Kevin Lynn Helmick, official blog, On writing, writers, books, and media art
He walked along the frozen bank of the great river from Devils Creek to the mouth of the Skunk, almost twenty miles. He carried a shotgun, some water and pint of peppermint schnapps in his breast pocket. He walked slow and careful along the ice that had formed there far from the swift current in the center. He explored the creeks and dams as if searching for something lost and he logged their locations in his memory and moved on up river. He knew the area well and had been over it many times but now it was new to him. This hunting ground held a new prey, not of fish or game but of places undiscovered. He searched and walked and hunted. He moved under fallen trees and through flooded out shacks, up deer trails where the snow had been trotted down into the bed of last falls leaves and his boot print would fill in with mud the instant he left it. He would stop from time to time and listen with intensity that only a predator, a hunter has. He’d sit, crouched like an insane neanderthal and study wind, the birds, a beaver building a dam on Dutchman’s Island, tiny and far away. He studied his own thought process and argued between his perceptions of reality and imagination. Then he stood silent and fully aware of himself and continued up the river, searching, hunting, but not knowing what for until he found it.KLH
keep that train rolling, helmick...the climb is gonna be a steady, long ascent and you'll peak for long enough that heading toward the valley below will be a time to reflect and forget, emptying out the mental bladder to fill back up again and wait, wait, till you can't wait longer...and it'll begin again, that raping glory of harvest...I'm watching,Get ready.Buckle up, brother.It ain't even close to starting yet, not the good you got coming just a few steps higher...R
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