Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.


OK. This is the beginning. What exactly is the Pardo? Though one letter and a world away from the Bardo, the twilight world through which the soul passes after dying; a broad, dark valley attended by horrifying voices and phantasms; the Pardo also keeps its distance from precise definition. It is a shadowland of voices, of images swirling like dragonflies over a cat-of- nine-tails. It is a color. The color of saddle leather at sunset in the high desert, the color of the bottom of a scooped glass of Scotch Ale resting on a table of pine stained darker to look like oak. The Pardo will continue at and for its own pleasure, as a dialogue between strangers in a strange land....


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