Monday, May 29, 2017

lighting out for the territories. Tittagglia's nature retreat.

Tittagglia was at once unhappy with society and stuntified in his own art.  Go to the woods, young man!  So he set out for the unbroken horizon of the uncivilized Northeast.  He travelled to the ends of the roads, then began walking through the woods.  He happened upon Wewick Pond, and thought it delightful enough, so he decided to make camp there.

There was one of those contractor-made beaches of white sand and a raft in the deepwater for diving.  The water was dark but the bottom of the lake was bleach white.

He angled(fished, that is, in the waters), but caught only bullfrogs and turtles.  He knew nothing of preparing them as meals, so he made a little pile of the unluckies, there on the white sand.  He intended to be prodigious in his fishing, cleaning and cooking a daily catch, but nothing doing.  He caught no fish during the entire season.

Instead he wandered the embankments, picking berries.  He lived on that and cornbread made from a generously-sized bag of meal he brought with him.  The darkwater and the meal made good cornbread, but it never stayed with him long.

He painted on the cavewalls nearby, finding them a natural good canvas, and protected from the elements.  He painted half-man half-beast things.  Later when the government conservation officials came by, these caused quite a sensation.  The officials thought the drawings made by indigenous people some two centuries prior, that they were only drawing things they saw everyday in the wood!

So it was a fraud without malicious intent.  Just Tittagglia expressing himself.  And there was Mikl, that lived at the headwaters, which was a little stream that fed the lake on the Northwest side.  Tittagglia had largely avoided Mikl, noting the smell of raw blood around his cabin.  He never took up the invitation to go inside the cabin, his senses warning him of it.

When Tittagglia reached Vancouver eight months later, he stayed in his room at the Chez a long time, often just staring out the window, waiting on that blood smell to retreat so his senses would clear.  Once, in the small hours, he even tried to reproduce some of the pages of Mikl's gastronomy text, but the recounting was so repugnant he forced himself to abandon the enterprise.

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