Expansive Prospect

Perfect rainy day off and two new books of Basho. Mid-afternoon the impossibly cute female Ranger comes by, drops off some indentification booklets on local flora and fauna, plus cd's of local bird song. She identifies the tree B and I were perplexed about, a Slippery Elm, says the cambium makes a nutritious stew, like oatmeal, also the lozenges, which I knew about from my opera days, as all the singers swore by them for sore throats, says not to use the leaves as toilet paper, give you a rash. Noted. I rarely use leaves anymore. Wonderful, rich, fecund smell of spring, a musk of rotting forest litter. Find maybe the last few morels, sliced, browned in butter, a bit of cream added off the heat, on toast. I don't have an adjective for how good they are. I would only share these with someone I loved. Spring, of course. Wondered why I kept thinking about cooking a meal for and talking with a woman. Talking with The Impossibly Cute Female Ranger I was a little flustered and I talk well usually, with anyone: Opera Stars, Nobel Laureates, other janitors, hog farmers, oystermen, rock stars, orthopedic surgeons, college professors (a particular specialty, as many of my friends are), babies, and the elderly. I seem gregarious, witty, can talk on any subject, even if I know nothing about it. At Janitor College there was actually a course, mandated by The State Division of Industrial Compliance, which implied a National Association (which might not be a bad job, working for, like I know there is a Fenestration Council out there somewhere, because there is a sticker on new windows, graded by them, and I'd like to have that job, too), I can't remember the title exactly and don't feel like rummaging through boxes, but it was a class devoted to the art of asking questions that sounded stupid, but, really, cut to the heart of the matter. Appear dumb. A mop is a good prop here. Rosco was a master at looking stupid, and would say the damnest things. Politically incorrect, immodest, ugly, and they were somehow germane, more than that, they were precise, to whatever was at hand. Two Basho poems I have to share with you, no commentary.

a wayfaring crow:
its old nest has become
a plum tree

and

slowly spring
is taking shape:
moon and plum

Thrills me just copying them. I've known a lot of poets, spend most of my time with them, when I'm not alone, exerting a kind of control, only in my own house, where I smoke and curse freely, over the direction of conversation, amazed, really, that anyone would put up with me, a laborious dead-end. He ended up a janitor? Go figure.

Om, no, Tom.