I've had to make a lot of challengingly inventive accommodations functionally -- personal and professional, private and technical, organizational and emotional, mental and material -- for all the crime-inflicted [by illegally-armed entrapment and commercially contemptible trickery] disabilities forced on me by places and peeps in the nonchallantly vicious south. It's the nonchallance -- intimating that this is "normalcy" for invasively abusive actors involved and their passive witnesses complicit -- that astounds me. I did -- more gratefully now in retrospect -- grow and mature in a deeply different national region, community milieu, and era of post-WWII ebulliance and tempered extravagance, expectant of ethical social consciousness and activism. We were, for example, ashamed to have vagrants living on the sidewalks as undeniable evidence of our shortcomings as a fair community and as just judeo-christians. We'd have been disbelievingly aghast at the inconceivable -- irresponsibly inhumane and unthinkably beastial, deliberate contamination of basics as essential to healthy growth as groundwater and shared aquifers. In the 21st century, though, we need resensitivation booths alongside the oxygen kiosks.
I've loved assembling ACRInc's artist/contributor-driven website "issues" so intently that 2010's update emerged during therapy residence at wifi-enhanced Quillen Rehab betwixt two critically-invasive carotid artery operations inside my neck. Cooperatively good-natured medical personnel referenced the food table as my "office"! Lingering physical limitations due to disability and normative aging processes preclude now the energetic coordination similiar updates require and the format has necessarily morphed, while continuing devotion to quality content outsourced in ways less enervating -- but equally educational and intriguing.
Perhaps the shangrila of "success" is nothing less or more than passionate love for the object in the quest.
Fortunately for the many invalided, superlatively diverse documentary and informal homestyle videos plus interactive virtual tours proliferate to share&discuss online which substitute satisfactorily for ambulatory "on the street" encounters that entail a functional stamina i've not yet regained.
"The Last Pheasant" has usually been the popular fave amidst early short stories. Like most, it's a fantastication of real peeps and places and events. Lifelong bachelor, now-deceased Stan Slivinski constructed his ruff cabin atop an expansive crest of the Massanutten he shared mostly with black bears and flourishing veggies he grew, and canned. and deer, of course. i raised a pair of golden pheasants....... but the hen died early on. and her mate much later.
The killer truth about ringneck pheasants in the wild back there and then is: the only one i ever saw flew with a startling thud and colorful splat into the windshield of my car on a shopping trip to town. It said (quickly)."take your civilization, bud, and shove it, i ain't doin thus no mo'."