An English In Kentucky


















Sunday July 24th 2012    Tim Candler

    If I were to attempt a definition of "Meaning," the odds are that those who wish to be entertained by their stroll would yawn rather loudly, look away, and rely upon Kant to interpret the horizon and our relationship with objects.  The Water Tower, which this time of year is occluded by a cloud of leaves, was raised in two thousand and three, after a decade of quarrelling, and with funds from members of the community who could not find loopholes.  It's always an eye-saw to those few who thought a well in their own back yard might also receive, if not subsidies, then some sort of acknowledgement on a tax return.

    Unlike my near neighbor, I have been close enough to the Water Tower to sneer at its rivets and to take delight in criticizing the little bit of rusting through its paintwork.  And unlike my near neighbor I have no opinion on whether plastic wrap by Saran is linked to unregulated cell growth.  My near neighbor doesn't like to leave the county, except every now and then when he is dragged by his family, down to the gulf, to look at the sea, paddle in its waves, dine on one or other of its many inhabitants that's been cooked in butter.  Nor was it my idea to visit the Water Tower, because just like my near neighbor, I too would rather not stray beyond the county line.

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