Walking in leaf-dappled sunlight; enjoying the stars; splashing barefoot in a stream; traipsing along an old wooded path with a hard kick to the gut and a swift poke in the eye.
Born a poor black child, Jimm remembers the days sitting on the porch with the family singing and dancing, down in Louisiana, when his only toy was a tetanus-covered stick.
Jimm was raised in the bracken and boughs; among still waters and the furies of creation yet he can be seated to sup among Lords. Part Henry Miller, part Alfred E. Neuman: a lovable goof and textbook Scorpio.
Jimm is a master and appréciateur of so-called civil society yet so contemptuous of its failing participants that he lives in a protracted state of oscillation between love and loathing of all.
To return alone to the damp earth beneath the canopy will no longer suffice. His social cohorts, however, fail him every day. Jimm no longer lives in the world of man but walks next to him every day- seeking to get off the grid, live by candlelight and only eat what he kills or grows -alone in the bee-loud glade, as it were.
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