Judgment Call

I chose to not swerve and hit the squirrel. Messy. My little truck has tight steering, easy to over-correct. Birds and critters everywhere, second day above 70 degrees, people smiling. Nothing went as planned today, a perfect slate. I always under-estimate the time to prepare for functions, then run around like a chicken. First there was a staff meeting and most of the items under discussion fell to my plate. The janitor serves everyone's discretion. Goddamn imported fake lady bugs are coming out of the woodwork. They taste bad, they get into my drink, I have to use a coaster as a lid. My other favorite film-maker is coming to town and I hope to get her out for dinner. Last weekend off for a few, changing out the shows. The Wrack Show becomes next year's firewood, Local Stars gives way to Folk Art. Things change. It was a raccoon under the house, neon green eyes in the flashlight. I ran it off with a fire-cracker. The Wrack Show will live in Glenn's film. I thought about that today, holed up in the library (cub-scouts down in the classroom, a college class doing the tour, a reception in the back hall) for a few minutes today, how ephemeral things are remembered on film. I've a bad copy of a bad print of Tom Mix jumping his horse across the Cahuenga Wagon Cut, catching a moment of time. He should have died but he didn't. We never hear of the horse again, it must have broken all four legs, it was a huge jump and the impact must have been terrific. The best jumping I ever did, if you could call it that, a stupid gamble, Sesuit Harbor had frozen and the ice was moving out on the tide, big blocks, 15 foot cubes, the surfaces all disarranged, different heights and angles. I had discovered that wearing moccasins gave good tack and figured I could get across. I did, writing now as testament, but I never should have survived. I've always been very quick to adjust to circumstances. I thought it was good thing. I'm probably going to stay here, I've looked at all the options, but the fact is, I love this ridge, and I'm tired of moving. My vision of the end-game is different, but the end-game is the same. I'm just trying to find a way to die comfortably. I feel so Raymond Carver. So Dorn. There's an other house I'd like to build, another, maybe I could. But really, I'm comfortable here. The first thing I do, when I discover the time, is write a paragraph. I need not mention they had positioned me that I would be violated. Fuck you and the robber you came in with. I understand that, where were we going?