Where The Creatures Fly

I have recently been to Itawallasassa, also known as The Place Where The Creatures Fly. A spot that is a depression in the earth’s surface, placing it closer to Hell, it has the presence of being more remote rather than rural. There is a brutal nature to its nature. One must slice through the heat and humidity, the sandy ground like molten iron, the sun like welding arc. Water evaporates as sweat soon after it is swallowed. It seems, after only a few minutes, that most bodies would not have the strength to carry enough water to travel boundary to boundary, whether north to south, or east to west. This is not fact, but the compression from the dense air makes a person think that, so, you only walk a distance that, in your mind, you know will allow for safe return.  A nervousness and fear keep you glancing back, as though you are tethered to the entry point.

Entry is through a dense thicket of palmetto, vine and briar. Because of the climate extreme, there are few mammals living in the place, however, they do come for a drink of the stale, black water from the long pond. The pond is narrow, maybe fifty feet, but nearly a quarter mile long. There are reptiles in the brush and along the ground; they are forever alert and wait for the mammals to arrive. The chalky bones of the unfortunate are liberally scattered. Those are the issues of small life at Itawallasassa, Smaller yet are the creatures that fly, butterflies, dragonflies, damselflies, bees and numerous other varieties of insects. The plants and air are flush with such life. It is for that reason I go there.  

There is little tolerance for visitors and there is evidence of this at the entry, which always has a display of warnings or omens. On each of my visits I have had to contend with distinct, mostly frightening and intimidating, effects. I do not know the meaning or significance, whether cultural or religious, of any of the items, but I am aware of the purpose. I do not know who places the ominous symbols and devices near the entry. I have never met anyone within the boundaries, whether visitor or inhabitant.

On this visit I made my way through the thick, scratching brush and bramble, only to happen upon a shark carcass hanging from a tree. There were also various parts of the shark’s body impaled on sticks. The odor of decay was forceful, invasive, and I had no choice byt to lift the neck opening of my shirt over my mouth and nose. It was of little help to do so. To the left of the shark was a small pepper tree and on it hung three necklaces fashioned of thin root, adorned by a small crab claw. I have found necklaces there before and surmised that they were to be worn while in the place. I was not certain of that, the first time there, but my senses told me I would have safe passage, if I was wearing one. So, I did and I do.

I take my first drinks after about a hundred yards, my clothing already drenched with sweat, to the point I could wring out the moisture. There is no sound. No breeze, no lapping water, no dead leaves or brush to crackle beneath a foot or paw or claw. There is only labored breathing and heartbeat from within myself and the buzz, hum and thrum of flying creatures. Some seem curious, others have the edginess that has kept them alive. I constantly whirl and turn, shuffle through the growth to shoot my photos, stopping often to wipe the stinging sweat from my eyes. Without awareness I travel to where the trail narrows to footpath width and the entry has disappeared. It is easy to return, to follow my marks in the sand, but it is the unknown of what is ahead that forces a decision. I have the necklace, I have my water, I have my camera, I have my curiosity, the only question is whether I have my courage. The sun is centered, the shadows short, the flying creatures beckon from the narrowing path ahead.

Oak leaves fall in spring

Oak leaves fall in spring, in the south. Our ground tattooed with mellow browns and gutters plugged with crisp. It is a double-edged drop, as I stop scraping and lean on the rake, remembering decades back, preparing for white and ashen in a colder location. Now, the release brings an abundant pale of new growth which, in a few days, will toughen and deepen its green. Heat and heavy air is soon to follow. But the smell of the different times and places is the same as gusts of breeze send leaves skittering across the sidewalk and down the street, to rest in front of other homes, where my thin curly gems become another man’s bane.

The Scepter

I have safely returned from a journey through urban dangers and, on this day, ventured into the sweetness of the spring forest. It was there, near the center point of the two hundred acres—only about fifty yards east of Fishhawk Creek—that I found what appeared to be a scepter, an item simple in form and adornment, which leads me to believe that it is owned by someone who rules a plain and common people or is worshipped by the same. I do not know who the owner could be, or how it came to be in this place, at its resting spot not far from the base of the fungus tree. I do not know if it holds any powers, but, personally, I am always leery of anything that lacks complexity, because such things are underrated by being ignored. However, simplicity is often a deception for things, living or not, and humans have come to admire the simple, it being so opposed to our way of living. It draws us close by lowering our defenses, unless we are cautious.

I call it a scepter because of its appearance and location. It was made of a single palm frond with the stem of the frond, maybe four to five feet in length, forming the staff or handle. The crest, or crown, was fashioned by the frond’s leaves being trimmed to within a few inches of where they attach to the stem. Around the crown there was a tangle of delicate vine, lightly wrapped and tied. Two sprigs of ripe beauty berries were tucked into the loose vine. Some may consider the workmanship crude, yet, to me, it carried a tone of legitimacy. 

There were also oddities about the scepter’s placement and other events. The steps to discovery began when I noticed a large flutter of sulfur butterflies, brilliantly reflecting the stream of sun, in the bushes and scrub surrounding the point where I had stopped to take a drink of water.  These butterflies are normally very nervous and flighty and are difficult for humans to get near. Yet, the kaleidoscope only took flight after I approached and was within touching distance of most; the air filled as though there was a tossing of golden coins. I followed the butterflies to a spot about thirty feet off the path. That is where I looked down and noticed the crown was resting within a triangle, formed by three golden-yellow mushrooms. Perhaps it was placed there to regenerate its powers, or, maybe, the fungus, in some manner, acted as protector. So, based on these facts, it does not seem that this item was merely dropped or misplaced. I only happened upon the spot while following one of the butterflies through the thicket. It was as though I was led to the artifact.

There was no intention of disturbing the scene. I circled it slowly, then bent down for closer examination, fighting the urge to run my fingers along the weathered smoothness and natural beauty of the find. However, curiosity won the struggle within and I gently lifted the scepter to examine its detail. Instantly the natural ornamentation disintegrated and fell to the ground, not a straight drop inside the triangle, but fragments of the vine garland and jewel-like berries dropped on each of the three growths of golden fungus at the triangle’s points, pulled to each as if magnetized. This was an unnatural act and startled me.

At that instant the stale and quiet of the forest was interrupted. A raucous flock of blackbirds dropped into a nearby longleaf pine. The birds became silent, as a breeze developed and rained leaves in great density. Within minutes the dusk of day quickened its descent. Throughout the area, within several yards of where I stood, there came a crunching and rustling among the dead leaves on the forest floor and scratching scuffing in the palmetto scrub. I saw nothing other than the waving and bobbing of plants and limbs through the downpour of oak leaves. Large drapes of Spanish moss also began falling in clumps.

 I placed the scepter back in the place and position it was found, unsheathed my Buck knife, and hurried back to the path. There I encountered a drove of feral hogs, rooting and furrowing madly, standing their ground, which was not typical. I backed slowly to a medium-sized pine, ready to climb to safety. A large boar dashed toward me, sending me into action. I grabbed the lowest limb and pulled myself up and onto the next level. The snorting boar was stopped by a clash of thunder. It returned to the drove, which drifted into the dense scrub. The wind subsided and I came down from the tree, made my home bearing only minor scuffs and a tear in my shirt. Due to the intensity of the events I have only these few photos to share. I will decide whether I should return to the place and visit the item again.

The Carnival

In late spring, when the carnival came to town, it was like summer vacation had started early and it was that way every year I can remember. Maybe because the weather was slowly clawing its way higher on the thermometer, maybe because the carnival brought us a color preview of summertime blooms or, maybe, we just came to realize that it was the beginning of the end of another school year. We always knew the date the caravan would arrive, usually a Wednesday or Thursday, and there must have seemed little reason, to the teachers and principal, to keep us in school after lunch on the chosen day. Homework was not given, just delayed, with an unspoken agreement that the next day or two would have a heavier load. Small towns, with their small schools and personal familiarities, made life tolerable in that fashion.

When the afternoon bell rang, there may have been a rush of bodies, but the minds had already vacated the building and were waiting at edge of town, surrounding the lot where raggedy and dirty-clothed men were busy unhooking, unloading, staking, stacking and testing what they had hauled over freeways, city streets and country roads. Even though the festival was at some distant place in the days before, it seemed to be a special delivery for our sole enjoyment.  We would gather, sit, stand, squat and wait on the cotton candy-fresh spring grass that would, by the end of Sunday, look as crushed and dead as grass on the football field the coming fall. But, damage to the spring newness would not be a permanent. The grass would return to normal within a few weeks, as it was washed with rain, waxed with sun and blessed with an absence of feet and vehicles. It would be ready and waiting for us to play a summer’s worth of baseball.

The brothers, Pavel and Tibor, the twins who were good at every sport, sat a short distance from the rest of us. I walked in front of them. They were talking in whispers and watching the scene with dilated pupils. You did not need to hear the conversation to know that their sentences contained words like “what if” and “ how do we” and “when.”  At an empty spot, between my friends and the twins, I was pulled by forces,  either participate in the elation or join the sons of the crazy Slovakian, the butcher with the shop on Third Street, who, people said, strangled the Altmeyer’s German shepherd, because it was German. The clatter of overworked engines and smell of diesel fumes mixed with sweet smoke from the bratwurst vendor added another tugging force. I fell in that direction, dug in my pocket and pulled out a dollar.

In response to my photos...

It is always thrilling to have someone buy your book, more of a thrill when someone buys several, for friends and relatives. It is a pleasure to receive a note or email from a reader, telling how a certain piece or photo impacted them. But, it is humbling when another person is moved to create something of their own as a response. Here is something I received from mignon ledgard of Lima, Peru, after she viewed the photos in the posts of my recent road trip to Detroit. It is genuinely appreciated. She knows me as Bluejay, my screen name at a writers forum.

While Looking

To Bluejay

A huge rusted barn, drops of rain,
each unique, one weathered, one
fallen to freeze exposed to vibrations.
Emu has nothing to do with it.

A blade of grass, a reed, a song
through the winded blow of the lungs,
yet unseen, in the breeze of the colors
of autumn. No sound.

Does the lion roar? Does the lion bite
into a deflated ball the color of a pale sky?
Gray, abandoned, no birds, no clouds,
just an eye through a camera lens.

No shoes, no sandals, hat is off
to the ragged window. Cloaked
beauty of all that is closer to earth.
As we are.

As we are, we walk barefoot, feel the sand,
sink into the soul of rough skin
to soften the edges:

those we build--these cages
around ourselves for protection--
to keep each of us safe
from experiencing life in a splinter.

Who cares about someone who speaks
of a yellow leaf or about each drop of rain
being unique, having memory.

Who listens to a jingle of nuts in a pocket,
a bag full of birdseed or stops
for a bucket of sand left from the castle
built by the sea for a mermaid.

Yet, we will all turn the doorknob, inhale
the lead paint from old peeling frames,
drink aluminum from boxes of cornflakes
or swallow pink, blue, yellow pills
prescribed for an ailment.

(I think of Christopher Hitchens,
wear a C on a t-shirt for cancer).

He laughs at me with his teeth and his mustache:
the lion carved in a wall like a cantilever,
those three-stooges empty chairs and a brick wall
with leaves stacked off the sidewalk.

Where does the tree begin and its shadow end,
while I look at the pointed point at the top of a church
with no steeple, an old welded blue gutter.

Oh the steeple, it is there! So little.
We start again. One, two, three, four, five blades
of grass, a yellow leaf, raindrops, and eyes.

My eyes, your eyes, we conjugate the verbs to see
and to like. And to read and to read and to read.

We play. We play at being humble
on the way down the spiral
where Borges will greet us
as if we were famous.

Thanks, mignon, here is a little thank you, from Florida:

Along the road to Detroit--The End of the Road

 On November 14, 2011, I went to Detroit to see the city and take photos. My old friend, and former brother-in-law, Marc, lives in the area and joined me. Here is the recap, in brief, because it is not possible to tell it all in a simple blog.

(You can click on the link at the end to view the slideshow. There are 100 photos, most with captions.)

I have been to Detroit maybe a dozen times in my life and knew little about it when I first moved to Ohio in the mid ‘60s, other than it was THE Motor City and home of the Tigers, Lions, Pistons, It was Motown, Cobo Arena and CKLW—The Big 8 (which was actually in Windsor). I considered it, initially, a place of wealth, akin to Oz’s Emerald City. How could it be anything less, with all those vehicles being produced in factories where workers were pulling in high union wages? In summer of 1967 Detroit became a conundrum, to me, exacerbated by my youthful ignorance, southern background and then living in the bleach-white farm country of northwest Ohio. It seemed unbelievable there could be riot and revolt in a location where money flowed so freely. How could there be unrest and dissatisfaction in the blue collar Camelot?  I was too young to know the reasons and truths.

The news in recent years from, aside from the auto industry collapse, has been the phenomenal physical decay of the city. The web has thousands of photos and articles detailing the dilapidation. I have lived in or near major cities since my graduation, in December 1975, from Bowling Green, so I have personally witnessed urban decay in Dayton, LA, Columbus, Cleveland and other places, but there has always been a bottom on which the decline rests, followed by resurgence. In Detroit there seems to be only hole digging, in search of an elusive bottom. This is my current opinion, however, I do not follow daily or monthly events there. I have no knowledge, power or money to fix it. Countless others have detailed all this with their thoughts and theories; all I can do is tell you about my recent visit and share my own photos.

I made some phone calls before traveling there, inquiring where I might find the deterioration. The answer, from three different sources, was, “Anywhere.”  I asked if there were any places where I should be particularly cautious. The answer was, “Pretty much everywhere you plan to go.” Based on my experiences in other cities, I expected to find certain areas where decay was concentrated and horrific. To my dismay, it was “anywhere.” North, south or west, there was no street, that I was on, that did not have collapsing, burned out or severely damaged structures. Homes, businesses, industrial buildings, churches, nothing was immune. It was apparent, after going down the first couple streets, there would be no reason to simply stand in the street and photograph building after crumbling building.

In addition to the widespread nature of the damage, I was shocked at the amount of debris and garbage, particularly the discarded tires. Thousands of tires littered sidewalks, empty lots, yards of the vacant properties and alleys. There was an abundance of furniture, fixtures, toilets, cabinets, a you-name-it collection of what humans throw out.

I can understand the garbage. The hardest thing to grasp was the contents of the structures. Every house or apartment building we entered contained the everyday stuff of people. Clothing, books, photos, toys, small appliances and mail were common items to be found in the dust and chunks of plaster falling from the walls and ceilings. Several times I thought how it was as though there had been a nuclear explosion, vaporizing the people but leaving the material goods. It was bizarre and leaves me with only one word—Why?

It was sunny and fair on the day of my visit, wonderful conditions for mid-November. There were some flowers blooming and plenty of leaves that had turned but were still clinging. What was missing was people. Traffic was extremely light on the main streets, even for a Saturday. But, even on the sidewalks and in the yards of the homes that were better maintained, there was an absence, a quiet. No kids, no parents, no grandparents, no pets. In fact, I can only think of four or five cars driving by on any of residential streets in all the hours. That in itself seemed strange, for The Motor City.

So, I went about doing what I had wanted to do for a long time. I went up and down stairs, through windows and holes in walls, walked through doors and into rooms and over the debris that, at one time, was personal and valuable to some of those missing people. It is what I went to see and I was not disappointed.

The drive back to Ohio provided thinking time.  I thought how Detroit is the American Dream gone bust. It is The Great American Failure. It is a place that once represented all that we could and should be, but is crumbling like old Rome. It now represents what we had and have lost.

And what I think is that any American who is interested in seeing what can become of our greatness needs to take a one day trip to Detroit. Lastly, I think we are all, for a train load of reasons, a little bit to blame.

Click here to see the slideshow. There are 100 photos, so, if you do not get through them all, please stop by again. To return to the blog, click on the back arrow.