On sunlight

On Sunlight


What Dr. Who taught me about futile dreams

I will never be a 900-year-old Time Lord

Oh, the nature of a futile dream.

Nor will David Tennant or Matt Smith - sorry, I mean "The Doctor"

Ever love me like he loved Rose or Sara Jane.


Award-winning illustrator speaks about his work at the Joslyn

Chris Raschka had a monumental decision to  make. He could either go to medical school, which would mean closing his sketch books for the next 10 years, or he could take a leap of faith into an art career.


Salvation

I wanted to tell the truth; I did it. I am walking to the police station, neither fast nor slow. I look up to the sky and tell myself, "That's right. The innocent will get out of jail."

This might be the third thing that goes right in my life. Of course, one of these things is that I met him. Before I tell this story, I have to draw a picture that reveals a secret.

April 4. I still remember this date. Everything outside was turning green to welcome the nice weather. After finishing the prolonged winter, the world now was full of vigor.


Journalism professor discusses his book on Native American culture

Hugh Reilly, associate professor in UNO's School of Communications, spoke Feb. 15 at a seminar for the Center for Great Plains Studies at UNL about The Great Sioux Uprising in 1862, a topic that inspired his book, "Bound to Have Blood: Frontier Newspapers and the Plains Indian Wars."


10 reasons to read a book

While packing up The Gateway office,  I came across a red and white bookmark that made me smile. On one side was a list of...

Twitch

You twitch in your sleep.
At first, your face is peaceful,
a swell of silence, a blank lullaby,
waiting, twiddling its thumbs for lyrics
written by Queen Mab's calligraphy.
Instead, the honest Puck
Sneaks up with dustings of tripped
Up fairy musk, curling up
Your nose with its more or less distasteful
Scent.
Like an old dog twitching at a
Bad dream, you shoo away Hermia's
Irksome trouble, or at least, you try.
It frightens me a little, the way
Your body stutters, as if the
Weird Sisters are casting Macbeth's
Prophecies, and nights of
Invisible blood.
If I could, I would brush away
The spider beds, inked with dew and anxieties
From your head.

I love to see the lullaby when you sleep.