Category: Little Epiphanies

[et_pb_section][et_pb_row][et_pb_column type=”4_4″][et_pb_text admin_label=”Text” background_layout=”light” text_orientation=”left” use_border_color=”off” border_color=”#ffffff” border_style=”solid”] Carlitos was back and his friends were coming up to him to say hello. His guardian angel, the woman of the flowing silver mane, had brought him to the milonga at the Confiteria Ideal where he had been a regular until his illness. He had been hit…

[et_pb_section][et_pb_row][et_pb_column type=”4_4″][et_pb_image admin_label=”Image” src=”http://kevincarrelfooter.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/tanque-australiano-watermark.jpg” show_in_lightbox=”off” url_new_window=”off” animation=”left” sticky=”off” align=”left” force_fullwidth=”off” always_center_on_mobile=”on” use_border_color=”off” border_color=”#ffffff” border_style=”solid”] [/et_pb_image][et_pb_text admin_label=”Text” background_layout=”light” text_orientation=”left” use_border_color=”off” border_color=”#ffffff” border_style=”solid”] I made an offering recently in the sand. I sat and watched as the waters of the Atlantic reclaimed it, advancing at first like a tentative squirrel inching toward a proffered nut; then like…

By Kevin Carrel Footer His first night there, he slept on a cot as they all did. They camped in the unfurnished rooms like soldiers on campaign – or vagabonds seeking refuge from the elements. That first night the furniture had not yet arrived but an aunt took them to sleep there anyway. Everyone was…

I choose the path of the artist. I choose the path that wends its way through doubt and disorientation, endlessly searching. The path is the destination. Art is my spiritual practice. When you see me creating, I am praying. And when I pray, I am celebrating creation. The purpose of life is to celebrate life.…

Over a beer, a friend said to me, “I like it that we have different devils.” It started me thinking about my devils. My friend seems to think that not only do I have different devils but that I have more of them. He said it gently, politely, careful not to hurt, but he nodded…

It comforts me in this tempestuous world that the altar we erected to your lips that crazed night on the wall in San Telmo has earned respect from the toughest crowd: sloganists and graffiti artists and paid political posterers have carefully skirted your lips, awed by their succulence. The building behind crumbles; it’s lovely railings…