Artjournal. Roundrock Journal. Long before there was a Cabin at the End of the Road, and long before there was even a road, and certainly long before the running mania overtook me, I occasionally partook of a vice while in my woods. I smoked a ceegar. It used to be that we would hike — bushwhack was more like it — to the farthest point of our 80 acres and set ourselves on a large rock that was a bit of exposed ledge. It sits above the pecan plantation, which itself sits below the dam, which itself sits below the Cabin at the End of the Road, but this was in the days before any of that existed. We were proud of ourselves for have gotten this far in our untracked wilderness (which was only a half mile from where we left the truck, but it was a big deal to our tenderfoot selves). And I would reward myself with the ceegar, which I had purchased from a friend’s store back in faraway suburbia earlier in the week, and which I would generally select whatever kind came in a metal tube because cool.
Doctor HP Flowers. Artista Blog. Maya Ella Farm. Treespotting.