Devonne Brown

Sometimes, the odd is a catalyst for transcendence. Incessant noise and chatter become too much in everyday life and I want to lash out and run into a meadow of wildflowers and ferns, seek shelter in an old shed and call it a day. Call it a life. 

The closer I get to reality, the further I get to peace. I am happy in my eccentricity, being the neighborhood crone, alone in the forest shed. I tell everybody.

Sylvie has a tiny old house in the woods with running water, a gas heater, a window air conditioner, and a big old dog. Her friends think she is strange, and bring groceries and dog food. She lives in a paradise across the creek where the crawdads hide under the rocks, and has since she was born. Has she transcended time or been forgotten? 

Her house wants paint. The floors slant sideways and the ceilings sag. The roof doesn’t leak. The dog goes under the house when she wants to get out of the heat. Sylvie’s life is simple. She eats when she’s hungry, she sleeps on the couch when she’s tired. The bed makes her feel lonely. 

Sometimes the odd is a catalyst for transcendence, sometimes it’s a vehicle for loneliness. It depends on which holler you were raised in.