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Martin Kentucky Photos

While traveling enroute to the DarkWoods Con in Pikeville, Kentucky, I noticed that I passed within 5 miles of a town that I had always planned to visit someday as a literary pilgrimage.  Those of you who admire your solitudes will know how such a quest is born.  Because the town is so remotely located, I thought I might share some images with the half dozen folks who might care to see them.

There seems to be possibly more solitude in Martin now than in early fifties.  I was there for only 10 minutes, but could see that poverty had been there for a very long time.  It felt like a mining ghost town.  Next to the boarded up school was a banner proclaiming "unlimited opportunities."  I wanted to see the hills crowding down, the slant of the sun, the aging houses and store-fronts, and the people.  I saw only two ladies, a hair dresser and patron through a dusty window inside of a shop I had presumed was abandoned. We shared surprised looks, and then went about our business.  

I noticed how the smoke from chimneys seemed trapped in these valleys at dusk as though unsure of how to get away.  Some people don't get away either.  They still inhabit these small and perhaps shrinking towns, a few in each.  Something to think about when I next read that great book that speaks from this place.

pics.livejournal.com/dyvyd/gallery/0000r7kb

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
anselmo_b
Mar. 9th, 2010 05:50 am (UTC)
These pictures look like some that John Crowley posted at his journal of the Kentucky town he lived in as a kid, the one from Aegypt. Any more installments on Greece?
dyvyd
Mar. 9th, 2010 03:40 pm (UTC)
You guessed it! That's the place. I doubt that anything in these pictures would have looked the same in 1952, but it was an interesting place to visit, all the same.

I went to visit an old McKee family farm in Fulton Co. Indiana once, where my GGG grandfather lived. Just a potato field now. Found the stones from the family graveyard piled in a little wooded hollow that was unsuitable for plowing.

Our memories are fragile things, but sometimes longer lasting than the physical places we remember. My childhood home now seems devoid of anything of interest whatsoever. As though it slowly stopped existing when I was no longer there to make it live.

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Cydonia photo: ESA

This is the journal of David Ross
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