Journalism & Writing

Artists explore intersection of art, ecology by cultivating desert lands of Pueblo -- Known for its rich cultural history, Pueblo has become a canvas for the Desert Art LAB, an innovative project at the intersection of art, ecology and community.

The Song of Pueblo project represents more than preserving history: on resiliency, values -- In the heart of Pueblo, Colorado, the intertwining threads of music, culture, and heritage create an artful mosaic that reflects the community’s deep-rooted traditions. 

In the heart of the Pueblo Heritage Museum, an event of profound cultural and historical significance is unraveling -- "Queer Fibers," an art exhibit curated by local artist Kimberly Sewell, weaves a tapestry of queer history and identity through diverse fiber art techniques. 

Tyler’s third annual pride march took place June 4th, drawing queer Texans and their allies to the long-awaited celebration. Participants shopped from local vendors and marched downtown advocating for queer visibility and LGBTQ+ rights. 

During last weekend’s Juneteenth events, the Juneteenth Association of Tyler held its annual parade on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. and We Remember Tyler presented its second annual vigil in remembrance of Black victims of lynching. 

For Jonathan Ramm, sustainability is not a passing trend for his business but a way of life. He considers himself an optimist when it comes to the environment, despite escalating issues in his lifetime, such as climate change, pollution and deforestation. Ramm says stewarding the land is key to the world he wants to live in.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe was an icon of her time, and her sound continues to have incredible influence on popular music to this day. Because of the erasure she has endured, American fashion brand Pyer Moss curated a one-of-a-kind runway experience in tribute to the musical pioneer. 

A tree planted by water is a dedication to inner sanctity and peace. Eryn Allen Kane and Aja Monet remind us how important sharing your voice is and how it can impact the world. Through spoken word poetry, they declare that hopelessness is not our horizon and healing is a duty and obligation.

Only some have access to me. Anomalously, those who do will never absorb the all-encompassing capacity of what I bear. Passersby through space and time will see bits and parts of me as I seep out like soft rain unto the semi-liquid heads that limberly lie below. I wonder what would happen if I gave over myself to a mere mortal all at once; every ounce of me to the very last little drop – (would they survive)? I am knowledge and I am only meant to be shared in bits and pieces of bite-sized droplets over pretty little periods of time atop dry dripping tongues that just so happen to flick out far enough to catch me. 

I feel lonely most of the time, though it’s not all bad. I have spent the past week restless, staring at my hands, studying simple whirls, loops, and arches, stopping now-and-then to pick the skin from my nail beds. The first three nights were hushed and full of frisk from a peaceful rain. The next two nights were life giving, as they faded into the morning with softness and patience. Tonight, I am introduced to heat. 

They are piercing, but they are warm enough to last me for another cycle. We grew together spinning – around ourselves, on some axis, within a wave of wild vigor. Heat is kind enough to remind me that they do not belong to me. Heat does not even know I am there as we dance together. They give reflections and refractions of light and life, yet they fade too soon because they know they will eventually spark for a final time. 

How does one fill the space in between? Taking the time to make time whilst time itself has no concept it exists. It goes on and on in a multitude of layers (all at once), never stopping for a moment to ask itself how it got there or when it began or who dwells amongst it’s limitless depth– It’s intramural swell. Its endless wingspan. It’s everlasting mobility. It's boundless inversion.

life-breathed by Betsy Ross—

shades of innocence interrupted 

by bands of blood, leveraging 

heavily a box in left space up top

where heavenly bodies between blue veins

squeeze inside super-sized sacred spaces 

upholding holy, meretriciously war woven cloth 

simultaneously leaving heavens gate’s open 

where waves of children of God abducted

at borders closed off to His creation: 

superseding and swindling the still birth 

of a such a glorious, god-fearing nation 

light-bore holes from moths—

words of insolence through induction

by devilish hands, successionally

settling down the supple souls to shop

where rightfully religious reverence stays

etched and erected amongst holiest places

beholding lowly, conspicuously waxing wroth

simultaneously leaving mouths wide open 

where caves of dwelling with God corrupted 

by borders closed off to His creation: 

superseding and swindling the still birth 

of a such a glorious, god-fearing nation 

now there they still sat stuck froth:

some self-righteous sore lumps lingering 

between bristles of the holy paintbrush

to make thee an ark of gopher wood 

and forget not to go before thyself 

to cram in space for ethereal good