The Walk

It started here with the walk. Summer of 1989, and a newfound freedom being that close to the center of a city. I’d wander far and wide. Learning the city, it’s people, it’s pulse. The little neighborhoods and how they connect. The veins and guts of the place becoming second nature. When i felt disjointed or out of sorts i’d walk. Get my center back.

Lexington has always had a battle between innovation and the status quo. Not so much an obvious one, but one of perturbed tolerance on the part of the local government and churches. The horse money. The university that has organized crime levels of influence on this town. The artists and weird kids pushed off to their little clubs or streets. The African-American community left to it’s own devices, as long as the horrors stay on their streets and not spill out where the good citizens can see it. A gay community that’s felt two waves of AIDS sweep through it and nary a peep from the people here about it. The influx of Central and South American immigrants causing a strain on neighborhoods that had plenty of problems before a cultural and language barrier moved in next door. Heroin has flooded this place, as if out of nowhere. Residents can tell you that most of the crime goes unreported. You’d never know it on your way to the mall or work though. Manicured lawns and lives around these parts.

Now that i’ve had to come back i’ve noticed the pulse is different. Not just the architecture or the people, but the tempo and cadence of Lexington itself. The energy is different in ways i haven’t been able to fully fathom yet. It doesn’t feel like something took over, so much as settled into itself. At first i assumed it was me, but i wonder. It’s a horse town. The old money and powers of this area know what to do with a wild thing. You fence it in. You break it. You separate it or put it down if you can’t break it’s will. Treats for the obedient. Fences for everything.

I’ve never cared for being fenced in.

Concern, not peace, is what i get after these walks. I came back to here to fight for something, but i see so much more worth fighting for. There’s questions i now need answers to. About this city and myself. The boy that was here is not the man that has returned. Time to excavate my past while i’m looking at this new thing i find myself in. Treat my old life as a corpse, and this city as a murder scene. I need to take a good look at this place. Watch that obedient nag trot where a mustang used to buck. Someone broke it. Maybe i’ve been broken in more than i’m willing to admit too. I’m curious who or what did that to us. Curious if it can be undone.

I’m going for a long walk.


Nothing ever begins.

There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and to the tales that preceded that: though as the narrator’s voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.

Thus the pagan will be sanctified, the tragic become laughable; great lovers will stoop to sentiment, and demons dwindle to clockwork toys.

Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden amongst them is a filigree which will with time become a world.

It must be arbitrary then, the place at which we chose to embark.

Somewhere between a past half forgotten and a future as yet only glimpsed.

– WEAVEWORLD, by Clive Barker


There was a time when men were afraid that somebody would reveal some secret of theirs that was unknown to their fellows. Nowadays, they’re afraid that somebody will name what everybody knows. Have you practical people ever thought that that’s all it would take to blast your whole, big, complex structure, with all your laws and guns — just somebody naming the exact nature of what it is you’re doing?