Much Colder

10 below and windy, bad wind chill, warnings to stay inside, warms to 10 above then starts right back down. I make six carries through the woods, severe clear, brisk. With a face-mask, hat and sun glasses, I look the classic thief. At these temps every step squeals. Too dangerous, I go inside and drink chicken broth, reread Guy Davenport essays. Got up at three-thirty, stayed up, stoking the fire, couldn't get the house warm. 20 degrees below my design temperature, that peculiar algorithm that involves how much money you got, how much time you got, and how uncomfortable can you be for how long. I'm alright 10 to 15 above, below that and I don't get much done. Nice to see the half-moon. Roasted a sweet potato and carrots for dinner. Really need to get out sometime. Dirty socks, boring food, need supplies. Could easily last until Monday and ride in with B, but maybe tomorrow, quick run, 30 pound pack of groceries. Get through tonight, another 10 below, I'll think about it. Late afternoon, as warm as it was going to get, I shaved and took what I think of as the Vermont Winter Sponge Bath, not acceptable, but I hit the hot spots and didn't freeze. I've got my work that Skip sent spread across the island, I read myself through the day, weird, I don't read myself, usually, but I need to read this stuff, see if I can recover that book. Also, I like long sentences. It's embarrassing, but, truth be known, I'm a fan of Proust. And Stendal. Though I never roll on the floor, looking for a word, words are easy for me, rhythm occasions differently for different folk. What, it's too cold to think, don't trust anything I say, there was this moment, I was shuffling papers, I thought I understood what I was saying. Nothing could be further from the truth. I heard Son House one time, probably the defining moment of my life, that exploding guitar and his voice. Blues is the gospel. I listen to other points of view, they don't make much sense. But even Rory Block, is better, than nothing.