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E-book The Unnaming of Aliass
Nameless, Tennessee is a small unincorporated patch-work of farmlands and home plots that sits atop a Cum-berland hill, east of Nashville, west of Knoxville, and not far from a manmade lake called Cordell Hull, managed by the us Army Corps of Engineers. Nameless is barely a dot on the map – grid coordinates G12 in the Tennessee Gazetteer, to be exact. On that day we passed through it in the summer of 2002, Nameless came across as a fairly or-dinary Middle Tennessee settlement, typical of the rural, early twenty-first-century us mid-South: a rolling land-scape of mostly single-family homes with shades drawn against the heat of day, mostly on paved driveways and an acre or two of mown lawn, and spaced amid crop fields, thickets of prickers and creeper vines, and patches of hardwood forest. A rural American palimpsest much like any other, perhaps, stitched together by shady backroads that turned from asphalt to gravel and back again, flick-ering with shadows of global petrochemical and other extractive industries and a vague postindustrial malaise.Ordinary though it may have seemed, I must say this about Nameless, Tennessee: that day in late June 2002 - spent meandering slowly along shady hills and rolling byways of Jackson County amid constant birdsong, leafy brilliance, lawnmower hums, far-off thunder rumbles, and the occasional bray of an unseen mule – was one of the most extraordinary outings I’ve ever experienced. What made this particular passage through Nameless so special that bright-dark summer day was not just the pro-vocative allure of the town’s unlikely name, nor the frag-ile beauties of its glistening understories, thick as they were with ghostly histories and lively unreckoned mesh-es. Rather, the most extraordinary thing about Nameless, Tennessee on that particular day was this: I found my-self passing through it with a certain wise, luminous, and quietly otherworldly American Spotted Ass.
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