Georgia again. This time with less derision than some of my previous Georgia chronicles. (There’s a reminder, I’ll have to annotate them and do a re-post there were some good things written down.) Sure there’s an enormity to the commercialism that I find somewhat repulsive, or just alien, but it’s scabrous, there’s this feeling that with one quick tear the whole of this country will come up, and underneath there’ll be a new skin exposed. That’s one thing about the wildlife down here, it’s vibrant, Darwinian, constantly fighting to take back the land.
Eating spanikopita and ham sandwiches with my Nana this bit of information comes up:
When my great grandfather came down from Canada to do some work in New York, he lived in a one bedroom apartment with his brother outside of the city. One would get a night job, and the other would sleep and work during the day. They weren’t making enough money to afford meat, so they would set up snares to catch pigeons.
Watching the Sundance Iconoclasts series on John Krakauer and Sean Penn with my father. Mom’s coming home from work in a few hours. It’s Christmas Eve and it’s about 49 degrees out, no snow in Georgia. Molly’s asleep at my feet.
It’s good to be down.
