I've always been a map guy. At school I twiddled my time away staring at various National Geographic magazines. The WHERE OF IT was the question I wanted to know, and so my creative life's work has been to record my surroundings, as I saw them, and to play free and loose with their locales.
Wherever a gap developed in the linear story, I would insert a PRESS-IN-ON-THE-MOMENT recording device which adds a certain three dimensionality to the place.
My first book of poetry, KINGDOM OF OLD MEN was a paean to the land of the large rock, the Precambrian Shield, where I was raised.
All my work deals with sense of place.
With this new work I have taken my mapping curiosity into my inner landscape and this book, Continent of Ghosts, is the result of this exploration.
Check out "Postcards From Elevation 6, Route 1" -just in...
A Must See "PreCambrian WoodChopper" -YouTube Video
Bill Reading excerpts from A Continent of Ghosts on KZYX
Give a Listen to Notebooks From the Emerald Triangle -Bill reading excerpts on KZYX
Check out Bill on Instagram
When you live out on the edge, you're life goes in cycles and at this particular moment, it's time to look for subscribers for what I do, patrons, if you will.
It's time now to move into reality. I would like to bring internet services into my cabin and, with the help of my web designer, expand my web footprint. Across the board.
If you feel inclined to help in this process, go to PATREON.com, an Internet site that links producer of ideas, to people who are willing to toss in a few bucks each month and receive an exclusive piece from the artist...
In my case, for a subscription of $10 a month I will send you frameable broadsides of my work, signed...
The whole financial transaction is done through Pay Pal. None of your financial information goes beyond Pay Pal.
On my web site I have created a Totem Pole, pictures and stories, bits of bent grass and several found deer skulls with antlers still attached, excavated from the far hills, mountain lion work, I assumed. ˜ Bill Bradd
Getting you're shit together in Precambrian times. The first stoner was an ancient Celtic guy named Dud, found fully preserved, sunk in a muskeg bog in Hochdorf, Germany. Of course we can't be sure his name was Dud, after all he'd been moldering away there for a few thousand years. When they opened him up for study, they found he had in his gullet, cannabis. Turns out his last meal he had the munchies. They found burnt bannock, and pollen of mistletoe. Wow never been that stoned! "hey, pass the burnt bannock willya, I need something to help choke down this mistletoe, dang it's spicy."
Let's imagine ourselves, an ancient Celtic stoner, living in a wattle hut near a stream. None of the kids are useful for anything but war, but I have the Druid weed, a pinch in the pipe and I begin to divine the future by reading the lines on people's foreheads. I once drifted off into a dream where I thought if I climbed this tree, I'd be able to see if there are bears. I was busy climbing up and the bear was busy looking down at me. Everything is so dang dangerous, dreams for example.
I wanted to become a writer, so I could become a good reader, so I would know great writing when I saw it, to see the armature, the slant of light, to understand how texture casts shadows, to be someone for whom the whole earth of language was quite round.
— From Notebooks From The Emerald Triangle