US Represented shares the reflections of significant historical figures, as well as various other contributors, because they, too, deserve to be a part of a site dedicated to free speech and creative expression.
Despite the prevalence of digital information exchange, paper is still widely used in North America, for anything from wedding invitations to ballot mail-ins to arts & crafts. According to the Forest Ethics organization, paper consumption in North America has declined, but global paper consumption has increased. However, despite the decrease in consumption, North America still consumes more paper per capita than anywhere else (see Figure 1 below). Because the need
Several years ago, before Amazon made book collecting possible with the touch of a computer key, I did it the old-fashioned way. This is a story about cowboys and Indians and a skirmish that took place at the Sand Creek Library Book Sale. I lost. It all started when a flyer tacked up on a bulletin board in the library caught my eye. It read:
I dreamt last night green arms of grass rose-up and overtook the city. They call this wilderness sprawl. I dreamt last night animals of all kinds two by two stole into the cities and marched the humans back to secret dens to rehabilitate them in the ways of Earth. They call this humanitarian aid. I dreamt last night the stars and planets took to heart the sight of pollution, stench,
Midnight on a hot July night. My husband and I, sound asleep, woke up in a flash as 50 pounds of panicked Labrador jumped on my chest. Our dog, Sparky, had straddled me, of course! Mom! The one who feeds him, walks him and saves him from scary things. “Sparky! What . . ? “I didn’t finish the sentence. The odor overtook me, assaulting my eyes,
Poets dance in our dreams after the bars close their naked feet slapping out a rhythm to keep us from slipping into sleep. I’ll remember you as you were there then, a birthmark in my brain, sitting near naked, propped up at your dining room table, not like we found you, a turtle trapped on your back crashed up against those free weights, crushed underneath the ancient bench press thinking
I remembered Drew from the 1960s, stoned on hashish or LSD, babbling Marx or Marcuse, whanging away on a red guitar. We lost contact during the ’70s, even though I’d occasionally see him, dressed in bright rags, riding up and down Tejon Street on a bike, a faraway look in his eyes. Early one morning while walking uptown to the park, I dropped into a place called Poor Richard’s for
