and had to do my own, wondering where it would take me. It was a good journey, melancholy as it sounds reading it back to myself.
I am from hunting rifles, from Jiffy Pop rising in tinfoil dome, and small farms lost in the wilderness.
I am from a too small haven of flatness in a world sloping precariously.
I am from the cedars on a warm summer evening with a lightning storm coming, the rain kissing the fresh-baked earth, woodland stars dancing merrily in their angelic tatters.
I am from independence and isolation, from loggers and farmers and hard work and hard times, from living close to the earth and always remembering days there was nothing, no matter how much gold rides in your pocket.
I am from the dreamless and the dreamers.
From those who fear beauty and those who invite it shamelessly.
I am from nightmares birthed in diseased minds, and daydreams wrought from moonbeams and starlight.
I'm from small, rural landscapes, plain foods from the garden offered unseasoned.
From the landowners and the outcasts, long generations on the losing side of any fight they came across, and those who defeated them.
I am from earliest memories lost to flame and ash, from dusty photo albums of yellowing forced smiles, days no one wants to remember, from new memories displayed proudly, joy trumpeted in defiance.