Relative

It's faster if you wait. Really. My computer, for instance. Got up and caught the fire, a quick glance outside, with a flashlight to be sure, shows 8 below, no wind though, what you feel is what you get. I like the quiet. Like there's a damper on everything. Nothing moves. Deep in a reverie, after the third carry, I see the fox's footprints in the snow: a perfect record. Wait, those weren't there before, and there she is, a hundred yards away, fluffed out and beautiful. Her tracks, in fresh snow, are a thing of wonder. I've never before seen anything so clear. Exactly where we were headed. Nothing prepares you for the moment. That I should love a bird or a fox. Out of sequence. Another day. Up, get a fire started, off to town, library, liquor store, Kroger. One too heavy a load instead of two trips; probably fifty pounds, full pack, eggs and bread in one hand, walking stick in the other. Finally up to twenty degrees, but windy, blowing a gale, no outside work. Even with a face-mask, the wind cuts through, much worse than the last two days, though the house is warmer, I can type without the fingerless gloves. Great grilled cheese sandwich, British double cheddar on sour dough, tomato soup. Pink scudding clouds at sunset. For dinner I use something I never would have imagined using, instant mashed potatoes, not very good as potatoes, but one hell of a binder. Perfect crab cakes. Make a note to get some salt cod. Cod fish cakes, oh god, for breakfast, with a fried egg on top. The instant mashed potatoes are the binder of record. Some chives, a small dollop of good mustard. Three crab cakes from a small can of premium crab meat and the leftover potatoes will make fine pancakes tomorrow. I added the left-over roasted vegetables and a small pot of lentils to the stew, blenderized the whole thing, added some cream and hot sauce; it's not particularly good but it is hot and hearty. Winter is a set of demands. Rereading myself, the stuff that Skip sent, I need to get the box from the museum vault, I've recovered more of the manuscript than I thought, several, actually, but the monster, Text Toward Building A House, I could probably reconstruct. Of the original 1500 single-spaced pages I have nearly a thousand, half is repetition, and half of the remainder is dross, still, there's a book there. I like the beginning and I like the end, the middle is just hammers and nails, try-pots and whales. If I get firewood ahead, a year ahead, I might take off next winter, except for setting shows, and just stay on the ridge, rereading myself and crossing things out. I need a grant, maybe I'll sell the Klee. It's a rough call, what you'd sell. I could imagine myself more comfortable, a thermostat and polar underwear, but I choose to be slightly uncomfortable, the lesser of evils. Fuck the coal-burning plants that make your life possible. Where do you think that bacon comes from? I have a life-long obsession with pork-chops, so I've always raised pigs or at least bought them from people that knew what they were doing, I don't want any separation between me and the world, I want my salad to be local. I'm green, I'm so completely green I glow, but I don't have any point to bear, I don't have a vested interest because I'll be dead, whatever you decide. I think sea level is rising and global warming is a fact, despite these really cold nights, damn it's cold, going out to pee.