Chipping Paint

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Small southern towns that bake beneath a low hanging sun. If you’ve seen them all then you haven’t seen any.

Did you ever sit under Magnolia blossoms, next to a jar of crickets, as your friend’s sister twirled on a tireswing. A tireswing that was just ten minutes walk from a swimming hole?

No, I’m not trying to sell you chewing tobacco or homemade jam.

I’m just wondering if these places are going to stay.

They were sort of our version of indigenous tribes deep in the Amazon. All sleepy in a blanket of humidity and cicada song. As primordial as discarded peach pits that take root.

Do you remember battered banisters, and the highest technology being a superninendo; that you soon abandoned to slide in your socks across a musty woodpanel floor? You know the sort of stuff you’d do as an ancient Sharpee named Midnight watched lazily from his post beneath a shuttered window.

If you don’t I guess it doesn’t much matter.

Cause every sacred rite of passage that a barefoot, cricket hunting, Red Ryder marksman fell into, climbed over, or set on fire is now forever bathed in the witching glow of LCD.

Unfortunately that’s not an illicit substance that will get you closer to nature. It’s mighty uncanny. This disembodied voice that colors every living moment in artificial omniscience.

The oaks are still majestic at the periphery of the pasture. The earth smells sweet. But there’s a tension even here.

The question is am I old. Or are we mad?

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