There is a calm in wondering how a ruined thing came to be. I look for that sanctuary in the brickwork of a chimney, the hollowed bulk of an old stone cottage that stands in the forest. The chimney’s mason took care in the arrangement, adding decorative arches where lines would have saved time and bricks. Someone, long dead, was fanciful in their work. It’s difficult for me to reconcile the gruff mason in my head with the person who would choose these patterns- two rusted stereotypes at odds.
The dissonance is enough to send ripples through my meditation and, in trying to reclaim it, I blow dust from the ridges of the old structure. My lungs whistle and I cough, sounding, to the trees, like a cackling witch for all my wheezing.
Looking at my shadow, you might think I was bent over in laughter.
‘The superstitions of street punks, hobos, and Gray Road theorists align on this point: there are places in the world that feel heavier than others and, in their heaviness, exert a sort of force. These points anchor whatever geo-mystical/philosophical network happens to be trending at the time- the waypoints of your non-denominational ley lines.
There is no dearth of research on the subject, though ‘research’ should in most cases be defined with a picture of a map, scattered with tacks and string and blurry pictures of the American countryside. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm of zealots only serves to confuse the research-scape, effectively diluting any truth in the matter. To layer the varied believer networks one over the other until they were all accounted for, well, we would be left with an opacity that mirrors the task.
Underneath the labyrinth of the American highways and the fractal systems of public transit, there are certain locations that surface more often than not- coherencies in the otherwise rabid fever dream. ‘The Cottage Out North’ is one of them, nothing but the ruins of an old house that gasp for air in the underbrush. ‘A magical place,’ say the witches. ‘A place to cook,’ say the homeless. ‘An example of lasting architecture,’ say the preppers (the soothsayers of our time, for the world will end, eventually).
‘The Cottage Out North’ appears on so many iterations of the mystical map that it’s difficult to disregard its significance in the Wayside. Hardly comfortable, it is, by all accounts, a benign place- a stone in the river that will take your weight in crossing.’
My breath returns to me and I gather my scattered belongings. The bike, framed in the doorway, clicks and groans in the warming air. Crossing the threshold toward it, I wonder if summer may be around the corner.
-traveler
