Here's who's out there: Maureen Evans, living in a castle near Belfast

 

Here's who's out there: Maureen Evans, living in castle in the fog near Belfast. She's also sometimes at Spezzato – that's where I found the mossy trail above, and this bio:

Hello, I'm Maureen Evans. Spezzato is my electronic notebook. I'm a writer, poet and anarchist from the Canadian Northwest, but I haven't been home for years.

I'm currently an MA English (creative writing) candidate at Queen’s University of Belfast. I studied writing and cultural resistance at UBC, earning a BFA (Hons). My writing has since been published by Room of One's Own, Fugue, the Kearny Street Workshop, League of Canadian Poets, the Grist Mill, and other small Canadian and American journals.

I attempt to make contributions to my communities and to larger society, and the search for how to do that is part of my writing. I have most recently acted as editing tutor on three teen-written books at 826 Valencia, a non-profit writing center, and did transcription of oral history of Sudan for McSweeney's Press. 

I live by the ocean with my travel accomplice, Blaine Cook. We ultimately plan to homestead in British Columbia, where I'd like to foster anarchism as both a writer and teacher.

 Below is Maureen's bio on Twitter, along with some recent messages there:

I measure out my life in senryu: haiku of human foibles. Regarding existence as a writer, and the Occupational Hazards of Poets. 

This coffee tastes of peonies and the inner blades of fresh green grass.

I wanted to break something; fixed a turntable and broke the silence.

"Oh wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as others!" -Robert Burns, né 25 Jan 1759.

Drank so much coffee that I'd be calmer if I'd been drinking live bees.

Friday. The writing gloves are off. So now, where are my whisky mittens?

Mud speckled yellow stockings. Soda water green with vervaine. And sun.

The edge of the storm is a vapour point; the edge of the sky is soaked.

"It's no business of yours, but I do like to waltz with a log driver." -Kate McGarrigle, 1946-2010.

Waves rear up to top the lamp posts; the ocean spray sails over our roof.

Croutons on a plate, I feel as absurd as you, croutons on a plate.

Mustard yolks of mud smudged eggs from Port Muck. Coffee tasting of old earth.

Hidden David F. Wallace in Mac's thesaurus! Utilize. Hairy.

Went for a walk in the storm. Sometimes you have to get cold to get warm.

Pendulous rain off window frames; viscous slathered glass; salt lick slobber.

Kittiwakes' perfect impasse with the wind. Snarls of wool, dulse and plastic.