Trip Prep

Almost done. I want to take a box of books and manuscripts into the vault at the museum. About 1500 manuscript pages on the corner of my desk and a box of books that are all worth $350 to $2,000. Nest egg. Go to the bank, books back to the library, liquor store for a plastic fifth of Canadian blend to drink in a motel room in Georgia, do my laundry. Looking at the weather map, I probably won't leave until Thursday, which is cutting it close, I like a day of slack, on these long-range spread sheets. But I phoned the itinerary ahead so my brother could get the girls if I was delayed. Back up plans. Good to cover your ass. Heat loss, you know, there, where but if, it was only your head, you'd have it covered. Linda made me a hat. It's a very, very good hat. (The two kids in the yard, that everything was easy, because of you.) Everything is easy. I lube the bearings in the microwave, lube a couple of keys, the way Kim had shone me. Shone? Is that a word? I'm on my best behavior here, what do you think about that? From my peanut-gallery seat, something is changed, not sure what it was. Something. Maybe it's just the way we talk, something simple, insurance values, something simple. As usual, I feel that I'm missing something. B on the ridge and over for a drink, we talked trails, cooking tips, Janitorial Assignations (which he crudely referred to as "closet fucks"), and how it was probably a good thing that I was getting away. He mentioned that I hadn't left the ridge is some time. It has been awhile. Forecasters missed this one, suddenly Winter Storm Warnings and I certainly can't leave right now. I started this last night but didn't Send, deleted most of it this morning while I watched it snow. Three inches and more coming, then switching over to ice, then rain. I think they thought this would slip to the north of us. The line is really only about twenty miles south, probably be ok by Thursday. Probably tomorrow, but I don't feel adventurous. I'm survival oriented right now and fear black ice. I'm not insured. So an extra day on the ridge and I split another rick of oak, debark it, so as not to introduce roaches, and stack it neatly inside. It's both cold and damp, the wood, and causes several things to happen almost immediately: sets up a current of cool air that swirls around my hips on its way to the floor, and instantly adds moisture to the air. Next year I'd like to rick maybe 10 ricks of green wood in the house, October, November, as a humidifier for the winter ahead. Heating with wood is a dry affair. Nothing prepares you for life, a certain set of physical requirements, you see, is necessary, be good to work on your problem-solving abilities; patterns, I was talking about this the other day, I think I remember (I have still haven't hooked up the new printer, I've been busy), recognition. Mid-afternoon and I'm reading some Guy Davenport essays, wonderful stuff, sublime writing, and I imagine a conceit, a piece of writing I might do, where there is no punctuation at all, no capitals, no breaks. I roll it around for several hours, looking for a port of entry. I look up several words, I make some notes. I'm off the record here, but maybe B was right, I need to get away. When I return Diana will be in Athens, and I assume we will meet. If I survive, I'll have some stories. I have my sights set on family right now, escaping my raging ego, getting out of my skin. Cool, a day like this, no one would threaten my redoubt. By dint of weather, truly alone. I'm careful. I don't have to move fast, there is no reason, tomorrow is as good as today. I sweep my access constantly. The first lesson you learn, at Janitor College: look for prints. I only missed the fox today because I was looking at the wrong moment. Her prints were clear, she's so clear that she out-foxes me. Outdone. And I hate to admit it. But that's the way the natural world is, always one step ahead. I could give you a thousand illustrations, but I don't have to, you know. What exists in nature is better than any reconstruction. I'd go out on a limb here, if we were testing loading or the ability to bare, and say that that post, under compression, will be just fine. I have this on good authority, I manage the incoming files, I see what's said, I listen, but I'm lousy when it comes to considering what's actually said. The number of times I don't have a clue. I respect you're keeping a certain distance. Me (other) working it out. Thanks a lot. Surely someone else could have done something. The maid or the butler, I assume there's help. I actually believe we're all alone, no fall-back, no back-up, just yourself, alone, when the dude with the sickle comes a calling, you're a piece of meat, less than nothing. Nothing less than the grace of god that I could post to you. They must be allowing some sickos to slip through the web, elsewise, why would we be here? I keep fairly close track, I know what's going on. Nothing flagged my attention.. What I thought I might have meant. The fog clears and I'm just trying to be transparent. I have no intention, I certainly don't want to be a senator, whatever you think I might want to be. It gets cloudy. I have no idea what's going on. I assume someone knows, I applaud their skills, anyone who can say anything , I'm completely in the dark. What's said. Fucking mystery.