FirstBlog

Below is the third video I've made for my dad. My dad, Bill Price is a musician and, as a child, we'd spend every summer on the road, gallivanting around the country. We'd visit different youth camps, churches, the occasional arena, etc. I got to know this country at a young age.  Having a summer birthday, I was rarely home for my actual birthday, and usually had a party around the start of the school year. I spent several birthdays sat Disneyland, one in Ohio, a couple on the eastern seaboard. It was a great way to grow up. A summer long summer camp. Riding in the car for eighteen hours a day was no big deal to me; still isn't. The sounds of the road became my lullaby. The clop clop of changing lanes, the whoosh of passing cars, the wind blowing through cracked open windows; these lulled me to sleep, often in positions that, as an adult, I would find excruciating. The summer my mother was pregnant with my sister, we drove from Portland to Orlando in three eight

It's odd. I have a hard time writing consistently, yet, I love to write. It's my main hobby. Yet, it can sometimes feel like a chore. Sometimes I feel like what I write, no one will want to read and then I'm just writing hoping someone will like what I have to say, glomb (sp?) onto it, and maybe share it so I can reach some viewers and make a little scratch. I'm in a weird place. I've just released a book of poetry , a magazine , a mailing list and author page on facebook, and yet, I feel I haven't accomplished anything because they are wildly unpopular. It's not because they're bad products-- in fact, they are quite good-- it's just that I don't know how to drive traffic to myself and sell my products to folks without sounding like either an ego maniac or a spammer, or both. My hubpages account gets several hundred views a day, and I'm proud of that, but even a hundred or so views doesn't pay the bills. It doesn't keep the

Here's another poem from my book, Digging to China . I've attempting to cross promote it by doing some video trailers and readings. Here's another, of the poem Flailing Empty Capillaries , set to Mozart's magnificent Piano Concerto #21. I've purposely used a slow piece and slow moving screen shots to force the reader to slow down and consume the poem. It's a fun experiment and I hope you find it pleasing. Below is the text of the poem (slightly different from the video version). Enjoy the video! Don't have a Kindle? That's okay! Email me and I'll tell you how you can get a copy! Flailing Empty Capillaries by Justin W. Price You were there from birth, passed down from father to son, waltzing through my veins. My muse. We embraced, perfectly on pitch, a song, and then I found another and I left you. I see you tattooed on my wrists. Thick black lines, a G and an F. My former muse, permanent over my