It's definitely true. Growing up and living your entire existence in the urban jungle can really put you out of touch with nature. Being stalked by a primeval life form on the other hand quickly can foment an all-too-personal ecological encounter of intense weirdness.
At the time of my own, particular adventure in a newly purchased gorgeous 3BR-2B-EIK-2.5 wooded acres, I was crouched in an extremely uncomfortable orange plastic "chaise lounge" on the deteriorating and splintery deck of a white elephant of a house desolately plunked down at the far edge of town. It was the kind of place where raw, unstoppable nature gently tickled a neat, slightly hesitant backyard, though unfortunately the twain never did succeed in quite meeting. The house's faded olive green siding would have made a wonderful backdrop for a bad seventies movie about downward mobility, the ravaged front yard deeply suggestive of an abandoned trailer park. The whole ambience as a matter of fact constituted a cross between the more blood-curdling aspects of suburbia and a scene from Deliverance. How had we landed in this galaxy??? After a soul-crushing, two-year search to find the perfect Escape-from- New York, my husband Sherwin and I had at last been admitted to the Twilight Zone of second home ownership. In our craving for semi-rural nirvana (not-too far-from-town), we had totally fucked up. . . .
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