Cincy Trip

Down early, to load art and transport, and there are books in the mailbox. Stop at the lake and tear them open, two volumes of Basho, nearly complete poetry, and prose. I must do yard work, I must do yard work. Town. Get a rental van, take out the back seats, load Tony L.'s electronic installation pieces, both starved so we get breakfast sandwiches and large coffees, hit the road, 20 miles or so and I ask D to pull over at the Sandy Springs picnic table and out-house rest stop. Place has gone to hell, cut-back on maintenance, had to pee in the bushes as the out house was disgusting, needed a coke bottle, to use as ashtray and there are about 300 to choose from, the dumpster is overflowing big time and surrounded by dead tires. Whoever cleans is seriously janitorially challenged. We talk about the Wrack Show, we talk about the shed, we talk about Basho. One minor mistake getting the Tony's, no big deal, unload, have a smoke and chat for five minutes, then off, seaching for a Harbor Freight store, which isn't where Map Quest said it was, in fact Beechmont becomes Rt.125 and we are on our way home, cut back over the Rt. 52 at Ripley, driving, for just a few miles, on roads neither of us have ever traveled. Wanted to pick up a sand-blaster but we can order and ship because we got the information we needed from Tony. Very soon I'll be sand-blasting river stumps, a dream of mine for 10 years. Sand-blasting wood is fantastic, they way you can blow off sapwood and get to the heart, reveal the character of the grain, I need to get more stumps. We blow off lunch, get back to the museum, reseat the van, leave a little early. I'd bought groceries this morning, including a bag of beet and sweet potato chips, nothing added, picked up a footer at the Dari-Bar and stopped at the lake to eat and watch the ducks. That way, I thought, I could transition from the world to the ridge without too much of a jump, and get right to writing. Last couple of bites, of course, a small pick-up truck with six large guys pulls up, four in the back, two in the cab, already slinging beer cans, I leave, the mood destroyed. Still, when I enter the forest, just beyond Booby's sawmill, there is a certain peace. I stop for a confused Turkey Vulture, the canopy is nearing complete, escape is not obvious, this is the fourth vulture today, the opossums have been stupid again. Coming up the driveway, 1st gear, four-wheel high, radio off, listening to the suspension squeak, the accumulated dust. This is the way the world ends, dirty corners, I would have gotten to it, you know, if that earthquake hadn't struck, but I live on a fault, part of the equation, where you choose to live, what you choose to gamble, it's a serious and convoluted gambit, the Janitor allows insight:

The iris,
lovely, takes my
breath away.