Several Things

The river, the show, being in the woods. Hold onto those thoughts. I'm cooking chorizo and it's driving me crazy. Just going to make a little stew I first ate at a bar in Provincetown. Chick peas are too perfect. There should be a law. Brandy asked me about the sound the river made. I thought about that all day. B came over and said we might as well cut the tree. There's snow on the ground, it's raining, the fog makes it difficult to see, but he's correct, we need to get outside and deal with the world. The sound the river makes is subtle, mostly a gentle lapping. When a tug goes by, pushing a load of barges, I can hear the bow wake. Trains of coal, across the line, in Kentucky, their lonesome cry. I can't describe this, precisely, what it was like; I'd suited up, I had the proper tools, knew what I was getting into, still it was a revelation. Hours later I'm digging thorns from my fingertips. I said to B, there is no thing better than being in the real world. Fuck the wet cuffs, the damaged sleeves, your imagined injuries. If you don't experience the world you experience nothing. I lose perspective. Carving a path is a kind of surgery. Green briar is the enemy; I just want to get back to the house without arterial damage. When I said "listen" it was just a memnonic device, it didn't mean anything. My chest is clear, whatever nipplage. Put me anywhere in the woods and give me a hatchet. I'd build something, how could you not? It's an oyster. Primitive, but real. Pass the hot sauce. The cookstove is clicking. Burning wood makes sense. Yes, I say, yes.