Layers Deep

Thought I had lost another page but found it, on line, thank you god, or Glenn, or someone. I was, like, eight layers deep into researching myself, a drummer in Texas, the wind in Wyoming, I'd been drinking and was confused. There were all of these other Tom Bridwells out there and I was trying to figure out where I fit in, found myself, parenthetically, as (janitor) which made me smile. Of course, I remember. Everyone needs a designation. I pretty much don't believe in anything, but coming home last night, three fucking crows on Mackletree. I'm hesitant even to mention, but there they were, in ambush, waiting for me. Dining on roadkill squirrel. I drive this section of road slowly, but they were still lazy, getting out of my way. I don't think they mean anything, specifically, just birds, you know, opportunistic, dinner, still, cause for reflection, consideration. With their grease smeared feathers, they'll probably last longer than me. Cockroaches. Ants, tadpoles, termites. Decided to cook the ribs today before it got hot, start a fire in the grill, rub the baby-backs with a mixture of six different chili powders, garlic salt, onion powder, and a wild dried mushroom thing, sear them, then into foil (3 layers) with butter, lime juice, and a mango chili sauce, cook them off the heat for two hours, turning them every fifteen minutes. While they're cooking I clean up, shave, wash my hair, strip the linens, a little house cleaning, clean out the fridge. The sauce needs boiling, with various additions, several marinades I've saved, some wine and beer, a can of Harisa. At seven years old the sauce needs little attention but occasionally I have to 'brighten' it, thus the Harisa. When the ribs are done I carefully open the foil boat, make a spout at one end and very carefully pour the drippings into the sauce. I like the added grease but it also serves as a seal in the one quart and two pint jars, when I next use the sauce I'll throw away the hardened plug. Confit sauce. The ribs are so good I practically weep. Little new potatoes, from D and Carma's garden, nuked with butter and pepper, hunk of bread. I had set up the current book, Boorstin's "The Discoverers" at my island reading station but don't read a word. I used to glaze ribs with the sauce and caramelize after the slow-cooking in foil, now I serve the sauce on the side, as a dipping sauce, much better. Mid-afternoon I take a slab to Zoe, with a container of sauce. Josh meets me at the door, says she's asleep, but she hears my voice and asks, yells really, from the bedroom, -what's up?- I walk to the bedroom door and she's prone, on her side, wrapped around a pillow that is considerably smaller than her pregnant belly. -Ribs- I say, and she is up in almost a flash, that double bounce on the mattress pregnant women use to achieve a vertical posture, rushing at me like a linebacker. I have the container of sauce in one hand and the ribs in the other and she gives me the full frontal slam, belly-first, and a kiss on the lips. I do believe I've made her day, tell her to give a couple to Josh, head to town to do the laundry. Wanted to get a haircut, but for reasons I don't understand both barbershops are closed on a Saturday afternoon, so I go to the laundromat, put the clothes in to wash, settle down to read. A comely white Miss gets her stuff out of the dryer and is folding at the table next to me, when she gets to the sheets, I stand up and offer to help, she accepts, everyone who does laundry knows what a pain in the ass sheets are solo, and while we're working away her Mexican husband comes in to pick her up. He takes great offense that we're folding together, starts yelling at her; Richard, the owner, comes out of the back room, to quell whatever the issue. Another patron, who spoke both Spanish and English, explained that folding sheets together was too intimate for another man to be doing with the husband's wife. The actual translation was that even he didn't fold sheets with her, I said that maybe he should, went back to my book. Fuck a bunch of civilization. Too many people at the lake for me to stop. Two things on Mackletree, going through the forest, a very young fawn, all legs, crosses the road, and something brown, larger than a cat, but not moving like a woodchuck, probably a woodchuck though, I mean what else could it be, a small bear, a wolverine? There aren't many options. Not cat-like. The filtered light on Mackletree, through the canopy, is beautiful; the shafts are tangible, individual, yellow pillars of dust and pollen. Then up the driveway, completely overgrown, and home: a house in a sea of green. Late afternoon breeze, dry air for a change, means I can write without icing my computer. Life is good. I eat a few more ribs. Yes, I think, yes.

Tom

I started writing this page fourteen hours ago, and, in a sense, it took fourteen hours to write, despite the fact that I was only sitting in the chair, the driver's seat, for something just over four hours. Fucking Whip-poor-will has set up near the house. It's a conspiracy to distract me, like those crows. Bring it on. I control the high ground, Ridge Posts indeed. My printer has failed, I don't have last night and tonight, hard copy, I assume they're out there, somewhere, but my joy, really, is in the doing. The trip is the designation.