Not Working

Enough snow to postpone going in to work. Head in a jumble, I take the day off, thinking things through. Doesn't work. Escapist reading. Dorothy Sayers to the rescue. Split a little wood. Walk out to the graveyard. Listened to explanations of the Stimulus Package, seems pretty straight-forward, print money and make your grandkids pay for it. Of the local unpleasantness, there are so many elements, so many points of view, so many fractures, that we'll be weeks cleaning up. Fucking mess. Wild emotional moments, leavened with serious conversations. Why I needed today off. My brain hurt. Not a headache, just a confused state that I find psychologically painful. I'm not a control freak but I do go to great lengths to protect myself, AND I can't even do that. Put that on his resume and see if he can get a job. It's a good marriage, right now, me with the museum, I need a few more years of work in the outside world, I like the people I work with; by my standards, I'm living comfortable. Have to admit, I thought about leaving, again, how could you not? And it had seemed completely impossible. Could never sell this place, then remembered a couple of visitors who had mentioned needing a place, realized I could, actually leave, if I wanted to. Opened the equation. If I can't talk with B, there is no reason to be here. None, but the ridge and the seasonal shit, and I can get that almost anywhere. And I'm pissed, that I had put myself in a position to be judged. Maybe it's the final nudge. I've having trouble finding listings for caves. What happens is always told from a point-of-view. What we see is rarely actual. Nothing, recently, made any sense. I want to hibernate. Maybe it'll be better later, when we've figured some of this out. And you were right, what you thought I said. I lose track. Forgive me for forgetting, nothing is what it seems, why I need to be alone. An unpleasant reminder, remainder of what exactly had happened. Didn't Send last night, didn't want to say anything offensive and didn't trust myself. D off today, finishing floors in his house; quiet at the museum, janitor stuff early, then some errands, then this very attractive young woman came in the museum and spent several hours seriously looking. She went in the library and some time later I went in to check a broken shelf and she was still there. We chatted, she'd worked at a museum in NYC and was blown away by our modest establishment. We talked about the Wrack Show. She wondered why I was so well spoken, living here, working as a janitor. I told her the explanation was tedious, she was clearly flirting, D and Lily had given me a set of guide-lines; she said she'd like to here the story anyway and I told her I made a mean pork fried-rice. She's coming back to the museum next week to set a date. She had these really cool Innuit boots that I wanted to feel. But the important thing, most important, to me, was that we could talk, natural and straight. When I want to be, I'm a good conversationalist; I'm from the south, for god's sake, every story is preceded by a story, and she followed the thread. And I'm a good listener, especially when the speaker's voice is in that mid-alto range, stirs me in my bandages. Not dead yet. The house is cold and I can't get a fire started. I rarely fail, building a fire, so when I do fail, it's a mystery to me. Inattention is a failing of mine, even though I pay absolute attention to some things, I often forget what I'm doing. Picked up enough things to make several meals. I want a cream soup. I want to make a chicken-noodle soup from scratch. Pick up a chicken. A guy goes into a bar, the only available stool is between two chickens, he senses fate but wants a drink, takes the seat and orders Irish Whiskey neat. The chicken on his right, a Rhode Island Red, leans in front of him, talking to the chicken on his left, a Banty Rooster, and they're talking about the stock market. He puts his hand up, to intercede, and they peck him to death. I'm working on a collection of post-modern jokes. It's all about attention to detail, the blood spatters tell us blah blah blah. This artery was severed that way. I think long and hard about private language. Almost language, I'm at a loss, I don't understand. What do you imagine I should have done? Confronted thus. I could argue several points of view. Love your new dog, I always admired pointers.