The Wind

Remnants of Ike, strong winds all day, increasing in the afternoon, 30 to 50 mph. Still mostly in leaf, the forest takes a beating. Brown-outs and black-outs and finally losing power for good about 5 in the afternoon, cold supper, a can of beans, then rereading essays by Carl Sauer, by candle-light as the day darkens. Early morning there is still no power and debris everywhere, finally, at 10 o'clock, electricity again and I can have a cup of coffee, some breakfast, take stock. Rain mostly missed, off to the north and west and the temps are 25 degrees cooler. I hike far enough down the driveway, clipping as I go, to see that the large lodged hickory tree on the uphill side of the driveway didn't fall; one large dead chestnut oak came down, but parallel to the driveway, and brought down with it a tangle of fox grape vine, not quite ripe grapes everywhere. Strong enough wind to knock down acorns, which litter the ground. At peak of storm yesterday afternoon, because the leaves were sails, the trees were bending through 60 degrees of arc, sometimes a bit more. I had taped my drafting protractor to a window and noticed there was a pattern to the wind-bursts, like waves (maybe the same pattern): 8 to 12 minutes sequences that would go from almost calm to rage and back to almost calm. Loki with a bellows, Aeolus breathing in and out. The house shuddered, a winter phenomenon . Remembering some winter walks on Cape Cod, stir-crazy in the print-shop, Ted and I would suit-up, do a loop down through Crow Pasture, around on the beach, and back up through Sesuit Harbor, tears streaming down our faces, freezing in out beards, barely able to stand, being pushed sideways by huge winds, mammoth blocks of sea ice jumbled like broken glass, salt spray turning our clothing white. About half-way around, high on the beach, there was a cluster of large glacial erratics, we'd stop in the lee, to get out of the wind, take a hit from the flask, maybe a toke, roll a smoke if either of our fingers worked well enough, calmly discussing the design of a book we might be printing, or whether either of us might get laid the following week-end. Thinking about this, I was thinking about this last night, when people talk about the best days of their lives, christ, I'm still having them. I listen to Greg Brown, "The Poet's Game", then get an early drink, I hardly drank at all last night, because I knew I couldn't write (also I wanted to remain lucid in case something happened, you know, tree on the roof, or branch through a window) and I knew I'd start writing early today, because I didn't write last night, couldn't write, because I need the keyboard, I can't do longhand anymore, just can't, I love the screen and this thing that happens for me, when I reach what I think of as 'terminal mass' and the paragraph simply takes over. I'm not superstitious and subscribe to no bullshit, but there is a zone. Purely neuronal, probably. But most writers I know do keep a bauble or two around, house-hold gods, something to fondle or sniff. What would have been perfect, last night, would have been a laptop and a couple of batteries, I could have written by candle-light. If I could have written last night, I could have placed you in the middle of my experience of what was happening, I can't do that now, I can only do a kind of reportage, not the thing itself. Clearly have to think about that, because I'm going to be off-line, getting the Wrack Show together, and I wonder where I am, in that, me. Skip, that bastard, has got me cutting out all of the connective tissue, and I can hardly follow myself. Look at his cuts, they're cinema-graphic. Not a single clue. Those that can't do read. Something like that. -Do you have Prince Albert in a can?- What my concerns are. Right now? I see patterns. Kim was talking about a decorative course, but higher, where he could see it, where we could see it, and I agree, love your tucking, do it. The shadow of your smile. Listen, before I go, I have to say, you smelled great, something between a mushroom and a lily, and the music started, fucking music, noise is more like it, whatever that hip-hop thing is. Maybe we should get together, my guys will be in touch with your guys. Hey.