DINDOOR

The Temple of Dindoor - an architects layer. Spawn of a hipsters wand; castle amongst Green Mountain barns; a transcendental monument to a distant cave.

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The Temple of Dindoor was forever illuminated by the souls who watched over it. Worked on throughout the years by a rotating community of students who harnessed its shelter in the winter and replenished its spirit come summer. Mostly comprised of Dr. Sellers understudy’s, occupants from all creeds of northeastern heritage caressed the structure and added value where they saw fit – usually in the most visual ways. Students of physical design need something to play with. There it stood, a happy ton of wood. An ivy-league yankee liberal, David Sellers could have called it whatever he damn pleased. However, it had a name before it was built. A past event, from his younger years, when topographic maps lead him astray. There was no question what he would name his barn.

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Located just a stones throw from the overgrown railroad tracks on the edge of Warren, Sellers would find the holiest of hidden caverns. A tiny nameless river twisted beneath a crack in the side of a hill. Sellers ventured deep into the underground of the earth. He soon waded knee deep in the lifeblood of a hidden society. Three miles sideways, he traversed through the reminiscence of once hot mineral goo. Dormancy - a dark infinity. Caves are the places we aren’t supposed to see. He had found a hollowed amphitheater deep in the earth, after the river had toiled him at every turn, he had found it.

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Young Sellers stood in a wading pool and shined his beam of light up into the ceiling as if searching for hieroglyphics. Unlike the other elevated vaults along his journey, this room with its sheer size and volume, was baffling. There was no exit, only an entrance. Sellers had reached the end of the river and its summit was most impressive.

He would spend the better half of a week inside the dome. A dungeon of darkness, and oxygen, he sat on a ledge without moving, eyes open, the crushing vacuum of nothing; the same sight we all have before we exist. He would move and repeat without using his light. Concentrating, only to unwind and become lost in the opaque - he did not know where he was and did not speak. Power came over him; he was no longer confined by walls but engulfed in a never ending axiom. His mind had no color. He embraced the forgotten and discarded vibrations that seismically withered down from the living above. The rushing water of the aquifer moved in a circular motion all around him. The orchestral flow of dripping liquid deafened him, but he was the conductor. He became the ruler of the cave. This was his temple.

David Sellers Journal: March, 1968

If you wonder down pass,
the correct crevasse.
The traveler will find,
blind creatures inside.
The cave will sing!
A magical ring,
when you stir her sea,
with the light that you bring.

And when you retrace,

from the cooled wombs core,

you will forever carry with you,

the power of Dindoor.

Tyler Kobich sat on a stump outside the Temple. He enjoyed a break from the sun and a cheese & cracker combination tiboot. His flannel shirt pocket unbottoned, it held a half-tucked-in sweaty bandanna. He had been chopping wood. It was still very cool for early summer.

There are three things a Vermonter can do during stick season: one, go for a walk; two, chop wood; and three, count your sticks.

he sat on a ledge without moving, eyes open, the crushing vacuum of nothing; the same sight we all have before we exist