Settling Down

Almost restored to order, 4,000 acres they're saying now, about one-sixteenth of the state forest. Still battling, looking to stop it completely when it hits Rt. 125, 75% contained, burning away from here. What this became was a big controlled burn. Not a single house lost, because there aren't that many in-holdings, and because when the fire approached a place they'd pull an entire crew (8 guys and a pumper truck), to protect it. Some rain, but not enough yet, just enough to make the smell terrible.The Marshals are out, sifting for clues, most of the snags have stopped smoking. Strange world. Light museum day, staff meeting, errands. On the way home I was struck with the desire for a hamburger and onion rings, so stopped at the Dairy Bar, added an order of jalapeno poppers. Talked with the other Richards' daughter's husband, he didn't understand anything either. Promised to get my tools back. The rest of the ride home, a bag of fried food sitting next to me, was wonderfully smelly and filled with anticipation: a beer, a burger, fries and poppers. I do this less than once a month and the place is closed for three months, probably not doing significant damage, and it's great fun to not cook, once in a while, just prop your book up and open the bag. Reading letters is so intimate, I've been reading lots of them recently, Emily, MFK Fisher, Marjorie Rawlings, Maxwell Perkins; they offer such insight into the inner workings. I put away some books, because I needed a place to recline on the sofa after dinner, read for an hour before I wrote you, returning to my near normal existence. Not as hot, this early, as it had been, I wander outside, surprise the fox at the puddles, we startle each other. I settle slowly on my haunches, not wanting to frighten her, she dances back and skittles to the side, then stops, looks at me; I'm not a threat, just in the way. She can slip through anything, but she gives me thirty seconds of her time, before she slides beneath the green-briar. There are events that take less than a minute, that might take hours in other circumstance, that carry the same weight, in meaning. I can stop worrying about the fire and worry about Swine Flu, thank god, a change of subject. Fucking Whip-Poor-Wills this morning, they were playing with me, I toyed with the idea of the shotgun, realized the shotgun had been stolen, thought about throwing rocks, these bastards are relentless. They always move when they fuck the cadence, they'll do thirty, forty, repetitions, then mess one up, and they're embarrassed, so they move on, I get that, and only hope they'll move further away. My heart rate has slowed, I'm better now, but the issues raised are germane. Wherein lies survival. I'll have to think about that. Pretty sure I know what my answer is, but I have to think this through. I might need to call someone. Call in the whatever. I was sure I'd stop making sense because I know myself fairly well, knew the limits of my being able to express what I was feeling. I'm locked up, emotionally, because I see just how far I can go. I could never be that for you, I could never lie, I have an odd set of limits. I would never fault anyone for knowing me. Just another Confidence Man, some one we could compare notes on later, who might lead us astray. Nothing means anything to me, what I thought you were hearing, the ultimate sense, to me, is what you thought you heard.