#tim barrus photography

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Tim Barrus

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Dirt Bike Town is a novel of a road trip. The road trip of road trips. The ocean was taking a great chunk out of the landscape worldwide. The skies were filled with a glowing ash. We moved. Everyone moved. It was time to become far, far more aware than we had ever been. We were the Marginals. They were the Normals. The conflicts between us had caused all of this to happen. No one wanted another war. -- Tim Barrus

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Tim Barrus. The Great American Novel

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Tim Barrus Art

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Take notes. I'm not buying it. The election was stolen. Period. I do not sweat the small stuff.  You guys don't understand that the American people did this. No one else will say this, but the American people are a mean lot. I hate America. I goy my kids out. My only priority.  Americans can be desperately poor. Economic theory is fiddledeedee. The indigent are invisible. The definition of privilege. Nothing has ever trickled down. Now, that the rich own 97% of the wealth everyone's talking about, the rich still want more. Why. Because slavery works. Own nothing. Do not give them the opportunity to steal you or your stuff. Implantation geo-location detectors, dogs get them, and slaves will get them, too. People with their tails between their legs will warm to slavery. They will report on you. No one is anyone’s friend.

An imposed environment of terrorism and fear works. In these systems, there is no way out. I have hated my poverty all my life. That 3% of resources is what we are fighting over. That is not a theory. I am not the person who writes about these ideas. My second self wants to walk the walk. Americans are to blame. Elon Musk gives people cash to vote for Trump. I would take his money, too. I could buy groceries. Elon Musk did not come to my small town in Appalachia. Where FEMA never showed. America has failed us again. I can't tell you what we want. Not allowed. We want it anyway. Fort Sumter is a template. We are tired of the Democrats. We are tired of the Republicans. Captain Marvel is not my hero. John Brown is the person I admire. Rich or poor. Rich or poor. We have nothing. I am afraid of Americans because they will be the death of me.

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Take notes. I am really an alien. But what kind of alien am I. There are no aliens. There is no evidence. In fact, there is no evidence of the evidence. There is no there there. It's like religion. Faith. Just make it up. I do. Personally, I think god is an alien. There is no evidence of a god. So we look upward. We would look inside ourselves, but so far, no buyers. We might miss god in a fly by. So I bought a telescope and installed it in my treehouse. God made it rain on me. I had to wait. I went back to the treehouse last night, and there they were. Aliens. When I told them about the history of homo sapiens, the aliens were appalled. It was a scary moment. They were gone in a flash and they said to not to call them ever again. They chew their toenails for food. I am the alien you have been looking for. I can sing all the radio's top forty songs. But I don't know how to turn it on. The aliens were on their way to New Mexico in order to give speeches there. No one knows why. I know why.

They have a few things to say. Just like me. 

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Take notes. What I see is a media that is conveniently ignoring one big thing. The American people did this. They want this. They are this. The talking heads were wrong. Optimism is another lie. Hope is not available. It never has been. The Lower Middle Class gets its name from Let's Give Them The Bone Of Hope. We are the poor. It was not about the color of her suits. It was not about abortion, it was not about electing a rapist, it was not about Afghanistan. It was not a gender war. It was not about American universities or inflation. It was not about the mythic individual or exceptionalism. It was not about crime or convictions. It was not about foreign policy. It was not about drinking bleach. It was not about kids in cages. No one mentions the dynamics of revenge. It was about revenge. If my poor neighbors here in the Appalachian mountains can get it, what is wrong with the white cultural grand poobahs who cannot bring themselves to articulate that they know very little about how the lower class lives. Hurricane Helene wiped us out. It's been roughly a month, but I haven't seen a single person from any kind of authority whatsoever. Guess who got their electric back on first. We had to watch as their rich lights flicked on. We did everything ourselves. We removed the dead trees so an ambulance could get through. We were the ones who found our own water. We were left behind again. The elite can barely look at us. It was about revenge. In 2228, it will be about revenge. -- Tim Barrus

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The Ohio River Valley, teaming with toxicity of every sort. Unsnarls itself in the gravity of the air where the winds carry this mean garbage, the garbage of your cities and your power plants and your rivers of sewage. All the way to the Blue Ridge Mountains where I live. Everything runs into the French Broad River. It flows pink past neighborhoods, factories, sewage plants, and as the increasingly dramatic heat pushes the garbage scow into our beautiful mountains, we become part of the garbage scow. The power plants make electricity for industry. Not your house, but the products that keep your house together. And cars. And Stuff. All that stuff that buys you an identity. We need big fans so we can send the poisons right back to the Ohio River Valley. I want to see industry eat it.

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