a company of vagabonds

'It is a very strange place,' said Amberville, 'but I scarcely know how to convey the impression it made upon me. It will all sound so simple and ordinary. There is nothing but a sedgy meadow, surrounded on three sides by slopes of yellow pine. A dreary little stream flows in from the open end, to lose itself in a cul-de-sac of cat-tails and boggy ground. The stream, running slowly and more slowly, forms a stagnant pool of some extent from which several sickly-looking alders seem to fling themselves backwards, as if unwilling to approach it. A dead willow leans above the pool, tangling its wan, skeleton-like reflection with the green scum that mottles the water. There are no blackbirds, no kildees, no dragon-flies even, such as one usually finds in a place of that sort. It is all silent and desolate. The spot is evil — it is unholy in a way that I simply can't describe. I was compelled to make a drawing of it, almost against my will, since anything so outré is hardly in my line. In fact, I made two drawings. I'll show them to you, if you like.'

orgono-tumuloccumulator. mons veneris. a giant moist vagina nestling in the hills of aberdeenshire. one day I went down a souterrain and crouched beneath the neolithic stonework wondering what the fuck those people thought they were doing. another time I stood in the lee of a triangulation point at the summit of 'the buck' and surveyed my domain as the R.A.F. played war games beneath my vantage point. whats that all about. yet another time I walked through one of those made forests allowing the fear to rise up within. as the hair on the back of my neck stood up and the ordinary forest sounds took on a frightening intensity I made a connection. placating the gods was something you just did thats all. Lumsden main street on a saturday afternoon I gazed from one end to the other and there was no one except a barbour-clad gent carrying a stick with binoculars slung around his neck and a field guide to the birds of britain and ireland and walking boots on his feet and a moleskine notebook in his black H &M shoulder bag and a topman t-shirt and a pair of green nylon gaiters wrapped snugly around his grey ben davis workpants and a recently shaven head and an empty head and nothing to do except draw the contents of said head and wander in the wilderness surrounding this dying village. albert the laird of Lumsden gave me a bag of his apples. he says that everything in the land belongs to everyone who lives there and the people who think they own things should think again. I thought that perhaps I would annoint my newly made walking stick with sperm and that this would somehow help me in my quest to understand why I was here but of course I chickened out. except that one time I stripped off in the woods down clova way and stood in front of the big house now owned by belgians. and just stood there. it seemed like the right thing to do. I'm not sure. the pheasants certainly got a surprise. later on just before I left I stood in the woods waiting for a sign. I got it.