Winter Reading

A new book about the far north. Every winter for 30 years I've read about people who froze to death, trying to figure out how not to. One thing about this weather is that it's hard to actually get to my house. I can't imagine a crook deeming it worthwhile. Right now it's rain changing to a kind of frozen ball-bearing that makes it hard to walk. I could hit you with a stick and you'd fall over, what's the percentage in that? I don't understand people, I try, but I just don't get it. Why would you rob a hermit? The best you'd likely get is some stinky frozen socks, a flashlight with dead batteries, a freezer-burned pork roast. B was over for a quick drink, we made plans to cook some elk tomorrow, that's as far as I can plan, dinner the next day. If all goes well. I assume it will, look forward to whatever. A life based on assumptions, I have a plan, if I don't get sick, don't break a bone, I can do this; but when the cold fog settles and you are so completely an isolate, how do you survive? We can argue terms but they mean nothing. I build a fire, nothing in the scheme of things, but a pocket of warmth, something to lean against. Put on some long-underwear and go to bed, supposed to be above freezing tomorrow, I can deal with this, just another cold night. Frozen rain taps a rhythm on the metal roof, hard not to shuffle. Where I had imagined a burn in the new rug was pretty much exactly where it occurred. We're so predictable. If you really need to be a drunk, don't smoke. My time frames are changing, when it gets really cold I like to get up and rekindle the fire at maybe 2, stay up and read for an hour or two, maybe have another drink, maybe toke, surely roll a smoke. No time constraints. Think about it. B comes over with a back-pack of hot potatoes and a foil wrapped onion that isn't completely done. Pop the onion in the Tandoori oven and the elk top sirloin isn't what we expected. B cubes it, cutting out the connective tissue, browns it quickly in olive oil, I sprinkle on a spice mix, we both forget I'd made slaw. The year is young but this was the best meal so far. B eats a second potato, soaking pan juices, I lick my plate. B said, when he was leaving, to kick his fire, that we should do this more often. It's an interesting bond, I'm not sure I understand completely, how close, how understanding we can allow ourselves to be. Frankly, I don't like the world, most conventions suck, and you're left with yourself. I could paint it pink, but there it is. Pink is the new black. Pretty sure I have my finger on the pulse. You can pay attention without paying attention, I trust you can act. Describing something that didn't happen might be slightly more difficult. B said, and I agree, that time on the ridge was special. Because there is no control I can go from one extreme to the other. You follow me, amazing. Three inches of snow quiets everything. Light snow all day. Beautiful. Split some wood. Read Roy Blount Jr, "Alphabet Juice", excellent book. I use a lovely woven Turkish bookmark, from Jana, for where I am, and a dozen pieces of paper to mark passages and quotes I want to reread. Brought home a catalog of museum books and can't help but notice the tendency toward catchy two word titles, semi-colon, boring sub-title. A sampling: Questioning Assumptions, Paying Attention, Old Collections, Bare Essentials, Covering Assets, Celebrating Pluralism, Sacred Claims, Capturing Vision. Skip Fox's lists of titles in any of his recent writing is much more amusing, but it does get me thinking about titles and naming. Sometimes, when I'm walking in the woods, when I know what a certain thing is, I'll touch it and say the name out loud. Partly, this is an effort to not get shot (B sings, or calls imaginary dogs) but partly because I love the sound of Latin. I know a lot of mushrooms and in the fall sound like a scribe. Two years of Latin was required at Janitor College, we translated "The Custodial Tomes" by Janitus; pretty boring stuff, but some of the specific cleaning techniques are still applicable. I keep discovering things that were stolen (I was going to say "I keep finding things that are missing" but that had a glaring internal flaw, on close examination didn't make any sense), wondered at the extra space in the studio/junk-room, and realized all the extension cords were gone, including the #12 gauge, 50 foot monster that someone must have really wanted because it weighed a ton. Got it to run a compressor for a jack-hammer when Dennis and I were carving a foundation in solid sandstone in Western Colorado. We talked then about a house we might build, a single-point cantilever off the edge of a canyon wall. I had the perfect piece of real estate, with a bench below the rim, maybe 9, 10 feet down, we could build a staircase down to the patio. We were both so good at visualizing what we were talking about, that we would make corrections in each other's visualizations. I've always had this bond with certain individuals, and it's only lately that I learned it isn't common. In theater it's essential, or there is no show. No Show is not acceptable, except for major Acts Of God, and even then there isn't a lot of slack. Total destruction probably means No Show but partial destruction is just a challenge. A wing and a favor. The Bound becomes an incredibly important thing. Understanding what someone else is saying. Keep coming back to that, the holy mantra of my hybrid fantasy. That you read me. The act involves both the writing and the reading. The writing is nothing, a dying swan, it's only the reading that makes it alive. If something strikes a chord, you rise, like a trout to the fly, and are engaged.