My name is Karl Isberg. I live in a place I call Siberia With a View.
Siberia With a View is located near the Continental Divide, in the southern San Juan Mountains, in Colorado.
At 8,000 feet above sea level.
There’s not a lot of oxygen up here.
That explains a lot.
I have been here 34 years, an exile removed from the city of my birth, as well as from the many things that likely would have killed me long ago.
I worked here for more than 25 years as a newspaper reporter, a columnist, an editor, and editorial writer. I am also an artist —a painter — and I’ve been at this nearly 50 years.
Siberia With a View is barren, a cultural wasteland. This is a good thing since a place like Siberia With a View provides a writer and artist with an environment conducive to creative activity — with solitude and quiet, a base from which to strike forth and travel, and a perch from which, thanks to satellite television and the Internet, to observe the thrashings of our species, worldwide.
I write about what I see, what I hear, what I think, and what I eat.
And send me what you make, tell me what you think; let’s share, let’s link.
After all, any place can be Siberia With a View, and each of us, in our way, is in exile.