15 August 2011

the hollow road - i want to eat grandfathers

Our little clan took a long, winding, fucked-up-jeesus-lost trip way out in the country today, looking for a potential new rental home. It's a trailer, and it's located down a dead-end hollow ("holler," if yer local) between one infinitesimal town you've never heard of and another really, really small town that's not likely on your radar either.

First and foremost, everything on this trip smelled like honeysuckle and wild onions and a bit like parsley too. Sweet manure, occasionally, seeped in. If you've ever smelled "good" manure, I think you know what I mean. It's not at all unpleasant.

I like to know how places smell, and I like smelling places. I always remember the bouquet of somewhere significant, whether a kind of small comic book shop (dust, ink, cigarettes, cherry lollipops and Chinese food) or a wilderness in which I desperately want to bury myself.

Before we actually found Hollow Road, which is located off an unmarked, somewhat larger road, we missed the turn by 12 miles (thanks in no small part to a lack of street signs). We ended up trying another turn, and seriously ended up on a dirt road that was basically conjoined with a little creek deep, deep in the woods. There was a huge washout filled with water we crossed (gingerly) twice, and the forest was so thick it felt like we were the only assholes in a sedan who'd ever fucked up enough to turn down this particular trail (because it really was barely a road). We should've been on horseback, not stuck in a car pulverizing innocent minnows in a deep forest quagmire. It was so gorgeous and so green and so cool it felt like accidentally arriving somewhere else, somewhere out-of-bounds. Not Tennessee. Or maybe really, really, really Tennessee.

We were able to find our way back, after a long detour, to the road we meant to get on an hour before. It didn't feel like a lost hour -- even though we were lost.
Down Hollow Road, which begins with the strangest little short, low bridge across a close but deep washout, there's two or three "nice" suburbish-looking brick homes and well-cared-for farm houses.

Chickens putter lazily across roughly paved road, whose concrete is monstrously balled up in places, looking much like an old forest god swept an angry hand at the gravel when cheeky modernity snuck a toehold in the hollow. Everything human-made -- other than the brick home, who looks sadly out of place, like a softgoth indie tween at a Boo Boo Bunny [trigger warning for all of possible triggers at link given] show -- is grated down by years and years of floods and anonymity. Folks have carved out the bare minimum of the surrounding trees to accommodate their homes and their gardens, crops, and outbuildings for animals. The thick border of trees, cushioning the swatch of peopled dwellings, amplifies the silence.

The loudest sound -- and it is a loud sound -- on Hollow Road are the conversations chucked out of chicken throats and clicking beaks.

Right at the ass-end of the road, everything puckers into an eyeball-festival of greenery, semi-white high pickets and overgrown wire fences. A few bunched-up buildings guarded by so much fence and bush and tree suggest some kind of compound, or commune, or at least a couple of close relatives. Objects flash from trees, but there wasn't much time to notice and identify them. That property is guarded by a splendid, tough young rooster with a sprawl of red and gold tailfeathers and a big old voice telling us to get the fuck off his street.I tried to take his picture, but it didn't save -- ghost cock?

Less exciting, but still appealing, are the two unassuming little single-wides, one white and one an indiscriminate earthy color, set up just before the dead end. They're quite far from the main drag (so to speak), accessible by a looped-back dirt driveway that looks like a real pleasure to muck out of in the rain. There's a storm cellar behind the white trailer (which could be ours), built right up underneath the forest that looms behind the trailers, and a little half-barn to the side. Everything, everything, everything is at once attractive and malignant.

And so very fucking quiet.

Obviously, and not a little painful to think about, Hollow Road doesn't give a shit about us. If we live there, we better be fucking tough and work hard and keep the lamplight trimmed. We better figure out how to make friends with the neighbors. I'm sure there are ghosts in those woods, and spirits, and scrappy little bobcats and enough deer to feed us all year if we can find someone to help us prepare the meat.

I don't know if the Hollow is the place for us, especially since it may already be rented, and also because we don't know if we want neighbors that close (I'd prefer a private lot where I could stand outside naked in the moonlight every now and then). 

Of course I have some things to show you.

private graveyard

that's a huge, steep, rocky, brushy, to-yer-deathy drop off behind the sign

if anything i wear is ever not thrifted, i'll point that out.

Go, get high on grass.

I mean the kind with gnats and clovers in it.


  1. Beej LeSweete16/8/11 10:18 PM

    I just got lost in a book.. on your blog.

  2. <33333 it was a good, good day.