As Starry Skies All Around My Eyes…

by joseph ridgwell

erica-jong

Now, lit fiends, I know what you’re thinking, that Mother Ridgwell has made three posts in three days, has he finally gone off his rocker? Ridgwell posts used to be as rare as hen’s teeth, and now he’s more prolific than Erica fucking Jong. What gives?

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Fiends, fiends, stay as cool as a mini-milk, you’ve got me all wrong. Every now and then as I sit in the opulent library room of Rancho Ridgwell, admiring my bookshelves crammed with classics, Aristophanes, Sophocles, Socrates, Plato, Dumas, Jane Austin…

Just kidding fiends, there is no Jane Austin.

Anyway, this leads me all to a revelation that I just have to tell youse all about. There I was strolling around what was left of the Upper Binn village. Nobody lived there anymore. It was a ghost village. Like all ghost villages it was eerie, the phantoms of the dead and forgotten memories of what once went down whistling in the trees. And there carved into a moss covered rock were these words:

‘George Hood last resident of the village, departed against his will 1954’

And I thought about George Hood then. Old George holding on for as long as he could, fighting off the powers that be for years and sticking up for what he believed in. For there is something to be said for that…

BinnHighToday1

A song by Tim Buckley summed up the aura that descended upon me up there on that lonely hill. And here it is, for your listening pleasure and for Mister Hood wherever he is…