Overarching

Caught Mahler's 2nd on the radio. A magnificent piece of music. Fredrica Von Stade, Mezzo, missed who the soprano was, but my god, what a moving thing. Those odd plucked violins at the beginning of the end, building such complex layers with the brass, percussion and chorus. Chills. Ok, on the rack and ruin front. Nelson (swears, by the way, that Arch Fiasco played corner back on his college football team) says that, indeed, there isn't much room between rack and ruin, a form of wreak, simply means going to hell in a hand-basket, then another message from him, quoting Hamlet: "...all shall dissolve, / And like this insubstantial pageant fated, / The cloud -capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, / The great Globe itself, yea all which it inherit, / Leave not a rack behind. We are the stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / is rounded with a sleep." And, he reminds me, when Shakespeare was my age he'd been dead for ten years. Then, from McCord (I love my readers) the connection with the practice of landlords, after the Enclosure Acts, of raising rents so high that the tenants would be forced out, thus Wrack Rents, that ruined folk. Many Scottish estates emptied of people to make room for sheep. Rack of lamb, anyone? I always thought those little paper crowns were stupid. I'm sure Carma will dig something up when she goes to work tomorrow. The "Iraq To Ruin" was from Sara's husband Clay, the third or fourth phone call. Not sure I can work on the arch tomorrow, the damnest thing happened. I got a little drunk last night, in the throes of dictionaries and messages, and it was hot, so I slept on top of the covers and whatever it is that's been biting me in the night got me good on the top of my right foot, and I unconsciously scratched it the rest of the night. When I got up this morning my foot was a bloody mess, it's ok, but raw and swollen, and I'm not sure I can get that foot into my work-boots. The Bridwell Treatment for this kind of damage is to soak the injured body part in warm salt water, irrigate with either peroxide or .9% sodium chloride, and apply aloe or whatever ointment is available. It works, but this time I scratched deeply and the foot is sore. Fortunately I'd stopped by B and Sarah's on the way home yesterday and they had loaded me down with print-outs and back issues of The New York Review Of Books, so I spend my day off with the foot propped on a pillow reading essays and a long account of Kent Johnson's latest literary foray. Excellent stuff, too much coffee, and mid-day I slice a couple of slices off the curing loin, when I'm reapplying the cure, for a monster brunch involving tomatoes, potatoes, eggs and several different cheeses, half-a-loaf of toast and several different jams. I'm not sure I should enjoy myself this much, because I become jaded; living alone is so easy, chop wood, carry water, there is no compromise. Strip down to the basics and if you don't go to town, it's hard to spend money. I could drink better coffee or drink better whiskey but I don't have to, Ten High and Folger's Black Silk gets me where I need to go. Life, as I define it. I need to cook some ribs for Zoe, new babies and all. We all have to eat. The Wrack Show, I think, is looking good.