You know how you remember where you were, who you were with, and what you were doing when you listened to such-and-such a song, maybe for the first time? Like Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” when no doubt you should not have been there, and certainly not with that crowd, under those conditions, in a smoky basement apartment with black lights on Oglethorpe Avenue in Savannah? Right. You do.
This is how it is for me with the first essay I ever heard from what has become Phantom Canyon—“Bathing.”
A mushroom, and a neighbor who dams Eight Mile Creek for a fishing hole, despite Colorado water laws, force a reconsideration of what beauty is when the natural world is sub-plotted into 40 acre parcels inhabited by clueless suburban “refugees.”