Abutments

They've lost a lot of bridges hereabout, and as a consequence there are any number of old abutments visible from newer bridges. I love them, in their apparent solidity. B and D both share the passion, we point them out and squeal like kids, B is practically a docent, a tour guide of the massively concrete. D was over yesterday and we framed the Wrack Shed, a concise minimalist, or maybe post-minimalist structure, post, beamed and raftered with the absolute smallest number of pieces, just need purlings and the metal lid, maybe some bracing. We bolted the frame together and I need to add hurricane clips to hold the rafters down in high wind, always a consideration on the ridge top. Flying a roof on six posts is actually building a kite you don't want to fly. At Janitor College we used to raft the Upper Sabine to get under the bridge where the Interstate went over, talk about a set of abutments, which, of course, became shorthand for breasts, especially after Lila enrolled. Rich, attractive, petite, undergraduate degree from Sarah Lawrence, rebelling against super right-wing upper Westchester parents. What a trip she was. The first female sexual predator most of us had ever known. She regaled us with stories of large Polish sausages, cold Finns she had managed to thaw, a certain hot-spring in Colorado, where you could fuck in the outflow channel, rolling over and over, then throw yourself in the snow. She would occasionally walk into the common room at Clarence Hall and just point at one of the guys, turn around and walk out, he would follow. There was never laughter, at those times, just jealous glances. She was a good janitor too, wanted a job at MOMA, rise up through the ranks, become Artistic Director, thumb her nose at the parents, who flew out several times to try and lure her away, bless her heart, to no avail. She was also a reader, and my senior year, we got quite close (still in touch, she's at the Hermitage now), talked about books and life, and just often enough, we would make love, in exchange for my fixing her dinner, and collapse in a post-coital pile discussing probable questions on some final. Or the upcoming election, or whatever. We could talk. She was comfortable with me, and I don't know what this is, but most people are, comfortable with me. I think I don't threaten them, is what it is, because I'm generally non-threatening, mostly interested in getting food on the table and recording a few impressions. What I choose to remember, unless it's immediate, that Pileated Woodpecker that just flew into my sight, is subject to misremembering, what I think I remember. Still there is a core, a cord, of truth, in whatever I saw. I try to be specific, you know, genuine, authentic. Driving home today, a single crow buried itself in the tall grass, I guess they don't always appear in triplets, but I prefer them in threes. It's an abstract vector, but one I hold close to my heart. Where we simply go beyond. A golf-ball in the rough. A friend that builds funny hats. Listen, the Whippoorwills have already started, what are you going to pay attention to, the frogs and bats and flying squirrels, or the sound the wind makes in the trees? I get a mounded spoon-full of peanut butter and walk around, nothing makes any sense.