on summer days we rode down the river in our ripe age, careless if the rapids swept us into their deadly dustpans, the black hole of water, the possibility aroused us, perhaps because it seemed so far away.
and next to the river, the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they gathered here to see the circling folding-tables, buy the spread of goods, the goods are masks. the masks are of old folks’ faces, cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages. masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent, bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with an elastic band, you can become an elder.
old age attracts the crowds, i have a fascination with it myself, picturing all the stories that have taken elders to the present, it’s hard to fake being wise when you’re forced to think for years.