Fugal State

That second posting, early this morning, what happened was I got up to pee and saw I'd left the computer on, went over to shut it down, but I'm so conditioned, when I sit in this chair (which needs retiring, I've worn it out), to write, that I went on automatic pilot, wrote, sent, went back to bed. Forgot I'd even done it until I noticed the sheet on top of the pile when I got up the second time. My hard copies don't print the title, so I write the title in a scrawl at the bottom of the page, knew I had written "Extrados", which should have been on top, but instead, there was "Funny Guy". Mackletree is so beautiful right now, peaking, and the verge mown; had to stop and pick up trash. Turkeys everywhere, must have seen 60 or 80 this week, nearly managed to clip a Jake with the truck. Thinking about feeding B's clan, maybe do a brisket in the smoker with a pork roast on the rack above, talked with my Dad, he thought twelve hours at 200 degrees, maybe do a trial-run and parcel it out to the museum staff. Hound Dog makes the best potato salad I've ever eaten (almost an egg salad with potatoes because he raises chickens) and maybe a cold cherry soup. Like to have Sara and Clay, certainly D and Carma, Bear, Daleena and the kids, the Deputy and Jamie, Jenny, looking at twenty people, probably, Josh could bring Zoe on a stretcher or we could wait until after the twins are born, better idea. Need to cook a slab of ribs for Zoe. She is so very pregnant. I could use some myself, with slaw and baked beans. Have to go in tomorrow, for a concert at the museum, maybe buy some things, cook some ribs on Sunday, boil and rejuvenate the sauce with fresh herb, 7 years old almost to the day, an incredibly complex taste sensation at this point. It's like a wall of taste, every niche filled, explodes in flavors and combinations you'd never imagine, mango and chili and tamarind, red wines and balsamic vinegars, Guinness, onion juice, garlic, lime, rose water, geranium, capers, various drippings, juices you don't want to know about, a sauce for the ages, I hope when I die someone will keep it alive. I'd like to think. Phrasal verbs: fuck off, fuck up, fuck over (my apologies, Herman and Portia, I just fall into triplets, it's like they're issued to me or something, give Bridwell the threes, it's a given). I never know where to put periods, that's why I run on, I'm looking, you know, but I never see. I'm probably a foil, or a red herring, or something, a shadow you could have ignored, the moon, moving around. It works. I feed my computer ice and I can write, yes, I was hoping for a compromise. If there was a tug-o-war, we'd be on the same side of the rope. I rest my case. Your honor.

Tom

There once was a doctor on Nantucket.