Crows, Wheeling

Blustery, and the occasional crow sails past barely under control. A large buck, in velvet, looks deranged or drunk, red eyed and careless; when I go out to dump the compost, he briefly looks like he might kill me, before he snorts and clambers down the driveway. The shopping list for the Reunion grows larger, more countries heard from. Next time we do this we should rent one of those cabins in the forest, they have decent kitchens, a bathroom, and sleep 12 or 10 people (rent for 2 nights and you get a 3rd night free, off season). Revising the menu, I need to make a stew or soup for Friday night, because I have to work and cooking time will be limited. A token attempt at housekeeping, clean out the fridge, vacuum some dust bunnies, make a note to clean the outhouse seat. The trees are bending through large arcs, the house shudders. A Conrad novel, substitute masts for trees, a nuthatch tries to land and can't find purchase. My sleep, drinking, and eating habits are not falling into a pattern; went to bed at 9 last night, got back up at 2 and read for 4 hours, drinking chicken broth laced with brandy, then, of course my internal clock was fucked, because we went on DST. My computer knew what to do, which scares me. Anthony Burgess falls into that Dahlberg camp: Opinionated, brilliant, and caustic. His book reviews are spot on. Before I disagree with him, I check my back. He and Nabokov were at a party, it was loud and there were a lot of people, famous people and great writers, but they wanted to talk in private, so they spoke Anglo-Saxon. I can say a few words of Latin, that's it. I only have English. I wish it was my second language. Conrad spoke with a thick accent, but wrote perfect prose. Different parts of the brain. My only skills are synergistic, terrible at math (except for simple numbers, at which I excel) and can't pick up Spanish, though everyone seems to speaking it, or a Creole with Spanish in the stew; I lumber along with a single vocabulary. It suits me; I think, if I used a lot of diacritical marks you wouldn't trust me. And you do trust me, which is important, because if you don't trust me then nothing is there, and we have to go back to Go. Trust is a major precept. I'm reminded off a joke I can't remember. Two blondes go into a bar. Something about a parrot. Honestly, I don't know. I've observed a sequence of events, I don't know what to make of them. We'd need to define terms. I think I know what I saw. This is difficult, pretty sure I saw things unfold a certain way, not the way you saw them. Me and you, babe. Listen, I admit that I never understood anything, I only ever made a guess. I wish well for you, whatever arrangement you've made. It's a mine-field for me, watching where I step. I don't want to trip and fall. I would, actually, rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else. The fault is mine, I didn't see this scenario. I look into the future, as we all do, what might happen, a fundamental aspect of the present, projecting thus. It's all about connection. What Emily said. I wish I could remember, something, dot dot dot. I'm a simple guy, I don't do well with complex equations. What is love? Fuck me. This is why I love wrack, there's always a pattern, something to be learned: look closely, something will expose itself.