Maine

I just came from staying in a 19th century farm house in Maine. It had only two light switches, the rest of the lighting made up of draped lines of Christmas lights, and rows of eclectic and well used candles. The doors were left open all day, to give freedom to the 15 cats and motion to the air that was so damp with heat. But the weather made the house smell thickly and sweetly of wood, and the open doors let the slow breeze coat me in a feeling of comfort.

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When I am in a big city like New York I feel powerful and excited and safe, because I am allowed a youthful arrogance from being within the tiny, sanitary world created by and filled only with humans. When I am in the country I feel much more humble in, but simultaneously blanketed -with all else- alongside the divine.
(Most places in between the big city and the country I feel a strange fear. With no connection to the peak of human power or culture, nor to the connection to all living things, I am left to think only of a connection to other floating voids.)
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The house had only cold well water, and so our baths were a bucket of it heated on the stove or a swim in the pond. Appearances are quickly forgotten as all blend into a movement with everything and everyone else. It feels good and healthy. I liked the morning chores the best. Learning to milk the cows in the morning cool, letting the calves drink water from the bucket, throwing the scraps to the piglets, gathering the beige blue white or brown eggs from the chicken coops.


To see where food comes from. To see it in all its disgusting and beautiful glory too. The dry cow teats, the straw and shit stuck to the eggs, the spiders and beetles and worms that get into the vegetables. It calls you back to gain perspective on the bleach clean, pasteurized nests humans have nuzzled out on top of so much rich and real land.

So it was a little bit of a shock then to return to the nearest town to take my bus to New Brunswick. I went to grab breakfast at a discount 'bakery' that was filled only with everything frosted and packaged. It suddenly disturbed me that I didn't need to wash the dirt off of my donuts before eating them. And why were they pink! It all looked like play food, as far removed as Simba is from a real lion.
But that being said, I do enjoy these small towns, especially when I am just passing through. Mostly because I am always astounded and impressed by the people's generosity and trust. When I asked the man at the greyhound counter if there was somewhere close to get a coffee, he told me that it was about a 15 minute walk but that I could take his truck if I wanted to.
"It's the black one out front. The keys are in there so feel free."