Margaret Mitchell – Loopcircus

They say Mississippi is a great place to commune with ghosts, that Mississippians love a good story. And so, in honor of the great state of Mississippi, here’s a real doozy of a ghost story. Mostly inspired by a dream from our first restless night in here. For some reason, Ronnie awoke around 4:00am, probably from a limb scraping against the side of the van nudged by a gentle breeze (or something like that). Anyway, fragments of the dream are drastically embellished below… Enjoy!

The setting is a ghostly confab at a fabled haunted house, the McRaven House, in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Attendees:
Sam Clemens
William Faulkner
Edger Poe
Margaret Mitchell
Ambrose Bierce
Kate Stone

The McRaven House, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised, twilight sky, pulsed with an unearthly chill. Inside, or rather, through the decaying grandeur of the parlor, a spectral congress convened. Skulking around the fringes of this gathering is the ghost of little Maggie, playing trickster pranks on the adults, generally bringing a sense of dark levity to the air.

We open with a tight shot on Mr. Clemons, a wisp of white mustache and sardonic grin, his cigarillo fuming. He’s leaning against the hearth, its phantom flames licking at the soot-stained bricks. “Well, gentlemen, gentleladies, and… whatever that is,” he gestured vaguely at a giggling, translucent figure flitting near the chandelier, “let’s get down to cases. How are our successors faring? Are any of them capable of spinning a yarn worth a damn?”

Mr. Faulkner, a cloud of tobacco-scented gloom, swirled into view. “Faring? They wallow, Sam. They wallow in the shallow pools of… of instant gratification. They cannot understand the… the weight of history, the… the tangled roots of the South. They write… tweets, truths, threads, blue butterflies. Shit postings! Hardly enough for Walt to call a ‘barbaric yawp,’ and this is supposed to encapsulate the human condition? Absurd.”

Edgar Poe, his eyes dark, hollow pits, floated near a dusty window. “They seek brevity, a fleeting spark of… of sensation. They have lost the exquisite agony of prolonged despair. They write of… of vampires with sparkling skin. My own horrors, once so profound, are now… romantic comedies.” He shuddered, a sound like a rustling death shroud.

Ms. Mitchell, her spectral Scarlett O’Hara flouncing slightly, adjusted a phantom shawl. “Darling, it’s simply dreadful. They’ve taken my beloved South, my tragic heroes, and… and they’ve made them into… into soap operas! They’ve diluted the very essence of suffering into… into sickly sweet drivel.”

Ambrose Bierce, his face a mask of cynical amusement, materialized near a broken mirror. “Irony, my dear Ms. Mitchell, is the universe’s most exquisite mistress. And it seems they have long since hung her in a cheap motel room. With the veritable parade of ironies cavalierly overlooked by average folks these days, one must imagine the poor girl spinning in her grave like a top. These mere mortals believe they have conquered death, disease, and ignorance. Hell, some of them actually believe their clever technologists have them on the verge of immortality! Absurd doesn’t even come close to describing their delusion.”

Ms. Stone, her translucent form radiating a quiet, melancholic strength, drifted near the window. “They have forgotten the true cost of war, the devastation it leaves in its wake. They romanticize conflict, turn it into… entertainment. They have no concept of the hunger, the loss, the sheer… futility. And now, they’re bringing those silly biblical prophecies into the picture… again. They can’t wait to launch a third global conflagration.”

A sudden, chilling giggle echoed through the room. Little Maggie, the spectral trickster, had replaced Faulkner’s pipe tobacco with a wisp of Spanish moss. He sputtered, the moss dissolving into thin air. “They also believe,” Maggie piped up, her voice a ghostly whisper, “that they can photograph ghosts with their… their ‘smartphones’. They take pictures of… of dust and claim it’s us.” She cackled, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard.

Clemmons chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Indeed, child. They attempt to capture the intangible, the unseen, with their… their digital trinkets. They have become slaves to the very technology they believe liberates them. They spend their days staring at glowing rectangles, believing they are experiencing… life.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “They believe the darkness can be banished with… with light. They illuminate every corner, every crevice, yet they remain blind to the true shadows that lurk within their own souls.”

Mitchell sighed dramatically. “And the fashion! Oh, the atrocities they call fashion! They wear… leggings as trousers leaving nearly nothing to the imagination! It’s simply… barbaric.”

Bierce, ever the cynic, added, “They have created a world of… of curated perfection. Every image, every interaction, filtered and polished to remove any trace of… of authenticity. They live in a world of lies, and they call it… social media.”

Maggie, now floating upside down near the ceiling, began to hum a discordant tune. “They think they can solve the world’s problems with… with the pound sign, they call it a ‘hashtag.’ They use it to pass around short photoplays like chain letters spreading like the plague, and say these picture shows can change the course of history.”

Faulkner, still slightly flustered by the moss incident, muttered, “They cannot grasp the… the cyclical nature of time. They repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, oblivious to the… the echoes of the past.”

Clemons, leaning against a bookshelf, concluded, “In short, they are a collection of self-absorbed, technologically addicted, historically ignorant… fools. And they think we are the phantoms.”

A chorus of ghostly laughter filled the McRaven House, echoing through the empty rooms, a testament to the enduring irony of the mortal plane. Little Maggie, her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight, began to pull the spectral drapes from the windows, plunging the room into an even deeper, more unsettling darkness.

Onward through the fog… RH

In the town of Vicksburg…
In the house McRaven…
You may encounter…
Some ghostly maven…
And like the flow of…
The Mighty Mississip…
Everything that changes…
Stays the same.

We’re holed up in a backwoods Georgia ranch, a relic of the Old South, guests of generous kin. Ronnie Hays is nursing a hangover from a Thanksgiving feast that would make a Kentucky Colonel blush. The pièce de résistance? Peanut butter pie!? Yeah, you heard right. A peanut butter pie. Only in the Peach State, where they grow enough peanuts to choke an elephant.

Rocinante, our trusty mount, was overdue for a shoe’n. New rubber, wheel covers, the whole nine yards. And while she rested, Ronnie busied himself working his chops and scribbling lyrics, trying to channel some cosmic inspiration. But the real question was whether the music gods would smile on us and grant a spot at South by Southwest. Only time, and a lot of caffeine, would tell. And if not, oh well, we were able to get a tour the Allman Brothers’ Big House museum. Now… we could go on and on about the rich and enduring musical legacy born in the great state of Georgia and it’s quite a list. But, for Ronnie’s money, the big bang was right here in this Macon Georgia Big House and the Allman Brothers Band.

Meanwhile, the Deep South has been a mixed bag weather-wise. We’ve had more cold snaps than a polar bear’s dream. Ronnie’s been wrapped tight in his mummy bag, snug as a bug in a rug. The propane heater, our only salvation, has been a fickle mistress. We’ve had a few close calls with insomnia and claustrophobia. But hey, that’s the price you pay for van life, right?

So, here we sit, waiting for the next chapter to unfold. Whether it’s a sunny beach in Florida or a frozen swamp in Louisiana, we’re ready to ride. Or at least, we’ll be ready once we figure out how to keep this damn propane tank full.

Anyway, Georgia, a state of contradictions, a tapestry woven with threads of beauty and blight. A place where the sweet tea flows as freely as the sweat during a humid summer day. A land of gentle giants and fiery tempers, where the past echoes in the present, and the future remains uncertain.

Unfortunately, Georgia’s wonders don’t include naturally occurring, publicly accessible hot springs. It’s a cruel twist of fate, a geological oversight. But fear not, for relief can be found just a short drive away in the neighboring states of North Carolina and Tennessee, where bubbling hot springs beckon weary travelers.

While Georgia may lack geothermal wonders, it more than makes up for it in intellectual capital. The state boasts a diverse range of colleges and universities, each a beacon of knowledge and aspiration. From the serene campuses of Agnes Scott College and Berry College to the bustling urban centers of Emory University and Georgia College & State University, Georgia offers a wealth of educational opportunities.

And let’s not forget the literary giants who have graced Georgia’s soil. Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home in Savannah, a relic of the past, whispers tales of the South’s gothic heart. Margaret Mitchell’s birthplace in Atlanta, a city of dreams and disillusionment, echoes with the romantic saga of Scarlett O’Hara. The poet Sidney Lanier’s home in Macon, a quiet sanctuary of the soul, still resounds with the rhythms of his verse. And Savannah, a city steeped in history and haunted by the ghosts of the past, offers a literary pilgrimage for those seeking inspiration.

THE GOOD: Georgia, a land of natural beauty, where the coastal marshes reflect the sky and the Appalachian Mountains commune with the clouds. A place where the gentle rolling hills of the Piedmont Plateau cradle the soul. And the people! Warm and welcoming, they’ll make you feel right at home, even if you’re a stranger in a strange land.

The cost of living, a gentle breeze compared to the hurricane of other states. Affordable housing, reasonable taxes, and a laid-back lifestyle. It’s a place where dreams can take root and grow. And the job market, a bustling metropolis of opportunity, offering a diverse range of careers in technology, healthcare, and logistics.

The food, a symphony of flavors, a culinary masterpiece. From the classic Southern comfort food to the innovative fusion dishes, Georgia’s dining scene is a feast for the senses. And the natural wonders, a breathtaking spectacle. Amicalola Falls, a cascade of crystal-clear water, plunges into the depths, a testament to nature’s raw power.

THE BAD: But like all earthly paradises, Georgia has its flaws. Atlanta, a city of ambition and aspiration, is also a city of traffic congestion. A daily gridlock that can test the patience of even the most saintly commuter. And the summer heat, a relentless force that can turn even the most temperate individual into a sweaty, irritable mess.

THE UGLY: There’s a political divide that cleaves the state in two. A battleground of ideologies, a clash of cultures, a constant source of tension and turmoil.

Yet, despite its challenges, Georgia has produced some of the greatest minds and talents the world has ever known. Martin Luther King Jr., a beacon of hope in a world of darkness. Jimmy Carter, a man of peace and integrity. Hank Aaron, a baseball legend who broke barriers and shattered records. Maya Angelou, a poet and civil rights activist whose words continue to inspire. And Tyler Perry, a filmmaker and entrepreneur who has shattered stereotypes and defied expectations.

So, there you have it, Georgia: a state of contrasts, a land of beauty and frustration, a place where the past, present, and future collide in a chaotic, beautiful, and often baffling mix.

Onward through the fog… RH

In the Peach State…
You find a full slate…
You see at winter’s gate…
You’ll need a warm plate…
Screw up your Zen State…
For Atlanta freeways…
And don’t forget…
The peanut butter pie.