I am a communist. Authenticity will grab you. And make you read. My North Carolina is the Blue Ridge. The woods found me. I like to sit on the cabin’s moonshine roof (where I am now) with my phone, and from there I can see more than just the sunset. I can write stories on my phone about the wildlife all around me. The black bears, mountain lions, horses, strays, the herds of deer, the wild pigs, foxes, coons, skunks, turkeys, elk, vultures, and South Carolina is that way. Georgia is that way. Virginia is that way. Tennessee is somewhere. You have the lunatic, the lover, and the poet. You have to be all three to live here. The skunks do not care if I don’t write today. I moved into the cabin and all the little heads started to pop out to see who just moved in. They coyotes are a noisy pack. Crashing places with all kinds of noise and flying apart and crashing into crashing. The coyotes are sublime in that they seem very amused with themselves. They let me know that my presence was irrelevant. I have to go cut more wood. A big mess of snow is due tonight. Life is harder than the floor I sleep on. Some of my friends will not survive. They will freeze and die. I will mourn them. Just like I mourn everything. The wilderness is a place of mourning. I wish I could get my suburban brothers to understand that everything they own, everything, comes from places just like this. Places that do not see Homo sapiens for anything other than what they are. Every great adventure begins here.