turn left on Second, to go the hospital. Or, if it wasn’t an ambulance, then it was a police car whizzing by. I’d see the flashing blue and red through my white curtains. Sometimes people carried off bikes from front porches or got in a fight at Seminary Park. The police patrolled a lot. 

In my dream, I am inside a body, maybe my own body. I see veins, nerves. I am in the blood. Small objects move around me--meeting, touching, separating, and passing one another by. I’m at ease. Then my perspective shifts. 

A heart and lungs lie before me, each organ light against dark. It’s as though I am looking at a computed tomography scan of a body. The organs take on additional colors. Vivid red, brilliant gold, blue, purple, pink. The edges of the colored areas pulsate, merge, and form new colors. Gradually, I realize that what I’m seeing is a scan that shows not just the material structures of a body but passion itself. I feel confused and then elated. I hadn’t known that passion could be seen.

I had been sick for nine days when I had this dream. I had returned, on March fourth, from a trip to California with a friend, and I went to work the following day. 

“Welcome back,” my boss said, rising from her desk when she saw me. “You look great—I mean you’re not sick, so that’s good.” 

She had a large bottle of hand sanitizer next to her computer. More bottles stood on desks and counters throughout the building. Signs about how to wash your hands properly hung taped from the edges of these surfaces. Concern about the coronavirus had taken on urgency since I had left five days earlier. Still, there were fewer than one hundred confirmed cases of COVID-19 in Indiana. 

“No, I’m not sick,” I said. 

Four days later I ran up a flight of stairs at work, and when I reached the top felt so exhausted, I had to sit down on one of the sofas designated for visitors before taking the last fifteen steps to my office. By afternoon I had a sore throat, sinus congestion, and a light cough. I went home early. 

In California, in the small town we were visiting, my friend and I stayed in an old hotel with high-ceilinged rooms and big, beautiful, drafty windows. Above sturdy eight-foot-tall shutters I could see a block of drizzly grey sky.

After a walk through the empty lobby, sitting rooms, and hallway, my friend commented, “It seems this hotel is not fully booked. In fact, there are only a few rooms that are occupied." 

“Do you think it’s because people are afraid?” I asked as I unwrapped a bar of fragrant white soap. In my palm the soap looked inadequately small for those windows, that room, the edge of the Pacific.

“It’s the off season,” he said confidently.

We probably should have cancelled our trip, but we had planned it months in advance. For me it was an opportunity to visit with a friend who lived faraway whom I hardly ever got to see. Besides, we wanted to use the time to talk about how to make an important awake-life dream a reality. We did talk, in the town’s little streets, where we wandered into cafés and drank tea or stood at the water’s edge and watched harbor seals surface, shimmy onto partially submerged boulders, and lie there, like boulders themselves. Across an inlet of dark water stood the weathered remains of an old cannery, a place where working-class men had once labored in a once working-class town, until all the fish were dead.

The neighborhood where I lived in Bloomington also recalls an earlier, different kind of town and life. I didn’t notice it so much until the pandemic lockdown cleared the streets and allowed the squat little turn-of-the-last-century houses to become a focal point. Tract houses is what they are called a friend told me, probably originally built for workers in the limestone industry; some are also weathered now, while some have fresh coats of bright paint, their attached patches of ground filled, in summer, with flowers. Many are divided into tiny apartments for university students. 

In the early days of lockdown, the flower beds were still mostly bare. Crocuses found their way out first. Although they sought the warmth, I imagined instead that they brought it with them--purple flames overcoming winter and lighting up the world. When I felt well enough, I walked the streets of my neighborhood, weaving between garbage and recycling cans fallen over curbs, stopping here and there to gaze up at trees. Some of the trees were horribly marred, hacked off where the trunk forked in an attempt to keep branches out of electric lines, others had been allowed to grow wildly skyward, between and beyond the power lines, flirting with danger, as though the city had decided to allow the continuance of at least a few private, unspoken negotiations between nature and man. 

When I didn’t feel well, I lay on my bed and checked my pulse. I had read that COVID-19 can cause sudden dips in oxygen, and so I looked at my fingers tips to make sure they weren’t turning blue. I listened to the soft, wheezing sound of my breath coming in and going out and thought about the virus’ spiked proteins inside me, latching onto my cells. When it came time to collect my work computer, I felt sad that I didn’t have the energy to walk the mile and a half to the building, as I had often done in the past, and I felt sad that my coworker, our department’s managing editor, wore gloves and held a cloth over her face as she gingerly handed me my laptop in the parking lot. 

On our last full night in California, my friend and I decided to have a seafood meal on the wharf. We walked the mile or so to get there. Hardly a ray of light shone through the clouded sky over the western ocean. We passed four men on the sidewalk hunched around a fountain next to backpacks bulging with sleeping bags. One held out a plastic cup to me, “Could you?” he asked. I searched my pockets for change. On the cluttered wharf the booths selling candy, games, and stuffed animals had closed for the night. In front of one darkened booth, three blond children with strings of plastic beads hanging off their arms and toys in their hands, stood imploringly in front of a man and woman. I could see only the whiteness of their faces, hair, and bare arms and legs and imagine how cold they must feel by the water in the dark. 

“They are speaking Danish,” my friend said, “I recognize the language.” 

Though the booths were closed, all along the wharf restaurant doorways stood open, their warm light spilling outward and casting inviting orange squares across the walk. Signs propped up outside advertised the best fish or the greatest clam chowder or the most food on one plate. The light from the open doorways was inviting, but I was surprised I didn’t also hear a hum of voices or clattering of dishes promising the comforts of a meal among others. 

We reached the end of the wharf. 

“Well?” my friend asked. 

Next to my feet, in a circle of light, a small boy crouched by a wooden sign, mumbling to himself, sometimes laughing and pressing his forehead or one little index finger against the wood. 

“Hello,” I said, leaning down. “What’s that?” I could just make out the engraved pictures on the wooden sign, animals that lived there in the ocean.

“Whale,” the boy said. 

A man with grey hair, perhaps the child’s grandfather, emerged from the dark and stood next to my friend and me, his eyes looking kindly and appreciative under the glow of the light. The boy slid his finger down the sign to the picture of a different species of whale. “Whale,” he said.

“That’s right,” the man said.

“Yes, another kind of whale,” I added.

“Yes, very good,” said my friend.

The boy stood suddenly. He ran forward, to the very end of the walkway, to where only a metal barrier stood between him and water. “Whale,” he cried out to the ocean. He did it again and again, his silhouette fliting across a wall of black and his high, triumphant voice the only sound on the wharf.

Inside a restaurant, a waiter set plates, glasses, and silverware in front of my friend and me. “The appetizer is free,” he said as we opened our menus. 

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are lucky, tonight two appetizers are free,” the waiter said, striding back to our table with a basket of bread. “The wine is also free,” he added, setting two more glasses on the table and filling them from a bottle he had brought out with him.

“It’s nice that he’s giving us all this,” I said, “but don’t you find it a little disturbing?”

“Yes,” my friend said, gazing into his glass of wine, “I do.”

At the end of our meal the waiter lay a single long-stemmed rose on the table. “For the lady,” he said, smiling at my friend and then at me. It was nine o’clock, still, the large dining room was empty save for a young family at a center table, a single man on the far wall, and my friend and me, surprising for a place that’s supposed to have the best seafood on the wharf. 

In my dream, the heart and lungs are like fish. They move within the parameters of their private worlds inside the sea. If you looked at them from above with human eyes, you would see a cluster or jewels, fins and gills, scales, appearance and disappearance, bounded and without bounds. But then you would see them, the creatures themselves, and as your eyes locked onto their simple flesh amid the chaos of crowded beauty, you would believe that you were seeing something that required more of you than you had ever given before, and you would want to give it, whatever it is, but you wouldn’t be able to, because you wouldn’t understand the creatures, and then, before you could try, they would be gone. 

In my dream, I do understand the creatures. I understand the force of their contractions, the miraculous energy of their expansions. I understand their belonging in their small world and their riotous resistance when that world changes. I understand them because I am them, and I am screaming.

Kate St. Ives
Kate St. Ives writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry and works as an editor at a company that publishes books for K–12 educators. She lives in Kentucky. Walking and Dreams is part of a longer work about her experiences during the COVID-19 pandemic.


Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Friday, January 8, 2021

Pandemic Meditations: A Scrabble Story by Robert Tombari

Coronavirus Scrabble from flickr, used under CC license

2020: A Scrabble Story

by Robert Tombari

I seriously love words. I’m a big fan of Scrabble. I try not to come up with the most clever ones. You have to be lucky in drawing letters. It’s not all skill. It’s about the letters you draw and where you place them that makes the game interesting. How the board comes together - you always have to be conscious of the bigger picture. You slowly realize that every word you place matters in a significant way. Dictating what can or cannot be done four turns from now. Maybe you got lucky, and hit a seven letter word (most of the time it's an eight-letter word) by adding your word to an existing one. You only get the bonus if you use all your letters and create, at minimum, a seven-letter word. 

Semantics abound. 

For me, placing a letter on a scrabble board is a type of meditation. It is easy and doesn’t take much effort. Finding the right words, however, that’s hard. While the goal of the game is to accumulate the most points, you are also working to make sure that you have places later. 

Words matter. How you use them matters. 

Words, words words . . .

As many Scrabble enthusiasts will tell you, the first word sets the tone for the game. It is the make or break moment. Words beget words that beget words . . . until one person runs out of tiles and the bank out of letters. What makes the game intriguing is that when you have run out of tiles, and you’re the first to lay them all down, you then get the points from the other players' letters. It’s inherently part of the game, and isn’t really vital to what I am telling you. But in a way it is. 

Words . . .words? 

Words . . .

I like to play defensively--always paying attention to what the person before has done, and what the next player could do. You choose your words carefully. 

In the end, you find that where you use the words you create, how you place them, how they fit onto the board, letter by letter, tile by tile racking up each point only brings you so far. If the game is a blowout is it really that much fun? I don’t mean that you should throw the game if someone isn’t doing well. It is luck after all that got you the better tiles and placements available to put them. But the question remains. 

WORDS! Words . . . words . . . ?

I like to block the triple word scores with mundane letters. Taking smaller chances to make sure that in the end I was given some points. After all, it's the points that you need that will help you win the game. 

Which words to create?  Which words to toss? 

Your mind must race so many miles minute when you haven’t been paying attention to what has been happening - not looking at the bigger picture. You’ve been solely focused on your own game play. You forgot to check in with the world around you. Realizing now that the word you were going to place is no longer useable. Someone has taken your spot and you cannot play there anymore. How do you make the word fit?

If words are the name of the game, then the action of placing them is like a chess board move of “checkmate”. I mean the stakes are always high, but in the end it’s just a word. Does it really matter? 

Finally the board is done. The letters are fully placed. The game has been set, the match is over. 

What to do? What to do . . .

Do you ever evaluate your plays? Like, just look at the game when it’s finished? Tried to see how it could have come out differently? 

I’ve always said you should be aware of the wordplay. Do you see it yet? 

Words are the name of the game. Actions are using them. Placement is vocalizing them.

When I think of how the pandemic has affected our theatrical community, both locally and globally, I think of the words 









Amazing things come out of this pandemic, but pain has come with it. 

Theatre has forever changed. We must embrace this change. We must look forward to the future. 

As we look at these words, we can imagine the hardship of finding a way to create them during the pandemic. How lucky it really would have been to make them happen. 

Vowels are important, in theatre, we emphasize and stress them when warming up--using them to ground ourselves and solidify our bodies for performance. We were trying our hardest to, simply, draw a vowel that could link the needed sounds.

There was a loss without these words.

Clear the board. 

Start again.

Here's to hoping our letters connect in 2021.


Robert Tombari
Robert Tombari is a classically trained actor, director, producer, educator, and an acting/vocal coach who currently resides in Spokane, Washington. He received his MFA, with an emphasis in Shakespeare, from The Royal Birmingham Conservatoire in Birmingham, England where he lived for two years. He holds a BA in Theatre Arts from Boise State University. While living in Boise he also worked as a stagehand on numerous productions at The Morrison Center for The Performing Arts. Robert has also toured parts of the Pacific Northwest with Idaho Theatre for Youth part of Idaho Shakespeare Festival. He has performed locally at Spokane Civic Theatre (Morris, Present Laughter) and at Stage Left Theater (Jody, Lonely Planet; Mack The Knife, Threepenny Opera). 

Robert currently produces the Masterpiece Monologues series for Stage Left Theater. He is also a member of Stage Left Theater’s Board of Directors. Robert was born and raised in Spokane. When he isn’t working, you can find him wandering around Manito Park with his dog Bentley, trying new restaurants, binging his favorite tv series, and spending time with his immediate family. He can be reached at his website.

At the end of January, Robert will be starring in Stage Left's virtual production of An Iliad (directed by Susan Hardie). Tickets here:

Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Sunday, January 3, 2021

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee: Erin Pringle reads good poems by other people

On Thanksgiving morning of 2020, I read good poems by other people while we drank coffee (on my Facebook page). I have since continued doing this every Sunday morning 7-7:15 AM (Pacific Time).

And as I foresee doing this an innumerable number of Sundays, I figure it's time to have a standing invitation.

Therefore, no matter your time zone or level of wakefulness, you are cordially invited to join me every Sunday for coffee and good words.

Wake to Words and Brew Some Coffee:

Erin Pringle reads good poems by other people while we all drink coffee

Broadcasting live every Sunday at 7 AM for approximately 15 minutes worth of words


Sunday, December 27, 2020

20/20 in 2020: A Discussion with Melissa Stephenson, Emily Withnall, and Erin Pringle

On December 28th at 3 PM (PT), I'll be joining my writer friends Melissa Stephenson and Emily Withnall to discuss how our writing and reading went in this pandemic year. Of course, it's a virtual event, and of course, you're cordially invited.

Invitation here:

Event link here:


Friday, December 18, 2020

Pandemic Meditations: It's Wednesday, November 4th by Polly Buckingham

Trouble on my mind by Dana, used under CC license

It’s Wednesday, November 4th

by Polly Buckingham

Mercury is just out of retrograde, it’s the morning after a yet-undeclared election where deaths from climate change, inequity, and Covid are all at stake, and I’m cutting up the last two chanterelles from a disturbingly dry mushroom season. 

After the mushrooms, I’ll cut up two garden potatoes, one purple, one pink, and the rest of my cubanelle peppers and fry a couple eggs. I dried and stuffed the other hundred some peppers, and all that remains is a handful of fresh banana peppers and poblanos. As my breakfast is sautéing, I’ll bake one of the sixty some winter squash on racks in the back room; the temperature there is 55 degrees so the squash will last through the winter. I’ve named this variety “That Crazy Plant”; it comes from the seeds of a mystery squash that took over my garden the summer of 2019. It looks like a cross between a pumpkin and a turban squash and has a remarkably sweet bright orange flesh. I’ve moved the potatoes and carrots from the garage to the backroom, a room otherwise delegated to the dog and the squash, after a surprise snowstorm where temperatures dropped from the 60 to 12 degrees and some six inches of snow fell. I’ve spent the last few nights talking on the phone with friends while cutting the tops off hundreds of carrots. Over the next month, I’ll juice them, dry them, grill them, sauté them, ferment them, share them with friends and the foodbank, and eat them raw.

People say they have to find things to do during Covid, but I find I cannot get through all I need to do, though I often wonder about what I’m doing and why. I wonder about the notion of work, of a job. I don’t need a winter of food stored in freezers and dried in cabinets. And yet, answering this calling to grow food, to feed people, to understand what it means to grow most of what you eat, feels necessary. I feel compelled to do it, and it helps keep me steady—planting seeds, popping dried beans from their pods, saving carrot blossoms and sunflower heads.

Still, my job has always been to write, and it has always come first. I don’t have children: I dream and I write. I struggle with the simple tasks of daily living—paying bills, making doctor appointments, cleaning my house, calling for repairs, even opening mail. I was the child who couldn’t regularly brush her hair or teeth or clean out her locker or show up anywhere on time because she was dreaming and writing and writing and dreaming. I have never been suited for much else, and it has saved me throughout my life. Made me whole. Made my soul feel steady. Writing is that great creative force, that beautiful arc across the night sky, dusty and eons deep. It is the most important thing I have to offer. I have a duty first to vision. A sort of seeing that is transmutable and necessary to me and to the world.   

Let’s be honest: I haven’t written enough since Covid sent us into isolation, despite the very clear invitation—that is, long periods of time alone at home. A dream, really, an ideal field, like a spring garden covered with the compost of fall leaves. Every day I wake up forgiving myself for not writing enough. I try to be good to myself. But it hurts not to write.

The apricot smell of the chanterelles steadies the panic that tries to rise up in me. What I know about this day as Mercury moves out of retrograde is how deep the change this country has to make, how deep the change I have to make. My job in this moment, on this day, is to transform. I don’t know how long it will take, or even what it looks like, but it must happen. And only a lifetime—fifty-three years—of dreaming and writing and writing and dreaming could have prepared me for this most necessary job. I have to trust my own role in the movement from seed to fruit to fallow earth.

Later today, I will clean with a dry cloth several of the winter squash in my backroom. The dog bed is still covered with carrot tops and unfinished carrots the dog got into a few nights ago—purple and orange and yellow and scarlet carrots, crooked and straight, enormous and tiny. The squash are weighty in my hands, and they glow as I wipe the cloth over their imperfections.

Polly Buckingham’s collection of poetry, The River People, was just released by Lost Horse Press. Her story collection The Expense of a View won the Katherine Anne Porter Prize in Short Fiction. Her chapbook A Year of Silence won the Jeanne Leiby Memorial Chapbook Award for Fiction (2014), and she was the recipient of a 2014 Washington State Artists Trust fellowship. Her work appears in The Gettysburg Review, The Threepenny Review, Hanging Loose, Witness, North American Review, The Moth, New Orleans Review, Poetry Daily and elsewhere. She was a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor Award in 2011, 2012, and 2013. Polly is founding editor of StringTown Press and teaches creative writing at Eastern Washington University where she is editor of Willow Springs Magazine. Learn more at


Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Tuesday, December 15, 2020

Pandemic Meditations: The Bleak Midwinter by Liz Rognes

The Bleak Midwinter

by Liz Rognes

In the bleak midwinter, 1.6 million people have died across the world, and counting.

In the bleak midwinter, more than 297,000 people have died from coronavirus in the U.S., and counting. 

On December 9, 2020, more people died in a single day in the U.S. due to coronavirus than the number of deaths on 9/11. 

If ever there was a bleak midwinter, this is it. 

I hope you and your families are safe, although I know as I write this that I have many friends who have been sick, who have long-term illness, and who have lost loved ones. I thought of you and your families as I made this arrangement of this song. 

Please wear your masks and get the vaccine as soon as you can. I want to give you hugs, and I am getting bored of conducting a choir of Liz x 6. I’m aching to sing with other people.

But mostly, I want you all to be alive when we come out of this! 

Please, do what you can so that you and I and our remaining loved ones make it out of this bleak midwinter, alive.

In the Bleak Midwinter
Text by Christina Rossetti
Arrangement by me, based on the Holst melody

To view Liz's performance, you can watch it below or at YouTube with this link:

Liz Rognes
photo by Rajah Bose
Liz Rognes is a singer/songwriter, composer and writer who teaches writing and literature at Eastern Washington University. She grew up in Iowa and now lives in Spokane with her children. Her music was recently featured on KSPS PBS; you can watch it here:

For more music, recordings, and information, visit visit


Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Thursday, December 10, 2020

Pandemic Meditations: Since March 13 by Azaria Podplesky

Since March 13

by Azaria Podplesky






I’ve taken upwards of one hundred pictures of my cat. 

I’ve finished two tubes of Chapstick. It turns out they’re a lot harder to lose when you never leave your apartment. 

I’ve still not managed to read through my stack of The New Yorker.

Yoga studios closed and I tried to remember how I spent my time before I started teaching.

I’ve tried to stay off social media. I’ve failed at staying off social media.

I bought a set of shelves in July to display photos and trinkets which had been in my closet for far too long, but didn’t hang them until October.

I cancelled my cable. I’ve been reading more - Homegoing, The Cassandra, The Dutch House (an autographed copy found at Value Village), but I’ve also become great friends with Netflix and Hulu.

I’ve set up donations to Black Lives Matter, the NAACP, the ACLU Legal Defense Fund and two bail funds. I’ve voted. I’ve signed petitions, but it still feels like I’m sitting idly by, cat firmly planted on my lap, while the world burns.

Yoga studios reopened. Limited class sizes, everyone six feet apart, masks worn at all times except while practicing. But still, yoga.

I thought I’d hate working from home because of the silence, but it's beautiful to hear every tick-tock tick-tock from the clock in my kitchen.

Speaking of work, if I had $1 for every time I wrote “coronavirus,” “pandemic,” “quarantine,” “COVID-19” or “cancelled” in an article, I wouldn’t be working anymore.

I’ve spent 35 hours on a train, in a roomette smaller than my bathroom, to see my grandparents in California. It took months to convince myself I could travel safely, and I’m glad I finally bought the ticket. Watching the West Coast go by -- Evergreen trees, mountains, field after field after field after field and, finally, the Pacific Ocean -- filled my soul more than I anticipated. 

Somewhere in California
photo by Azaria Podplesky

Somewhere in California
photo by Azaria Podplesky

Somewhere in Oregon
photo by Azaria Podplesky

Somewhere in Oregon
photo by Azaria Podplesky

I’ve seen the lists of things to do during quarantine -- bake, learn a new language, write that novel you’ve been meaning to get to -- and tips for how to bake, learn a new language and finally write that novel, but I’ve not crossed a single suggestion off the list. And I’m OK with that.

I have, however, almost finished writing a play, which has been an incredibly fulfilling experience.

I’ve laughed. 

I’ve cried. 

I’ve been catcalled while wearing a mask.

I’ve complained about being tired and about being tired of being tired.

Yoga studios have closed again, and I still haven’t remembered how I used to spend my time.

All in all, I’m here. How are you?

Azaria Podplesky

Azariai Podplesky
Azaria Podplesky is the entertainment writer for the Spokesman-Review. She also teaches yoga in her spare time. She really has taken more than one hundred pictures of her cat during quarantine, and she isn't ashamed to admit it. To read Azaria's work for the Spokesman-Review, visit


Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Tuesday, December 8, 2020

Pandemic Meditations: Tea by Mandy Chapman Orozco

A Pandemic Poem

by Mandy Chapman Orozco


The world breathed it in 
and stopped turning.
Those left to live, dirty.
Those left for death, free.
          We sat for tea 
poured in fragile cups
painted shades of soil and sky.
A place for the stuffed butterfly. 

Mandy Chapman Orozco
Mandy is passionate about the power of spoken and written word. She works full-time at The Bail Project, writing to combat racial and economic disparities in the bail system. Mandy also serves in her local community of Spokane by consulting and writing for smaller nonprofits that are fighting big inequities. Mandy holds an undergraduate degree from University of California, Los Angeles and an MBA from Whitworth University. When she’s not speaking and writing for change professionally, she’s having interesting conversations with her philosopher husband and their children, going for a run, drinking good coffee, and creative writing (she just verbed that).

Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which creative people share responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic. Find more meditations at

Thursday, December 3, 2020

Pandemic Meditations: Remnants by Dahveed Bullis

You've reached Pandemic Meditations, a weekly series in which creative people share responses to life in the pandemic. This week, I'm pleased to welcome director and actor Dahveed Bullis to the series, and to share the first film meditation. Please watch, enjoy, and share his short film Remnants with your friends, neighbors, and family. Preceding the film, Dahveed provides notes about its making. (~20 minutes long).  

(If you'd rather watch the film directly on YouTube, use this link:

Thanks, Dahveed, and all of those involved in the making of Remnants. Your energy, focus, ingenuity, and effort is such a gift, and I appreciate it so much. As I know our readers do too. . 

~ E.P.


On the Making of Remnants, a Short Film

by Dahveed Bullis

The only word I have been able to find for the Pandemic before us has been "tragic." Whether in regards to how sections of leadership has handled it, or how divisive and separate things have become, I have seen tragedy all around me since March. 

I am tired. 

Through this Pandemic though, I have witnessed beauty. I have seen artists persevere as they have continued to create regardless of what the world experiences around them--somehow feeling compelled to continue to speak on the climate of their culture, just like the long history of artists before them. 

I have found myself becoming a filmmaker. A wild transition from theatre artist. After being an adjunct at Spokane Falls Community College, which had me directing a freshly adapted play into a film through Zoom, I found myself clawing to learn more about this newfound craft. 

As a lover of tragedy, I could not help but be inspired to tell a bit of tragedy when asked for my Pandemic Meditation. 

In chapter 6 of Aristotle's Poetics he states:

"So tragedy is an imitation not of people, but of action, life, and happiness or unhappiness, while happiness and unhappiness have their being in activity, and come to completion not in a quality but in some sort of action …Therefore it is deeds and the story that are the end at which tragedy aims, and in all things the end is what matters most …So the source that governs tragedy in the way that the soul governs life is the story."

Remnants was born on the heels of these contemplations. 

I invite you into Holden's world. 

This film encompassed collaboration from so many incredible artists, and we worked for months to put this together. I am forever grateful for the chance to create and a platform to do so with. I hope you enjoy the piece, as it is my first independent film. 

Ask yourself, after months of isolation, how do you manage to meet outside expectations if your inner life is turmoil?


And now, for this week's featured presentation, Remnants, directed and acted by Dahveed Bullis:

Dahveed Bullis
Dahveed Bullis lives and works in Spokane as an actor, director, instructor, and musician. He graduated from EWU, and helped found Spokane Theatre Arts Council. He recently joined the Company Ballet School to direct their Theatre Arts Program. And, pre-pandemic, you could find him acting alongside Marjorie Powell in the improv duo The Seagull Sloths. He's father to a son made of the moon and stars.

😷 Check back every week for new Pandemic Meditations. Catch up on what you've missed here: