i. a brief history of me, part one

This will not be a typical bit of biography.

At this moment in time I am twenty-six years old, far more potential
than actual. I was just recently told this by my mother, that I am
stunted developmentally, not as much an adult as I should be, that I
regressed for many years by staying in Small Wood when I should have
been moving forward. This latest retreat was from my second stint in
Small Wood, the first was years before.

My family moved to Small Wood the summer after my sophomore year spent
overseas in Caracas, Venezuela. My dad was out of work, and we fell
back to regroup in the states on my grandmother's unused piece of
country property.

I found it to be a beautiful but fallen upon disrepair ranch house. It
was two stories, yellowed and mildewed on the outside, shingles split
and prone to falling loose. The house proper could be reached driving
down from the coastal highway by turning off a small, one-lane pebble
road marked with a sign stating simply, 'Little Switzerland".

Surrounding the property were cow pastures, bordered on one edge by a
river, the other by primal woods descending down to touch the valley.
It was a quiet place; neighbors were distant and never encountered
with any real frequency. Cows got loose, the river flooded, trees
split and fell across the road. These were typical of the intrusions
upon day to day life.

I had spent holidays in the house years before. I was familiar with
it, but it was not my home, it was my grandmother's. It had a
comfortable, nostalgic feel, but I was a teenager, and coming from a
very large, alien city to a small, isolated house within a small,
isolated community unnerved me. I was not at heart a spoiled bright
lights big city boy, and I did not complain about the sudden and
drastic change to life and the pace of life, yet I was always
self-aware and out of place. I lacked the skills my father and sister
had to tend the land, and raise livestock in limited quantities. I
helped out where I could that summer, pulling weeds, feeding grain to
the beasts, unpacking and moving into the place proper, but I was not
an easy fit with the new accommodations.

I remembered skinny-dipping in the chill cold waters of the river, of
hopping the fence and dodging cow pies in a mad rush to the water and
not to catch the bull's attention. I had brought friends with me in my
youth, and those memories lingered around the place with an almost
empty solace.

I was a true teenager, halfway between innocence and aged. The world
had wizened me beyond my years, my family always a wonderful blessing
to have as moral poles in my life. My parents were smart, if not
brilliant, in ways I'd never understand, both so very warm and wise
and open to my development as a human being.

My father, on his trips into town, started rumors about a promising
young athlete from Venezuela, and before long I was signed up for the
local high school football team. I had no experience playing the game,
none at all. My dad made a name for himself in his youth, owing much
of his collegiate opportunity to the sport.

I was expected to follow in his footsteps, at least in theory if not
actual ability. To appeal to my intellect and curiosity, my father
hailed high school football as, 'a cultural experience'.

He assured me, in a mocking tone that I would get to know and
appreciate the locals, their customs and beliefs.

So in preparation for joining the team, I began running along the road
up and down the property to get myself in shape and make a better case
for why this strange, tall, half-way foreign boy should earn a spot on
an already established dynasty. I had routinely generalized that the
people of Small Wood were nothing if not unaccepting and distrusting
of outsiders, which turned out to be not far from the truth.

For the first few days of activity, I was sweating and seeing the
sights around me as landmarks I had to pass on the way to better
shape. Breathing in and out commenced with a more regular rhythm,
pounding my feet to the ground, paced to the beat of my racing heart.

After several stretches of growing boredom and familiarity with my
route, I branched off to scale the terrain, to stimulate my own sense
of adventure. There were knotted paths leading both up and down the
road, twisting alongside cricks, emerging upon tool shed areas, out of
the way pole barns, and the remains of old fallen in houses. Debris of
lives lost in transition, abandoned and forgotten.

The first time I saw the crumpled barn, I thought it part of the hill,
foliage consuming much of the exterior, more negative space than
positive. I pushed my way in and found remnants in corners, hidden in
shadows, the sunlight poking through bleached and crumbled the flesh
of it in places.

A cabinet of sorts held a broken marionette, sagging at the hip. At
one time it danced on a vaudevillian stage, but the glass fourth wall
was broken, buttons and levers that controlled the nickelodeon
automaton still worked, herking and jerking the sneering performing
puppet this way and that. His name in red paint, Jiggles the Juggler.
His head came to rest against his shoulder after the exhausting
performance. His smile and jeering eyes set upon a something across
the way.

Jiggles was not alone in his old age, so triumphed, half hanging from
the wall as audience before him, a carved wooden sign.

A beautiful woman sat on a rock, naked from the waist up. Her dark
hair covered just enough of her chest, fell down below her waist. The
rest of her figure was the product of an artist's imagination, a long
blue fish tail that hugged the rock, as heavy surf crashed up behind
her. In old script was writ, "Come Visit Today", "A Twisted Beauty and
a Beast", "Only at The Cliffside Circus Attraction",