Spatter Theory

The finches are riding the pampas grass again. I was watching them and D drove up, said -the birds are in the pampas grass again- so not only is it an observable thing, it would seem to be a seasonal thing as well. They must remember. I know nothing about bird brains but myself. It was, of course, a childhood nickname. I was cleaning up some unidentifiable spatters on the floor today, main gallery, couldn't figure out what it was, like melted plastic. If it was remains of some food I don't want any, as it had morphed into a kind of epoxy-like resin. Very hard, had to scrape it up with a razor blade. Maybe punch sugars reacting to the floor finish and converting to plastic. Maybe the Deputy or D melted the edge off a plastic cup with a lighter, to fuck with me. Whatever, I was reminded of the series of classes, at Janitor College, on Spatter Theory. Great old professor, Myron Mumble, Head Janitor for the surgical floor at Mayo, and a forensic witness long before there was such a thing. He knew the slings and arrows. His death was so strange, so perfect. He had been in the surgical suite so many times that they often asked him to scrub, suit up, and sit in on a particular surgery because he knew more than they did. There was a patient with an occluded bowel, he was eating a 55 Chevy for the Guinness Book Of Records, and Myron saw that there was a gas build-up behind the occlusion, tried to warn the surgeon and nurses, but there were four killed and three wounded by flying shrapnel. Worst toll by exploding body ever. A natural exploding body. Not your C4, ball bearing, exploding body of today, but at the time, the worst there had been. Took a direct hit from a walnut coming in tonight, a dint in the roof, it was so loud I almost drove off the road, fucking nuts, man, they catch you off guard. You're thinking about something, off in your mind, and suddenly BAM an acorn hits the new woodshed roof, then BAM, BAM, and you forget what you were thinking about. Spatter Theory, what's that?, I'm thinking about breakfast, the smell of bacon, I want toast and jam. BAM, an interesting beat, irregular, I like that, the irregular part, then it kind of makes sense, and I worry about it, because it makes sense. I wasn't even trying for that. I don't understand sense.