Sacrifice

Whatever you might give up, for whatever rewards you might reap. I live a Spartan life, don't even think of it as a matter of choice, just the way I live, falling off a log. My muse is a scrawny fox with a litter of pups, we eye each other with distrust. One of her kits takes food from my hand and she grabs it by the neck, shakes it a time or two, never trust a white man offering candy. I agree with her caution, make a note to call my daughters. Beware strangers in airports. Everyone looking for a fix. Grinding their sex against you in subways. Nod, and step out of the way. The best defense is apparent distraction. Gay State Troopers are the worst, but I always pretend I'm talking to their superiors, waving my arms and dancing in place. No one fucks with a crazy person. Gains me some space, and given a head-start, I will not be caught. I know these woods and the dark, will not be caught, become a shadow, then a pile of leaves and history. Outside most of the day, working on firewood. Start a lot of fires this time a year, two a day, I fill the stations. Variety is important too. I can control the oven heat in the cookstove pretty well but I need a variety of woods and oak splits in every size. I'm highly selective of my kindling. Bone dry poplar strips are very good. They save newspaper for me at the museum, Bev does. Failure to start a fire is not allowed. I've a beauty going now, knots and burls, oven temp above 600 degrees, I need to start thinking about Tandoori again, it's that time of the year. Stuck a goodly splinter right through my glove, right hand, little finger, on top, just above the nail. May lose the nail. Took out a little chunk of flesh, and tore a groove to the cuticle. Thought I'd never get it to stop bleeding, finally got it plugged with Liquid Skin. Satisfied about the wood situation, I drive the truck to the bottom of the hill, projected snow after midnight, and we take down the Abstract Show tomorrow, so I really need to get in to work. Walking back up, I did my aging Sherpa imitation, pointing out landforms to imaginary children with my crooked cane. They giggled. Before I got to the top I was doing interviews, imaginary questions, I'd have a few seconds to prepare a response. It was interesting, what I said, I sounded mad. Not crazy, just hot because of some violation, and I seemed coherent. I'd question if there was any content. You can't be too careful. I was filthy, washed my hair, shaved, took a bath; hot water, cold sponge, really, I just don't want to stink to myself. I live too closely. We've established that. Fuck whatever convention. Thinking about Herbert sketching something on an off-cut of upson board. These sketches were works of art, but we didn't know that then, none of them survive. Part of the sacrifice is that you have to let go. Part of the package is you understand. Consider "Billy Budd" or whatever makes you feel guilty. I wouldn't presume to know. I have an elaborate ritual I rely on. It works for me. I get up in the morning. I don't think about things until I talk with you, much later that same day, whenever. At some point, it's more important that you actually say what you mean. That's what I'm trying to do, get to the heart of the matter, the rest of this shit, I couldn't care less about convention.