Tim Barrus Blog

Posts tagged with Appalachia

  1. The Ghosts of Appalachia

    Herbert and Helsinki are old. They live on an island in Appalachia. In other words, they’re my neighbors. They have a boat. It is a little boat. They grow corn, make whiskey, and ride shotgun on their dirt bike. My bike is bigger than their bike. Your bike is your


  2. Tim Barrus, AppalachiaTown

    Dogs in the back. They have my scent. Blow corndust at the dogs from your outstretched hand. Wiisssshhhhhhh.


  3. Tim Barrus Photography

    GoPro


  4. THE BIKE TREMBLES BETWEEN MY LEGS

         New York Times      I am a Marxist for a reason. It has a center. It is just. It doesn’t care what you think because it’s not about Karl Marx. It is one thing to explain capitalism, religion, racism and poverty. It is another thing to explore moral vacuums, and corrupt


  5. From Rusted Bridges Into the River

    THE NEW YORK TIMES IS COVERING HOW THE CONSERVATIVES ARE BLAMING ANTIFA FOR WEARING DISGUISES – WHAT ARE THE CONSERVATIVES, TEN. TIM BARRUS IN THE NEW YORK TIMES. Appalachia has many rusted railroad briges built around 1900. They are still in use. American infrastructure is broken and fragile. We are


  6. Tim Barrus, New York Times

    The Plot To Help America’s Children Responding To Readers: New York Times @Tom Yes. I took one thing and made it seem like another thing because it is. Capitalism is a religion. Not of sorts, but of ideology. I have been dirt poor my entire life. I find it almost


  7. Tim Barrus, New York Times

    “I don’t see how I can make it work.” Right. It’s humiliating. Degrading. We are a region, not a state. How do you address poverty in West Virginia, and forget the states it borders. Haves and have nots all over again. Survival is ephemeral. Nothing works. I borrow the school


  8. Tim Barrus, The New York Times

    I live in Appalachia. Our people have dogs. Because they help keep us safe. Because we are afraid. For many of us, dogs are all we have. It’s difficult for people who live in parts of the country where things at least sometimes work. Can you imagine a place where


  9. Tim Barrus, New York Times

    I am with Antifa. Haters rage at us. They’re going to kill mom and dad. Already dead for decades. The Feds stalk Antifa. Haters poison my pets. Publish maps to my house. They pinpoint my controversial sites including Facebook, and Twitter (thank you). They cannot spell. They burn my books,


  10. No Boundaries

    Some people and their shit and their stuff and their kids and their plastic kiddie pool and their old trucks ain’t going nowhere but is being eaten by the rust brambles, are fucking everywhere because they have no boundaries whatsoever. 


  11. Appalachia That Pretends It Is Not Appalachia

    West Asheville is still Appalachia, and always will be.


  12. there is no hope in appalachia/

    the next malicious fuck who tells me that it’s my job to be hopeful so i can pass that down to the kids i work with/ what does down mean/ like i am some hierarchal figure imbued with a protective paternalism/ that is disingenuous bullshit/ i know entire families who


  13. His Face Is Naked

    Tim Barrus: New York Times I live in Appalachia. If Trump doesn’t wear a mask, my neighbors do not have to wear a mask. “No One Can Make Us.” There is no disease expert to advise us on ignorance. There is no disease expert to advice us on fear. There


  14. Appalachia Town

    https://gopro.com/en/us/ GoPro Hero6


  15. Appalachia Town

    The county fairs in Appalachia are important events. Mainly because they are often the only time during the year that everyone is having fun (and food). So much fun, in fact, it’s spontaneous, and people are apt to put old grudges, feuds, disagreements, arguments, and politics away. For a time.


  16. Appalachia Town


  17. Appalachia Town


  18. For Tristan

    Et exactement, où es-tu ce soir? Si vous pouviez voir les Appalaches, vous ririez de votre cul magique.


  19. Traveling to Golgotha

    Just traveling. As I write this, if you haven’t written on an iPhone, you haven’t lived, we’re barreling through West Virginia. West Virginia kinda creeps me out. The New York Times has published a piece on adolescent male relationships. Set against the context of what they call: the sleepover. You…


  20. The Drive to the HIV Clinic Far, Far Away

    He usually falls asleep on the way there. I encourage this so I don’t have to listen to all the fear and paranoia. I have my own paranoia. “We’re here.” “I don’t want to go in there. Look, there are cops at the door.” There were cops at the door…


  21. Hunger in Appalachia: Tim Barrus: New York Times

    Inspirational films tell us to climb every mountain. Try climbing legislative mountains that would bring food to Appalachia. I live in Appalachia. The US Bureau of Labor Statistics recognizes this part of the country, and southern Ohio as — Appalachia — and lists it as distressed. Terminology code for the…


  22. Gay in the KKK

    March thinks no one knows. We all know. We’ve always known. We’re all kinda over March and his Big Secret. When March wants to go get fucked, he heads off to Atlanta in his pickup. March thinks no one in Atlanta knows. They all know. They’re kinda over March as…


  23. There Are Things Under Rocks, And Our Backs Are Broken

    We now live in a small town in the Blue Ridge mountains. As with most of Appalachia, people live in hollows. A hollow is like a hidden furrow on the planet. It would be possible to live in a hollow and never come out. It’s that isolated. There are things…


  24. Tim Barrus in the New York Times

    AIDS in Appalachia I live in the Blue Ridge in Appalachia where health care is a nightmare. Public Health has waiting lists which means you cannot get an appointment for seven to eight months. Public Health throws you around like you are just a carcass of meat. They sexually exploit


  25. The Family Ate the Family Dog

    the family ate the family dog appalachia is unconditional surrender replacement parts and arguments poverty and the truck shop passing through the bedroom window swallowed by the cardboard that has replaced what glass is left school bus in the morning frost of growling smoke pickled meats and vomit, dark corridors,