There is a man I know. Lived in Idaho. Lived in despair. He had a shack. Made it up, and put all his things in it. His ganga pipe. His collection of
garbage. Things found in the woods. Things that could be used to make beautiful art-for he had that talent- if he gave a goddamn about that. He was not interested. He lived alone for a reason.

A name was given to him at birth. It had a special meaning for him. He didn't know why. We first met in the city. I only mention this man and his small
existence for one reason. A private reason. He said something to me once. In the city, when he was lonely, stepping the streets, he said, in a terrible voice, "Who gives a fuck?" A sincere question. Then he passed on. That was years ago.

Now, he is building something. It grows and grows. It's an anthill one day. A synthetic breast the next. He's done it all. The ship in the bottle. And a
functional birdhouse. So his life goes. Once he was an artisan- in the city. He made it rich and he slept in the park. He read the paper sometimes and finally gave up. He moved back to Idaho.

I met him the second time hiking the Sawtooths. Meeting, we were not at all surprised. Shook hands and all that. He showed me his birdhouse. Visited him a
few days. He didn't say much. Didn't smile or show any emotions. I asked him what he thought and he asked me what I meant. When done with the visit, I left.

Getting back home, to my family, I told my wife about him. After the story had been told she looked me in the eye and asked, "What's the birdhouse like?"

fin

recommended reading by Yann: Idaho Loners..or Idaho's Loners