Sisyphus Redux

Over four miles walking in the woods, exactly half of them, the up-hill half, carrying a forty pound chunk of wood, 30 trips, 250 yards, 4.26 miles, 30 times forty pounds is 1,200 lbs and that feels about right. Nine until four-thirty, then clean-up and eat, finally get a drink at 6:15. Every four or five trips I'd stop for water or a cigaret, but minimum break time, because I wanted to get as much wood as possible under the shed before tomorrow's rain. Sixteen double stove-logs, split, forty feet of tree, tapering from 14 inches to 9 inches. Left six ricked in the woods because I ran out of time. Early this morning, first thing, frost crystals in the air, like being in a paperweight or a Hiroshige print. I was asked a couple of questions over the weekend, actually, probably on Friday, that concerned the way the ego, the self, actually interpreted language, and there was a lively exchange. This was misread badly, by another reader, thinking I was talking about something else. Kim and Glenn both had interesting things to say. Hope to god I get my new printer Monday because I'm losing track of what I'm saying. It's more important than I thought, to reread last night before I write tonight. There are threads, and I lose track. Warming but still an inch of snow on the ground except in the narrow confines of the path I'd cut. It becomes a darker trail, completely carpeted in leaves, layers and layers of leaves; there are branches and clipped stems, so when you're actually moving you have to look down, so as not to fall, but you can stop whenever you want, look up, look around. -What's the haps, dude?- Has it changed in the last twelve minutes? I'm just passing through, again. Repetitive Motion Syndrome. A new reader, from Idaho, asked me what I was doing, and I blithely replied I was merely responding to things that happened. Then realized how true that was, that that was what I did. Merely responded. Maybe that's what makes it intelligible, that it's based on truth, just before it becomes a fiction. B said to me recently, when he was cooking under my supervision (a joke), that he knew the character B was not him, Brian, because he knew he had never said those things. Fuck him, as far as I'm concerned, with his young bride, in the shower, at sunset, the Hot Tub, whatever. I try to not get involved. I live alone and write, the rest of the time I read or haul wood, I don't like being taken to task. There's a Buddhist sect, the Aum Shrinrikyo cult, where mopping and sweeping were important. After that we lose track of clean floors, until the 1960's, when we started taking drugs and looking closely. Maybe I just like to suffer, but this was a wonderful day. The sheer amount of wood, the way my muscles ache. Progress, what you thought you meant. Diced fucking tomatoes. Kingdoms have been lost for less. I'm a simple guy, I don't demand much, a warm place to sleep, I'd like to eat and go to bed. Write, have a couple of drinks, how could I possibly be viewed as a threat? I don't do anything other than feed ducks, my slate is clean. I scrape cheap dressing from the floor, and make some projections. If I were you, I'd trust the janitor, like back when moppers and sweepers were important, Seneca, or even before that. I merely report what I think I see. Phone line down again, so you get a double. Where was that thought going? Right. Something Theroux said, a monastic discipline, one of the zen cults, where you would learn to do something, a specific task, and as soon as you got good at it, you'd give it up and learn something else. I'd rather know how to do something well, but I do so many things, I think I short-change myself. I had several other individual posts to make tonight, but this was stored in Mail Waiting To Be Sent and I had no choice, or, rather made this choice, because I don't have a printer (tomorrow) and I don't remember what I wrote. B's Sarah (with an H) sent a very interesting book, "Loneliness As A Way Of Life" (have to wonder what people think of me, the books they sent is an indicator); Kim: I can't wait to see the brickwork, we'll probably be there the 22nd, noon, and just stay that night, leave the next morning, so maybe you could take half-a-day off?; Steph, the Carhartt jacket is the best jacket/coat I've ever had, thanks again; and to Thoreau (there must be a site I could send it to) for writing that wonderful line: "Much is published, but little printed."(.)(?)(!). Another triplet I could write a page about. Add to the note to Kim, that we see commas in the same way. We're both non-standard punctuators by choice, we both think punctuation should enhance clarity. Look at the punctuation in an early edition of Trollop or even Melville. Had to call Glenn, to talk about Pip, in "Moby Dick", couldn't remember what happened to him, get out the Modern Library edition, with the lovely Rockwell Kent illustrations, and bookmark the pertinent chapters. I'm not sure I'm lonely, I have to think about this for a while, I'm alone, certainly, but lonely implies a loss, missing something. That said. Sure, occasionally, I'd rather be rubbing someone's foot, but I'm rarely lonely, I'm probably not a good sample, tainted, or otherwise, from disease. We've all met people like me, dismiss them and go to Disney World. You can't change anyone's opinion, wasted breath, all that you can do, is do what you can do. Sing. Play a love song and listen closely to yourself, singing. The greatest mystery, it seems to me, is that we keep trying to understand. I don't know what anything means, the more I know, the less I know, but I still listen. I draw conclusions as if they were facts, and I am sickly human. Could you take off your sock? Could I take it off? I like your foot, the whiteness of the whale. That's not clear, but you know what I mean, everything is a metaphor for something else.