“I think I’ve entered the punk phase of my photo-novels, er, Wheeler,” I only half joke, also thinking of “Tamala 2010: A Punk Cat in Space”. “Shorter posts, shorter sections. No more long sprawling concept stuff. I’m condensing. Saying what’s real — getting to the real part.”
“Sure,” she said, now wearing a punk outfit herself to match my mood. She spat on the floor beside her, wiped her mouth. No, not *that* punk, I think. Not the violence and anger, just the condensing. Like alchemy.
“Alchemy?” she questioned after I summarized this to her. She dutifully started wiping the floor with one of her kleenexes. That she didn’t have since there were no pockets in her outfit. Maybe later. But still: the wiping. At least for this post. Going on too long…
——
The next thing I found myself telling her was about the dam. Old Catawba River, I explained. The boat… made it and didn’t make it at once. Floating down the perpetual river now in one reality. Mythos.
Sunklands 