For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides has joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he will subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works may seem to us.
– Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West
A Drug Called Tradition has reached the place where the sidewalk ends and walked with a walk that is measured and slow, into a strange new world.
We encourage you to follow us — to 3rd Saturday in Blogtober — or as we like to call it: Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West Meets the Evening Amber in the East.
We’ve already introduced ourselves in that bloody coliseum of spit and hate. So join us where October’s sanguine moon always shines the field on that sacred fall Saturday. Beware: the Alabama folks smell of sweet cigars, and the Tennessee people… well… they just smell of rotted cheese and Jack Daniels.
Thank you readers, commenters, and everyone else. The pleasure’s all on this side of the table, trust us.
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
– Shel Silverstein
DCT is currently bouncing around ideas for what will become of this site. Please comment below with ideas and suggestions or email us at firstname.lastname@example.org. Thank you for everything.