Nothing

Later, I was thinking we could talk about what we hadn't said, the things we really couldn't say, private things, that we shared in only a general way. The things we couldn't discuss with anyone. How close we might be to that. I have fields of privacy to which no one is privy, whole areas that are clear-cut and not up for discussion. Things I'd never say. Opinions. What I thought about myself or you, I wouldn't mention those, everything else might be free-range, mentioned in passing, I could make everything up, it wouldn't matter, what is real is real. Nothing I say can be trusted, but is trustworthy nonetheless. I specialize in the immaterial, the ephemeral is a friend of mine, we meet for drinks on Thursday, I've learned to listen, something always says something, if you listen hard enough. Bach to Change Ringing to those last string quartets. There's a thread. I might be deaf but I hear what you're saying, what might have been is always an issue, at least for me. Easy to be ignored, extraneous, still, I nag; this world, where trees explode and saplings are the honor guard, is a place I'd rather be: it interests me, everything else is chaff. If I'm not engaged nothing matters. Duck-walk is a relative term, what you were actually doing, a kind of dance on the beam. I must have started this page when I got up to pee, I don't remember. Then back to bed and overslept because of the cloud cover. Rain. warmer, maybe 60 tomorrow, messy walk down to the truck. Speaking of ducks, we had to line them up at the museum today, so many things to do. The last wine tasting Friday and I'll need to sew 36 little books, D setting the type today. Today, I am the janitor, cleaning up from the opening last Friday that Lady Diana and I simply skipped. Too much to catch up on. She really liked the elk-meat chili. The museum was trashed because we had salted the entrances and the cookies (or whatever it was they ate) were crumbly, and also, at these receptions, I've noticed, people spill whatever they're drinking. My personal theory is that it's because they're standing up and gesturing. Lots of spilled liquid. From my point of view, having a specific task is fine, I enjoy mopping, the results are tangible. It's much harder to write coherently than it is to mop. Carrying wood, a chore I love, is very simple, it involves certain physical senses; I go easy on myself, rarely carry more than I should, actually think of myself as a whimp. I can barely survive winter. This one, in particular, is grinding me. I've already burned more than four cords of wood, the last two weeks I've burned a cord, trying to stay alive, burned forty candles to write you, and I'm still cold. A fart in a whirlwind. Too many windows and not enough insulation. Eventually you have to ask if the view is worth the discomfort. Merrily we slog along. I have to be careful, here, to not talk about things I don't talk about. Oh, that was nothing.