Reading

B and I read for two classes at the University. Made a day of it, the cost of gas, $10 trip to town, and do the laundry, go to the library, lunch at the pub (where they are shocked to see me on a Monday, Jim, at first, refuses service, then gets me a free beer); then to the school, read for the first class, they seem to get some of it, a couple of them particularly, which is all you can hope for, back to the pub for another beer, read for the second class, and B is done for the day too, so we retire to their place at Pond Lick for a beer and conversation, walk down to Turkey Creek, squat and watch the water flow, realize I've allowed myself to get very close to him, this other person. We talk about writing but mostly we talk about invasive species and whether or not to mow the grass when the bees are in the clover. Honey bees, lots of them, hundreds, under foot, doing what they do, that magic alchemy of plant juice to honey, I agree: Don't Mow. His other daughter, Katie, may move back here, asking to live in his cabin for a month while they find a place. Her significant other, Philip, is the finest natural stage talent I've ever found. Makes me think about doing a Pinter, "The Caretaker", which might be worth the effort with B and Philip if I could find a third crow, maybe an albino, to throw in there. I could use it for my own purposes, something to write about. Small changes, I notice I sometimes, now, start writing as soon as I get home (earlier, if it's a day I stay home) stop at some point and eat, then continue writing. Point being that writing is the most important thing I do, around which everything else is constellated; sure, there is 'extra' time, when I could be doing something else, but I can't predict it and make plans. It sounds stupid, but I can only go with the flow. Which would make a relationship difficult (-sorry, gotta go-) but is what makes me whatever regional thing I am, the second best potter, the third best wood-worker, the fourth best painter, though I am none of those. Six spoons in the mail from Kim today and I am hard-pressed what to say, he says for me to take two and pass the others along, one to B, one to D, the two others as I see fit. Fuck me. I want them all, though I choose the walnut twist (such character) and the cherry full-spiral, beautiful spoons, realize I don't have a spoon for Zoe and how pissed she'll be, decide to give her one of my spoons, she's carrying twins for god's sake, reasonably sure Kim will make me a close replica of whatever I had to give away. Close enough. The water is never the same, Heraclitus was correct, carrying a burden downstream. I collect samples, let them settle, I'm always surprised, never publish my results, they wouldn't be believed, what actually happens. Leaning on my mop, explaining art.