What Floats

I've got an internal alarm clock, when my breathe freezes, I wake up and start a fire. It's a crude system, but it keeps me alive. I've compared my system against others and I don't see much advantage, being successful or not, earning money, wearing fancy clothes. I prefer splitting wood to almost any other chore. It's satisfying. Involves various muscle groups. Listen, I'm going somewhere with this. When I'm physically sore, down in my back and complaining in places, I'm in my body and aware, otherwise there is a tendency to merely float. Just getting by is not an option. B said something, the other night, about living in place. It struck a chord. How we live is a product of what we think. He, for instance, has cleared a path that goes deep into the woods. From somewhere to somewhere, from nowhere to nowhere. It's a trail, it leads. I'll walk it with him, but I already know where it goes. There are places you stop, to look around, there are places you forge ahead; knowing him, I'll wear gloves and carry clippers, one person's path is another's tribulation. Nothing and everything has prepared me to live this way. Chop wood and carry water. What matters is in the moment. Honestly, I wouldn't want anyone else to appreciate where I am, standing here, blessed by this ridge, at this point in time, Miles Davis blowing a forlorn horn. It's a rough row to hoe. Consider your options. You might well chose an easier path. I wouldn't blame you. Who would live this way? Quiet afternoon at the museum, I spent all four hours reading/looking at a huge book "Art Of The Twentieth Century", a year by year account, lots of text, many pictures, made it all the way to 1940. There's a painting by Giorgio De Chirico, "Premonitory Portrait of Guillaume Apollinare" that looks a lot like a young Marlon Brando. There needs to be a writing table, a stand-up table, in the museum library. I'll have to bring the book home, I didn't take any notes, but I did mark (an undetectable pencil point mark, page numbers on an index card) certain passages. I looked at Balthus for a long time, don't really see why Guy Davenport was so strong on him. A great many Artist Statements, always interesting to read what someone thought they were doing. The cute, young receptionist today, Krista (Christa?), and I didn't flirt with her at all, so immersed in recent art history, but I was forced to look down her front when she was packing up to leave, in a situation where she should have squatted, ladylike, but bent over, so she'd know I noticed. Perky perky perky perky. She was working on chemistry problems all day. Perky. I did the docent thing a couple of times. Walking young couples with kids through the Wrack Show. People like it. Mostly they've never seen anything like it. I added a few balls I picked up today, one, a foam thing, while an older couple were wandering around, they asked me what this was, and I told them it was just what they saw. That got their attention and we chatted for twenty minutes. They're going to bring back their friends. In fact, everyone said that, that they were coming back, with friends. When the show is over I'd really like to reinstall part of it in the artifact exhibit, the Rock and Bone Show (which I love, don't get me started on rocks and bones) might benefit from something organic. What I always point out to people, the Adena, the Hopewell, were organic cultures, most of what they used for everything rots, eventually, and we're left with the rocks and the bones. Lashing had to be early, it's an obvious attachment, rawhide, then something braided, pretty soon you're back-splicing hemp so it will freely slide through a block. This is a talent, I got a merit badge, when I thought I wanted to be an eagle scout, for knots. I could tie anything anywhere, I've forgotten most of them, but I can still amaze my friends. I keep some hemp around, in case I want to show off. Knots I've known, a pattern of blood spatters against the wall, on whatever you base your view of the world, take it far enough, to the edge, look over. It's a fucking cartoon, you're Wily Coyote, strapped to a device set to explode. Consider your options, fire up or fall. Maybe you think you're different, maybe you are, I'm not in any position to judge, I just want enough dry wood to get through the winter. I swear, my needs are simple. (Whatever you imagined. who you thought I might become.) Listen. It's black and white, I can see how you might be confused. I am. Then the wind blows through the remaining leaves. Perfect. One of those breaks, where everything is silent for just a couple of seconds, that's where I want to be, completely silent, a ghost. You and me.