Guten tag und velcum to das outhaus.
This may, for a time, feel like a place at the far reach of civilization - like a last known outpost or relief centre. The wind has been known to howl here on this stretch of barren land that surrounds the schmidt shack. And when it comes in slant as it's be known to, it whistles a weird song through the cracks of the barnwood, the open-air window, and the moon cut-out above the door; and sets the door flapping in its gusty coattails.
It's at odds with its natural surroundings, this little haus here on the prairie. This reality brings an eclectic assortment of critters who come sniffing around, looking for signs of life and death. But stop by occasionally and you'll see - it's really quite the in place to sit, sloth, purge, graffiti, and ratiocitate. Not necessarily in that order, of course.
Which is really just a quaint way of noting that if you hang around awhile, you'll begin to notice that schmidt is gonna happen here. You can be sure of it.
Because walls talk. Always have. Beyond the graffiti lives tales as agitated as poltergeists. Even in the quietest moments. And philosophical brilliance is born in such moments and in such places that seem to crop up in the middle of nowhere. Out of nothing.
This is a nice segue into what led me here to this little blight on the blog prairie. I had this other outhaus in the netherlands of the prairie regions but it was starting to get a little large and cluttered. And there were long, slow lines to get in the door and passwords to be whispered and it all got rather tedious.
An outhaus is as sacred a bit of profane space as there ever was. It needs to be a place where you can get in and out quick before anyone gets hurt. And I don't know about you, but my feeling on outhouses is simply this: if you're going to own one, you need to keep it clean. Simple. Organic.
So without further ado, I'll finish nailing the Welcome sign to the door go pick some wheat stalks and bundle some wild flowers for the window shelf vase.