Expiation Rites

Another Pileated day. Wasn't aware they ever flocked, a cresting of woodpeckers. Working the ridge hard they sounded like a percussion ensemble, red flags flying. Needed some quiet time, so I read all morning, Octavio Paz; then B and I cleaned the grader ditch and catchments. A new light, white strobe, out the right-hand side of my writing window. Tomorrow I'll work wood and scramble under the house to repair some minor wind damage to floor insulation, the ongoing price to pay for living in an unfinished house, still, there is no mortgage. I've been here for ten years and the county taxes me as a woodlot, not knowing my house exists. Not that I make any secret of it, just that in rural areas with no building inspector, there's no mechanism to keep track of houses. B came over for a drink and we discussed Romanticism. Defined some terms. We both listen well and talk well, which allows a continual refinement of definition. When the woodpeckers moved in this morning, I thought I was in a movie, a dream. The flashes of color, maybe tracers, do I hide under my desk? Then process that, oh my god, a fucking squadron of Pileated Woodpeckers. More than I've ever seen all at once. Takes my breathe away. Too many combs to count. More than I could exaggerate, lots of large birds. Swooping and displaying. I think I must be in their breeding ground. Just what I need. Another field of interest. I could hole up in a bark hut with a single candle if there was some reason I should bed there. Be here. Wherever that was. I'm deeply paranoid right now. Everything is a threat. I thought about retreating to the vault, holing up for real, living an alterative life, then realized I did. Forgot that, the harm I had actually done. I'd need pages, and most of them would be false, I can do this, I can invent pages. Power out again, they must be correcting what they jury-rigged during the ice storm. Saved, writing on top. To bed early, need to stop thinking about a schedule, up early and the power back on. A LEK is a mating/courtship zone, woodcocks and such. Can't get that fly-over by the Pileated Air Force out of my head. So unexpected. Started a fire, had to go out and split some kindling, then cleaned house for a couple of hours, mopped, get ahead of the mud for a day or two. Reread Paz off and on during the day, great thinker, difficult only because he, like Pound and Davenport, expects you to have read everything. Allowed myself to fester, for a couple of hours (you can't allow this shit to run your life, the occasional tirade is acceptable) over a barb tossed at me by a former friend. He didn't have closure. I'd forgotten about it. Psychological wounds are like physical wounds, they heal, if you let them. I'm walking uphill too often to be carrying that many axes. In so far as I can, I banish the brash, ugly, modern world from the ridge. I try not to have arguments, except, maybe, about style. I still have opinions but I don't voice them as often, not as willing to even take the time to waste the effort to butt heads. I have frogs to watch, a fox to flirt with, and woodpeckers doing a Hitchcock with the sound-track from hell. What need I of that other world? It's a trap, first thing you know you have a thermostat, adjust the heat as needed, amuse yourself with cable. Just in the natural world, there is so much distraction, I run out of kindling. Serious business. I can't afford to be that distracted, but love that I am. I'm already hauling wood for next year, the woodshed makes all things possible, might haul the first load of wrack next week. I got a load of pine pre-cuts from where the power company was off-loading them, to dry and split for kindling next year. Thinking ahead, making life easier, doing what I can. I can prolong this effort by several years if I'd just get my act together. Maybe I can, but this is rough, I tweaked my back lifting something heavy; knew it right away and strapped on that kidney/weight-lifter belt ASAP. I had to finish the chore. Hurting pretty good when I went in. Pain is a fact of life. Pan is a fret. I hadn't lost track of that, the music that was made. How it reflected on what was viewed as the current scene. Listen, I pay attention: a poor excuse, but better than none, I merely observe, nothing I say carries any weight. A few birds, nothing more, still.