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From the Archives

Old Order by Debbi Dylan Lynn

I was asked recently about by work and how I got to this place and time. Here is a tiny bit more but much more is coming in book form later.

Born in Colorado. Road-tripped 45 states and lived in 7. Most of my life was spent in California from the OC to the Bay Area, Los Gatos and Carmel. VP career in technology – then started my own PR firm. That went bust in the dotcom crash. As always, I picked up and kept going. Been involved with so many things it’s hard to remember them all but I learned so much from each and every one. It is true there are no failures – just a rich tapestry of experience.

I have been bent and broken, but I hope into a better shape.
(Charles Dickens)

The art above is one of my favorite early works. I called it Old Order.

The Power of a White Shirt

Long ago I worked for the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising – FIDM – in Los Angeles. I loved the job but I was very young and had many more paths the travel. It was there that I fell in love with white dress shirts. I loved to wear them – all kinds from silks to linens and I loved to see men in them. I had an “ex” actually question why I wore white so much. “You’re not exactly pure, you know.”  LOL. The irony. Any impurities I had at that time, I pretty much learned from him!

I Am A Believer

Believer by Debbi Dylan Lynn

“I’m a believer in the power of knowledge and the ferocity of beauty, so from my point of view, your life is already artful—waiting, just waiting, for you to make it art.”

Toni Morrison – Feb 18, 1931 –  Aug 5, 2019

Memory Keeper

Some tales cannot be told when someone goes away. There is nothing left to say. Without an ending the beginning becomes blurry and tentative. All that can be known is her sadness. She left when the world was dimming and the moonlight was flickering like and old bulb about to burst. Heads tilted right and starred at images they thought they knew. It’s not that no one cared, but energy and fear is a drain on the spirit.

Uriah closed her book and filled an old tapestry bag with the least of her clothes. From the bedside table she took a small surprisingly round black rock. The rock had been given to her by an old dear friend, now long gone into the deep gray winds. The little rock was the only thing she cared about or needed.  As she cradled the rock she felt its power. She held tight knowing it was the memory keeper.