Alabama is strange and gothically beautiful. A charming place to encounter, but a contentious place to live. At least for me. So I left, but do like remembering.

The Gulf of Mexico is only a few hours away. Summer vacations at Destin or Pensacola Beach. The sand there is soft and fine and white. The gulf waters are lighter and vibrant like the Carribean waters southward. This contrasts with the deep blue, navy color characteristic of the Atlantic on the East Coast as well as the Pacific Ocean on the westcoast.

We’d invite our neighbors, the entire Cole family. Sadie and I were the same age-specifically, being in that thrilling 13-17 yr old range, where you are so excited to be seen and see. People were there year round because it was the cheapest family get away going, often referred to as the Redneck Riviera. My hair likes to curl in general. But, with salty water, hot breezes and 95% humdity, my hair would curl the way I wished it would everyday. Strong memories of walking the beach, feeling my hair blow in the coastal breeze, and being thrilled about how glamorous I surely looked.

The beach was good, you could be and act like yourself. Tuscaloosa required a bit more work. Sadie’s family did not “have a church” and my family, we were lower middle-class transplants upon arrival. There were the rich folks and there were the really poor folks, but not a lot in between.

Tuscaloosa is the center of high society for the state. Population just shy of 80,000. I remember hellacious springs that brought in the Azalea bush season. A staple of manicured landscapes. Ours were pink.

My Mom loved dogwood trees. They bloom quickly and lose their petals even quicker. The dogwood flower is symbolic of Christ’s crucifixtion (most everything in Alabama ends up being about Jesus though), accounting for much of their local popularity. We planted one when my grandmother died.

The Black Warrior river running alongside the heart of Tuscaloosa.

This historic trellis bridge on Black Warrior river demarks Tuscaloosa from Northport. Barges and tug boats frequent the water. There is a 3 mile river walk nestled into the shore of the river, and the University of Alabama is across the street. When classes are in sessions, students traditionally setup hammocks between two trees and study there. UA is a football, party, society schmooze school for the elite. There is an old joke that men attend the university to get an MBA degree (Master of Business Admin) while women attend to pursue their MRS degree (find a husband, get married) and so from Miss to Mrs. Gross, right? That is why this gal prefers to use no title before Casey, but when pushed, I always go with Ms. Just for mystery, ya know!

Best restaurant in the state. They do ribs with white bread. That is all. But the way they do it makes anything else seem unnecessary.

This is the University of Alabama.

This is the university during any given home football game.

Too many people for me, but they seem to have a real good time.

This was the safe place for punks, goths, and plain ole’ rock n’ roll animals like me.

Outside of Egan’s, it seemed masks got melted on faces and gender roles became horrific molds to be fit.

Tuscaloosa society gals, begin preparing in high school with debutante balls, antebellum societies, and finally culminating into rushing a sorority and hoping they let you in. Rock n’ roll animals like me, avoided the feck out of these parades.

Spent a lot of time in this theatre. Remains my favorite theatre to this day.

This is Moundville. The peoples who built the land up so and lived here, were one of the most complex civilizations of their time. I majored in Anthropology, so I spent summers doing archeaology fieldwork for class credit. Totally not as romantic as it might sound, but who doesn’t like digging around in the dirt from time to time.

Tuscaloosa gets dozens of tornadoes every spring. The twister in this picture resulted in one of the most expensive (to rebuild) disasters in US history, following right behind the hurricane damage.

After shot below.

By a bit of water

After her meander, she soon spotted him sitting in the tall grass with an unlit smoke hanging off his lip, facing the bottleneck where the narrow little creek began to come together on itself and collect into a pond. A dam edged the flow at the far side of the water and a fishladder sat right alongside this spillway.

Salmon spawned and climbed there. But not yet, as fall was only now making the scene.

She wonders what he is seeing. What made him sit down in the first place?

His back faced her and yet she knew he was gone. Mentally absconding down some path, having been beckoned by guazy spirits within his imagination. She liked to watch his corporeal form when the immaterial consumed his attention.

It was the way his neck worked. Parallel thrusts of unnoticed nuchral rigidity held his head fast and at its present attention. The slope delineated by neck becoming shoulders.

She considered breaking his reverie, but chose to keep still in the moment with him and bask in the felicific tension.

In the suspension of outcome;

the bit before the finale;

the desire for denouement.

Dream of Troubadours

I dream troubadours whisper Provencal words against my neck.

An apothegm: my legs will not stop shaking.

An aphorism: about that which one does not know, one might do best by remaining silent.

Breathe, hold it in and hold in stillness, then release.

Prudence and patience,

my prowess has power adapted to the need.

I work in mystery-the intersection of suspense and anticipation in a heavily muted silence.

Decorously discreet both in dire straits and in heedlessness.

My obliging pruriency sure hopes he pries.

Skech, Inc. [Sic]

PRODUCED BY-A Meandering Club & Gad About Co.


A Division of Grim Shadowy Form
A Limited Liability Company


“No, Meg, don’t hope it was a dream. I don’t understand it anymore than you do. But one thing I have learned is that you don’t have to understand things for them to be…..”

The art of prose exists because the words are not objects but designations for objects.

Prose is an attitude of mind.

Beauty hides in a book; It acts by persuasion like the charm of a voice or a face. It does not coerce; it inclines a person without his suspecting it, and he thinks that he is yielding to arguments when he is really being solicited by a charm he does not see.

The dead are there [in the library]; The only thing they have done is write. They’ve long since been washed clean of the sin of living and their lives are known only through books which other dead men have written about them.

In one sense, it is a possession; The reader lends himself to the dead in order that they might come back to life.

In another sense, it is contact with the beyond.

Literature and Existentialism, Jean-Paul Sartre

…………gather round the children and elders, as I will tell a tale of Once, Back When We All Lived In The Forest…….

The tale is nothing, if not novel and authentic. I readily admit the probable likelihood of disputes issuing forth once I’ve told my unheard tale.

You’ll say that you have heard this one from somewhere before.

The sensation persuading you to disbelieve me is itself the evidence that I advance in support of the validity of the two assertions I aver of my tale-it is untold and authentic.

For, do you not know that all tales of, Once, When We All Lived In The Forest, are the same tale being told anew in novel forms. The stories endure existence because we never stop wanting to hear them. We never stop wanting to hear them because we’ve always heard them. But, it is not in the way we hear phones ring, cars alarm,or birds chirp.

The sound of a story is the sound of one’s own pulse. Can you really conceive of the sound that your pulse makes? I experience my pulse, more than I hear it-although it certainly is audible. After physical exertion, I hear it loudly, sometimes, even ringing in my ears until my heartbeat begins to still. Fear, complete quiet, and stillness make my own pulse sound the loudest.

The sound of my pulse goes unnoticed by my awareness most of the time. I presume this results from my awareness having been exposed to the constant, continuing sound of my pulse during every single moment of my existence.

Eventually, my brain said, “Enough! Let’s just tune that one out. We’ve got more stimuli in this very second than the sense facilities of this meat bag could ever experience, let just go ahead and not waste energy on perceiving the pulse. That sound will continue until the meat bag dies. I know avoiding death is sort of what my job here is all about, but we don’t need to monitor for the sound of the pulse. With pulse, I’m willing to go on the honor system. Besides, if I always listen for the pulse and the pulse is always audible until ceasing at death, I will never hear it cease because its cessation is the end of my ability to hear. “

So it is with story. The ‘me,”myself,’ and, ‘I’ (used when a self references its own self hood) exist because humans have story as a sense organ. The organ differentiates humans from other mammals.

The story organ creates a self out of the development of a homo sapien. What human can be said to not have self-hood?

What is a self and how is it by which some organisms and not others come to possess self hood? Is it possible to possess self hood but have no awareness of your own self?

Is was another day.

The sun shied back into the woods, partially concealed behind a cloak of mist and residual angular trajectory.

It gave the morning a quintessence of allure and glamour, even including that tinge of melancholy which the Vested feel.

I suppose nostalgia may be a more apt descriptor than melancholy.

Then again, I guess both words are completely right & dexter yet, simulateously, inappropriate.

The sun tests the boundary condition between night and day; everyday it rises.

I test the boundary condition within to see how supple and malleable I be without shattering into infinity just yet.

The woods have eyes too… he, he

Slightly aggressive, especially if feeling

Partially cornered

Total arousal of senses. Endocrine ; adrenaline ; spite but not smite at The Smug who think shes blind.

Eyes cutting sidewards, upwards to the left or downwards

i.e. any way but candidly.

Only one mouse spoke words to make her honest shudders occur.

UnLike the ignorant liars, soothsayers, mad pipers, would be priors, et al.

Facading smile worn in protection of someone or something. Such a precious, protective pretense should be judged not.

We keep Stretching until tendons roll over bits of lingering softness.

Until ligaments distend symmetricaly and transform that which was almost unrecognizable into something that is inexorably unrecognizable.