What you don't see is the existing structure and organization. How shelves were built into the clay bank under the tent.
That when the tent flaps are opened, the inside is magically white on a sunny day. The floor is terraced. Looking up is like looking at gills of a musroom. The tree branches along with long pieces of drift wood form spokes under the skylight.
If you're reading this thinking want to stop by rethink that. A man, exiled from society for reasons you may want to consider, doesn't want your curiosty or company.


Audubon Jays

This is the second time I've found this framed print in The Wild. This one is a keeper.



Decades ago a former boyfriend was lamenting about his Lit thesis and not having a subject.
I suggested he write about the cross pollination of T.S. Eliot and Carl Jung since both referenced The Other.
I suggested he write it in the style of Pale Fire.
I thought this was hilarious - it was - but he had never read Eliot, Jung, or Nabokov.


Pist. 2012

Lunch with Pist who is cracking my inviolable heart.
His obvious pain. The cruelty of a severed spine.
Tell me about the accident, I said.
Do you want the detailed narrative or the short version?
Whichever you prefer.
Circumstances, he said.
We exchanged the same parched smile.


2009. Fyler - The Paper Street

Last week I had an opportunity to meet with the owner of Keller Manufacturing on Fyler just west of Morgan Ford Rd. Click on the title above to link his business (I want one of these: http://www.gardexusa.com/commercial.asp)
Mr. Keller kindly answered my questions about his business, the buildings (made in 1961), how the street used to look before it was paved and some history of the street (below).
Keller Manufacturing is a series of buildings that I've admired for years: A paper street is a road or street that appears on maps but in reality remains unpaved. It generally occurs when city planners or sub-division developers submit plans that include such streets; and when changes occur, they are not removed or updated. Fyler was paved in the mid 60's. Sometime around the turn of the last century a company existed on Fyler, The Parker-Russell Mining Company, that manufactured terra cotta barrel tiles for roofing. The owner of the company had a series of tiny houses made across the street and along MGF that he rented to his employees: This hill was created when Fyler finally graded and paved. It's filled with broken pieces of terra cotta that previously cluttered the street. Bits of terra cotta: This is a typical house along Flyer. Four rooms: The living room and bedroom are upstairs, kitchen and bathroom are downstairs. No basements. No windows on either side of the houses. These houses across from Marti's memorial garden on Morgan Ford Rd were also employee housing.


Pist. 2012

I admit I'm suspicious of men who cultivate food appointments with me without the boundary defining friendship conversation.
With some men this never needs to be discussed, we just get it. But Piston's inquiry about my serious commitments edged me and when I mentioned it he smiled by lifting one side of his mouth. It was the same methodical wry smile I often find on *my* face. I was asking about your work schedule, he said rolling is eyes, Relax we're not on a date. I treated him to my version of his smile and relaxed.
OK, so I mentioned he's no ballerina on the track at the gym. Rigid back, no swing to the shoulders. It's painful to spy on him walking the track while trying to keep my pogo dancing on the elliptical rhythmic. It's all he does at the gym: No lifting, no machines, nada. Three days a week he's a freaking track junkie. I was thinking about paying 46.00 a month to stroll the track when he tells me the story of a Frida Kahlo-esque accident two years ago in some southern goth backwater town in Mississippi where he was doing research on frogs. This resulted in extended hospital tours that involved lying on polluted beds, howling, incapacitated and beckoning death.
I was a client with no experience to direct my care, he said, I was forced to consider the existential question. The question that takes on a rabid twist for a 'patient' who chooses to spend his time in what basically was a prison. The question that is also in an old Sylvia Plath poem, do you know it? He quoted:

That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?

I know it, I said, it's called The Jailer. And the question, buried deep, is How did I get here?


Changly is on the Steps

That runt dick, he saidt, lives down the street in a dark, needy, nasty shack. Needs attention, its a patch, like him eth. Runt lawn a shadow. No anything but dust on dirt. No pretty there, no light to it. Man, you fall in lookin at it.
Me: Coffee?
Changly: Yeah, mud like that, that runt dick you tossed.
Me (laughing): Changly, would you like coffee!?