Yeah, the fucking holidays. They screw up everything. Say your thanks and get on with, okay? Anyway, the next issue of DYWWOS will suffer because of them. Won’t be out until after the new year. What else?
Weather-wise, it’s horrible today. Partly sunny and humid and escalating well into the 70’s with high humidity. Nauseating. I want to walk but everything looks the same here. About a quarter of a mile down the main road on the left there are some trails. An old path really, with two tracks growing over, used to be worn by tires. It disappears into some woods. I’ve wanted to walk down through there but with people these days, I’m a little worried that someone will call the cops or confront me with a gun. It’s not like when I was a kid and I’d just roam. People aren’t like that now. Mass neurosis.
But at the end of that, through that thicket, it can’t last long because there’s another tract housing layout similar to the one I’m in now. Just beyond that is I-4. But between here and there, in the thicket, there might be something interesting.
When I was a kid and I could just roam, short distances seemed a lot greater than what they really are. Or maybe not. It’s all relative. I used to explore that neighborhood in Charlotte, which is infinitely more interesting than the one I’m in now. Over near Lisa Wodarski’s house – the first girl I laid on top of and kissed – there was a small creek than ran between two houses, sunk somewhat into a ravine. It was there by design because it was concrete drainage, with a pipe under which the adjacent road crossed. That road was parallel to the road I lived on, Seacroft Road. But that ravine and the manufactured creek may just as well have been the Amazon and its banks. One day I was down there with a friend of mine, Steve, his dad was a Vietnam veteran and Steve used to tell me stories about how the soldiers would drink boiling hot liquids to kill the nerves in their throats so they wouldn’t feel the soreness from the sickness they were experiencing. He’s also the kid who organized the bicycle horde who rolled up to my house after I shot a pigeon up the ass with a BB gun and killed it.
We were down there, probably trying to catch crawdads or tadpoles or something. Then we began to notice the small trees around us. There was a smell. Over to our left, a little further away from the road, was a pelt of white fur, still attached to some skin which twisted exposing its pink and purple underside. Shiny and it looked wet. Then we looked up into the branches of the tree. Now, the trees weren’t very tall. We were in the third grade and there were limbs low enough for us to reach straight out and touch. More like brambles. Strung through and around the brambles were intestines. Upon further investigation we noticed more patches of snow white fur stuck to the trunks of some trees. More guts strung like garland, all around. That’s when we left. We didn’t even talk about it much after that.
Some holiday cheer for you –