The camera captures.
The memory changes it.
Below the galvanized metal guard rail across the asphalt from the town’s latest pump house, down the embankment of tumbled basalt boulders, the course of the creek provides a trail for the wildlife to pass in and out of town. The water course and the old right of way wandered off to the east of a farm chemical distributor and an old gravel quarry. The town’s suburbs had spread out to the crossroads on the other side of the highway. There was a bright blue water tower to catch the precious fluid for the new subdivision that had gobbled up the wheatfield.
He remembered when the number three well was a delapidated, wooden structure that must have been build at the beginning of the last century. It had been been replaced with a concrete blockhouse and new landscaping just like number six. The City Council had started to put art on top of decorative columnar basalt pedistals around town. Number three had a metal fish skeleton by it. It might have been that of a salmon.
Cory was out burning sugar from his blood stream, looking for sign of the interection between man and nature. What he saw was not encouraging, and none of it was shiny like gold or silicates. The tidal forces between civilization and what it encroached upon had not really changed in the last few millennia.
I don’t want the world to believe that I am totally out of the ritual magick game. I have a new stash of self lighting charcoal cakes which should get me well into the new year.
You know you are off your game when your self lighting charcoal cakes are not self lighting anymore.
It isn’t just interesting scenery anymore; I see studio space.
There is a reason that Afghans in the past avoided certain infrastructure.
“I happen to know this is the Lupine Express.”
“In a bunch!”
I have known about day lilies for decades. It is only begun to blossom in my mind, where are the night lilies? You know, the lilies that bloom at night.
In memory of all those who have died for empires.