Fine Line

"Deterministic systems have lost their consistency and revealed an inherent defect." Paz. Blue morning gives way to gray afternoon. The trees across the hollow are fine lines against the sky. My crows are back, singing their sweet squawk on my trip to the outhouse. Sweet squawk should be one of those phrases you repeat to clean up your pronunciation. Good blood, bad blood, was one of mine (they're assigned, like koans) and I still say it occasionally. Mindless pleasures. Split kindling, split starter sticks, split firewood. Something about the wind or atmospheric pressure, this happens a time or two a year, has the stove smoking just a little bit; so when I come in I put on a piece of sassafras. Smells nice. I needed conversation, changed into mufti and mocs, ready to make a couple of calls and before I could, they called me. Good form. I had just rolled a couple of cigarets and was reaching for the phone, Glenn called, from the Twin Cities, picked it up on the first ring and he said, with preamble -sitting at your desk, what?- and we launched right back into the last conversation we'd had: multi-level, prismatic, personal. The film comes along, he fucked up one interview and wants to redo it, also wants to get Diana on tape, her response to the Wrack Show, Linda's coming. Non-family reunion. Hope I can cook for everyone, despite the trek. Everyone bring a flashlight. Broken protocol. If I fix the eggplant we'd have to eat in shifts, might be worth it, but I'd rather all eat together. Shit, I have to clean off the table. It's not large enough. I can eat at the island, at the kid's table. If it's cold I'd do a two soup meal, with cornbread sticks, a cream of squash and a lamb stew. Fucking robbers, man, they took a bowl. They took one of my finest pieces of pottery. I just then got up to check my bowls, an inventory, and the black one was missing, it had great swirls of color in the basin or whatever you call the bottom of a bowl. Fuck me, I hate this shit. What I really don't need is a robber who sells books on the inter-net. I'm being paranoid. Nothing is the same. Everything changed. The wind is howling, blowing near a gale; the swaying trees are hypnotic, I forget what I'm thinking. The Music Guy calls, and he is breath of fresh air, tells me, I think, that it wasn't until 1975 and Fractals that we understood what a genius Bach was. Whatever. I have more recordings of the Cello Suites than any other piece of music. Increasingly, all I want to hear is the natural world: when I listen to music, it's usually Bach. The Music Guy advised an early drink, he was having one, and that sounded like a good idea, so I'm writing you early. Early, late, what's the difference? I've learned to hold things back, a reserve, maybe my true self. Somewhere between a janitor and a hermit. Wearing a tee-shirt that screams ANABASIS across the front, and "retreat" in very small letters across the back. It's a big hit, we've sold ten thousand since Tuesday, when the shit hit the fan. It's macabre, the way people take interest, when the fine lines merge into a hornet's nest. I claim ignorance as a first position, I had no idea things could go this far. 5:55, the trees are swaying, I'm a janitor for god's sake, I need my job.