A death in the family takes Jim Cleary from Boston to Appalachia. There amid the grey and green Kentucky hills sits the Cottage his great-grandfather built. The rustic calm gives little hint of what lies beneath the stars that hang so silent, cold, and bright.
Note: This narration contains music. Some of which may not fit the mood the story has you in. Difficult to have good production values on a limited budget of time and funds. So, I also uploaded without music:
Appalachia spreads itself in grey and green a few hundred miles inland of the Atlantic. Its mountains, caves, lakes, and fields are a delight. It is a garden. It is a temple.
It is where Jim found himself that summer.
His uncle, who went by the name of Hant had got a blood clot in the lung. His modest dwelling the opposite side of a miniscule Kentucky township was always immaculate. And it was in his untrained hand that Jim had received the instruction to keep it that way.
Jim Cleary was a bit of a lay about. Not even committed enough to be a drunk. And though he knew next to nothing about country living the small stipend and the opportunity to daydream made him keen on fulfilling his relatives’ desire.
If this wasn’t enough to seal his fate. Then the nagging of his equally indigent roommates certainly drove the last nail into the coffin of his urban malaise.
“Where da hell ya goin again Jim?” Tony inquired in his brusque Boston brogue.
“Kentucky.”
“And what the hell for?”
“Family shit…changea pace…ya dig?”
“Hell, no I don’t dig. How’s me ‘n Harry gonna keep up with the rent?”
“I already told ya I’d be sending my share.”
“I dunno Jim you’re always late with that shit.”
“Yea…cause that rat fuck boss o mine thinks it’s cute to take my tips….cause of a coupla late deliveries.
“That old song ain’t gonna help here…So lateness is a habit? How the hell am I supposed to trust ya? We still have four months till the lease is up.”
“Cause, my uncle squirreled away a fortune getting black lung and sellin’ Ginseng. And he’s share so long as I keep the house Gramps built in the woods…from becoming the woods.”
“Hmm…I don’ know man…”
“You’re just gonna have to deal cause there’s no way ya can keep me here.”
“Whatever man. Do what you want. But if we don’t get that rent. I’m tellin’ old Barragan ya bailed. His crazy IRA ass will find you in whatever Deliverance style backwater ya choose to go a hidin. Ya dig?”
“Yea, man what the fuck ever.” Cleary said exiting the door.
“Fuck you, Jim.” Tony said grinning.
“Fuck you too, Tony.
And with a double bird salute Jim Cleary set off for Logan International.
Jim was unaccustomed to the luxury of flight. He distrusted the cleanliness of first class. Nor did he like the look of the silent burly tour guide that his uncle had sent along.
The guy had a beard that would make Euripides jealous. Went by the name of Dutch and had a pensive air like a wild dog that had found its way into the city.
Made it damned hard to flirt with the stewardess.
After a half hour Jim gave up on making small talk. A guy that talked less than Hant was a lost cause. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered.
It wasn’t gonna be too long of a flight, so Jim just sank into the mind-numbing arms of an inflight movie.
It wasn’t long before Rob Schneider forced his brain to shut down.
It was switched back on by the deep thundering simplicity of. “Wehere, let’s go.”
And indeed, everybody was busily extracting luggage and making their exit in that leisurely, orderly, upper middle-class way.
‘Yuppie schmucks.’ Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at the collection of khakis and polos mixing with folk who should also be wearing khakis and polos but were trying their hardest to appear like a Bluegrass revival.
A battered pickup pulled up to them outside the parking lot. It was driven by a spry old bat with icy blue eyes that went by the name of Lizzy Jennings. Said she was a Viking and that Jim had better watch his manners.
“Don’t got any.”
“Well learn ya sum. Hant told me ya were a thick one.”
Jim ignored the insult and wen to light a cigarette. Only to have it smacked out of his hand.
“Don’t ya bring dat filth in my car.”
“Jesus Christ! I just got off the flight lady…”
The steely angular framed gaze never changed as a wiry freckled arm shot forward and twisted his ear hard.
“Don’t ya be blaspheming in here neither!”
“Ahh…god damn you old bitch…”
This only made her tug harder.
She stopped just shy of tearing his ear off.
“Fuck I shoulda stayed in Boston.” He muttered under his breath.
The drive from Louisville to Reed was five long hours.
Five long hours with two rustic sentinels whose eerie silence was only matched by the eerier economy of motion in their smooth efficient movements.
‘At least it’s pretty.’ Jim mused as he gazed down into the sleepy verdant valleys that flitted beneath the fluctuating elevation.
It was dusk by the time they arrived at the half dozen or so buildings that comprised the township of Reed, Kentucky. He guessed the thing with the spire was a church, the square thing was a post office, the colonial thing was the town hall, and everything else was shops.
‘Where the hell are the houses?’ He mused.
“Ya ever been on a horse ‘fore?” Asked the sun-dried Valkyrie.
‘O fuck…’
The old bat laughed in an innocent girlish sort of way that threw Jim off even more than the prospect of riding a horse.
What was even more disturbing was the perfect, gleaming white, set of teeth that laugh revealed.
‘This crazy crone has better choppers than me…’
“I’m pullin’ at yer leg. I know a fool like you ain’t got no useful habits. You gonna wish you had a horse though. Cause that four-wheeler is a sight more likely to flip than my Sadie.”
Cleary heard a roar from the building that Dutch had disappeared to.
“Don’ be lookin so down. It’s only fifteen miles afore a warm bed and some whiskey.”
“FIFTEEN!”
She laughed that weird coquettish laugh again that was so at odds with her appearance and behavior.
He didn’t have too much time to puzzle over it though cause his carriage was already by his side.
Jim reluctantly took a seat behind Dutch and wrapped his fingers tight round the luggage mount.
He was surprised by the rough feel of an old rope round his neck.
He looked down to see a sack swinging down to his solar plexus.
“Now lemme tell ye bout Thursdays.” Lizzy Jennings said.
“Aha…”
“That’s ginseng in that pouch there.”
“Ok…”
“Today is Thursday and I put some out on the stump. Dutch will show you the stump. Startin next Thursday you’re gonna have to put some Seng down afore dusk.”
“Umm…ok.”
“I suggest ya follow what I tell ye. Cause ye don’ wanna learn it from another.”
“What…?”
“Just put the root down on the stump. Or else there’s gonna be trouble. ALRIGHT BOY?” She stated with vehemence.
“Put the ginseng on the stump…on Thursday…before dusk…I get it.”
She smiled oddly and whistled.
Jim barely had time to get a fresh hold on the luggage rack before he and the giant roared into the inky mountain.
Jim had never seen stars that bright before. In a sky as clean and clear as the angles of his uncle’s cabin. They hung silent. They hung cold.
“It’s chilly up here.” He remarked.
“That’s the damp settin in.”
“Well then I’d best be settin in. I see a chimney. And…” Jim said extracting the Maglite he’d lifted off a distracted cop.
“Hey.” Dutch said with such resonance that he didn’t have to shout. “…Don’t be shinin that at the trees.”
“Uh…. what the fuck Dutch?”
Dutch showed the first sign of discomfort that Jim had thus far witnessed. The aftereffects of the ATV headlights revealed a rolling of the eyes up and to the left. The giant seemed to be considering something.
“I hunt round these parts. In fact, I got a bow on me right now. I don’t want ye to scare off my game.”
“Is it hunting season?”
“It’s always huntin’ season round Reed.”
“…well alrighty then…” Jim said. “Can I at least finally have a fucking smoke?”
“Don’t ‘fend me none.”
“Any reason that we were in such a rush? Couldn’t we have stayed at a hotel so that my Southie ass didn’t have to immediately get Lyme disease pokin round the dark?”
“Well, ye might think it silly but round here we have certain beliefs.”
“Ya don’t say…” Jim sneered recalling the ginseng.
“Hant’s house cannot stand without Hant’s blood.”
Jim took a step back.
“I ain’t into that bloodletting wicca shit. Had this one girlfriend…”
“T’ain’t what I meant.”
“Good.” Jim said allowing the hammer of his .38 to come to rest more audibly than it had been cocked.
“I ain’t afeard of yer pea shooter. Nor should ye be afeard of me.”
“I’m a city boy. I ain’t afeard of anything cause I’m afeard of everything. People are more dangerous than bears.”
“Well, then maybe you’ll last longer than I thought ye would.”
“Last…?”
“Don’t ye mind that. I didn’t mean to insult ya. It’s just that most folk. Even country folk…they can’t dwell here too long. There’s not enough of the wild in these people. And so, the wild here overwhelms them.”
“Ain’t nothin wilder than a Cleary.”
Dutch started. “That’s not Hant’s surname….” He looked really worked up.
“Well, yeah. He’s from my mom’s side. Cronin.”
Dutch seemed relieved. “As long as ya got the blood.”
“Um…look…could you really need to work on your bedside manner.”
“Huh?”
“Could ya please fukin stop sayin blood.”
“What’s wrong with blood. You got blood I got blood everything’s got blood.”
“I’m just worried that with all this blood talk there might be some things that won’t have no more by the end of the night.”
“Are ya yellow?”
“No, just street-smart.”
“Well, there ain’t no streets round here. And I need to be goin. I’ll help ya carry in your belongings’ then I gotta go.”
“Fine by me.” Jim said hoping that the blood obsessed rustic got goin’ for good.
Jim was a light traveler. A case of whiskey, a hamper of clothes, a toothbrush, Hustler, and a carton of smokes were the sum of his belongings. So, it wasn’t long before they’d stowed those belongings in the compulsively neat cabin.
Something didn’t feel right about the precision of the furniture. The way it was spaced. It didn’t seem to be done for entirely utilitarian reasons.
“This is some crazy Feng Shui shit right here…” Jim said trying to move a sharply cornered diamond shaped table away from the wall.
“Don’t do that.”
“Is that your favorite sayin?”
“I mean…ye can try. To do it…but it ain’t gonna do.”
He was right.
The table was affixed to the floor.
“O, what in the fuck…!” Jim exclaimed. “I need a god damned drink.”
Dutch chuckled. “Plenty o that here. Ye probably won’t even get to the stuff ya brought.” He said pointing to the large amply stocked mantelpiece.
“Well…I knew old Hant was a drunk.” Jim said wryly. “But I didn’t know he was gay.”
“He ain’t.”
“Then why is every lamp a god damned Tiffany?”
“Beliefs.”
“Uh huh.”
“Look boy. There’s ways round here. And ye had best learn them. If not out of respect, then so as to get your pay.”
“Now you’re speaking a language I can understand.”
“Gud.” Said the giant as he turned to leave. “I was told that ye can read. Yer uncle had Doc type up the caring of this place. So, make sure that ye do.” He opened the door.
“O…and boy…you will hear things. It’s best to not let them bother you. And they won’t bother you. So long as ye follow the rules. Best take heed o old Lizzy. Do not forget to leave the root. On the stump. Towards the side that grows the moss. Ye do not want it to be missed.”
And with that the cabin resounded with a slammed door.
“What in the actual fuck…” Jim said as he listened to the disappearing roar of the ATV.
Alex Weir – Circa 2019
This is a narration. It includes music. I didn’t have time to match it too well so if you prefer you can also listen to it without music:
Writing is a superpower. Writing by hand produces a deep engagement. Typing is a miracle of efficiency. Recording videos and voice clips can also be thought of as a form of writing.
But writing in the sense that is being done here on the page…is special.
Writing broadly speaking can be defined as the organization of thought, the cataloguing of experience, and the engine of idea generation.
It may be a phenomenon peculiar to me. Or to people like me.
Those who by temperament and upbringing place high value on reading and writing.
But I feel that one does not have the full range of human experience if one neglects the practice of writing.
To fully honor the peculiar machinery of Homo Sapiens is to put it through its paces. We can in my opinion be described as memory machines. This is not a reductionist take being proposed but rather an angle that elucidates Geist.
A human life can be thought of as limit defined unfolding. Or more poetically blossoming.
We are limited by time, by geography, by upbringing, by culture, genes, etc.
These things create the basic unit known as individual who through experience expands into the peculiarities of personality.
This blossoming is profoundly and particularly fostered by the complementary soils of reading and writing.
Why is this so?
Language.
Mathematics is called the universal language but there is much more qualia to the human experience than the quantitative business of ‘maths.’
Music or audible ‘maths’ adds a touch of qualia and gets closer to essential humanity by being a profoundly temporal thing. In simpler terms..in honoring time…through only being intelligible in time…music gets closer to essential Geist.
Pictorial representation, paintings, and the moving pictures known as films are more closely akin to the Episodic operations of Geist. Even in a still painting the passage of time is implicit and there is an idea capture of vast arrays of qualia. Again, I must simplify…Pictures are worth a thousand words.
But a thousand words are how you see the picture.
That is why language is so peculiarly crucial to humanity to spirit.
It is simultaneously bound by time and transcendent of time.
We are playing with the idea that human life can be thought of as limit defined unfolding.
Can you see how the pieces fit?
How perhaps this is why there exists the verse ‘In the Beginning was the Word’?
Both in time and out of time is language. A single word, or phrase, can link experiences broad enough to be shared by a nation and specific enough to the singular time bound locutions of the individual.
That is why writing is a superpower.
Writing or the cultivation of language is indispensable to a fulfilled human experience.
The richer your storehouse of words of individually experienced glimpses of collectively accrued insights of essential truths the greater is your capacity for ideas, engagement, sorrow joy…experience.
That is why it is so lamentable that we’ve so pedestalized simplicity that discussions of a literacy crisis have begun.
Pithy, business friendly, efficient means of expression have their places. But pithy, business friendly, efficient means barely scratch the surface of human experience.
We needlessly impoverish ourselves and our societies with this insistence on simplification.
This simplification does not simplify. It does not make us more folksy, approachable, intelligible, humble, or efficient.
This is profoundly evident in the fact that our national discourse, our films, books, musics, and personal interactions have suffered.
A suffering often manifesting itself as awkwardness, angst, and pale imitations in the form of nostalgia and remakes.
This is by no means an elitist screed. There is much to be said for oral traditions, for the simple experience of merely living, for the profound insights that unlettered men and women can and do bring into the lives of their families, friends, and societies.
But writing does exist. And simply because we have good folksy wisdom filled people, pithy entertainers, and terse thrillers doesn’t mean we can’t…have…that we don’t absolutely need MORE.
More exists…whether or not we choose to engage with more is up to us on both the individual and societal level.
Considering that we are memory machines I’d suggest we do more engaging.
If you find the description of memory machines dubious then consider the aforementioned popularity of nostalgia and remakes.
We iterate our way through memories…that is how our spirit…our Geist operates.
‘Do this in the remembrance of me.’ Said Christ.
There is a reason that so many of the things we hold most profound make mention of memory.
Memory is integral to our humanity.
Language is the thing that makes memory, intelligible,communicable and ripe for harvest.
Writing is the deep, physical, and spiritual practice of language.
That is why writing is a superpower.
It is a superpower that many of us have, some of us must get, and all of us must exercise!
Video in which I retread old ground and revel in my favorite fascinations. Because I must.
A rough time stamping for those who havened mastered the fine art of the fifteen hour cappacino despite the fact that you cant spell it and the repo man approacheth.
9:00| Minimum Viable Product doesn’t make for good Literature Opinions on Storytelling
11:24| Description of ‘The Sketch of Sam Monroe’ my jungle themed novel in progress
12:55| Percy Fawcett and the Lost City of Z and Synchronicity
14:21| My Psychedelic Disclaimer and why some psychonauts are the worst kind of Presbyterian
17:50| Reading ‘The Green Cathedral’ the opening to ‘The Sketch of Sam Monroe’
20:16| The setting begets the story – vibe based storytelling
21:29| Aliens! Phil Schneider Alien Human War 1979! That weird 80s/90s ish Nichols/Cameron video Did this video inspire Stranger Things LOL The Grays Get Drunk and Smell Bed (Rednecks?) Patronus Sex Spell Unicorn wTf
The Fractal Journal 