Epistemological Rules

Avoid inbreeding depression, don't fall down the stairs, eat when you're hungry, oh, and don't sleep with bats. Scared the bejesus out me, this morning, just at dawn, awoken by wing-beats and quiet bleeps, open my eyes to see the world's largest moth, which is actually a bat, that settles on my forehead. All I can think is RABID, knock it off with the back of my hand and roll out of bed, go downstairs to check for blood, none thank god; pretty sure I killed it, back upstairs, yes, dead, I'll study it later, back down and make some coffee. You can never go right back to sleep after a bat attack, too much adrenaline, so I pull out Vol 3 of the 11th Britannica, AUS to BIS, and read about bats. I'm not a chriopteraphobic or anything, but what a way to start the day. In a sense everything is downhill from there. Remember that great bat killing scheme Suttree's friend (?) has in the McCarthy novel, which leads to thoughts about introducing Pollard ("Knockemstiff", a very funny, dark, book) at the museum this week for a talk. Which led to thoughts about the inequity of opportunity and areas of the country where fucking your sister was considered a divine right. I see where the day is going and try to sidetrack it or at least ameliorate the impact by dissecting the bat. He's eaten a lot of bugs. I wear rubber gloves because I know he is a vector, but I must say, the sight of his little heart and liver make me consider a very strange omelet. I don't, but I think about it, maybe some mushrooms, a touch of parmesan. Chriopterphobic makes me want to say Yoknapatawpha. Pollard draws from Faulkner, a Spiritual Father. An easy grasp of a place you know well, a sense of the patois. All politics is local. In Cod We Trust (the best tee-shirt I ever saw, Cape Cod, night-fishing off the beach, cod-fish cakes forever) or a warm body spooning in next to you, whatever establishes a framework. Then I thought about Prolate Sheroids, footballs and related objects, rugby, wrack. Sandblasting is the perfect medium, you blow everything away, left with just the core. The armature is instructive, it indicates what follows. Give me the knots and burls and I will make a country, root beer in all the soda fountains and a chicken in every pot. After all I am a fucking Romantic.