One More

Someplace out there, in the field, I came on an artifact, we argued until we just threw coins at a line, to decide who won. Beware what you believe, bowers up in smoke, it can always go up in smoke. History is a fiction. Everything is hidden, and what you think you know is false. I can sleep on the sofa, I'd rather know, I'd rather know than not know. Someone asked me, recently, about belief, and I nearly choked. I believe everything and nothing, a kind of balance I achieve with an umbrella and natural grace. I've never been religious, more erratic than anything else. Usually I'm listening to something you can't hear unless you listen closely. I've paid for this position, bought my seat, I'm here because I want to be here. How far do you want to go? I'll give you two for one tomorrow. Meaning explodes. My only advice is to poke the puddles, see how deep they are. You might drive in some saplings, to mark the channel, or just breathe a sigh of relief. Poggio devoted his whole life to letters, gave us the lower case around 1400. There are thousands of other examples, but Poggio always interested me. His hand was beautiful, some pages of Cicero are heart-stopping, where we see both his lower case and his love of classical capitals. His Sylloge from 1429 is an intense study of inscription letters. Quite the sidetrack, but I needed a break from Thoreau. Walden is where he finally stopping ripping pages out of his Journals and starting copying-out passages. A brilliant piece of writing is his study of the slow erosion on the slopes of the raised train bed. It's model and modern writing. I read it over three or four times; it's a sonata, a tone-poem. The way he describes texture and color are worthy of Emily. Any man who befriends a fox is a friend of mine. And that almost set-piece about almost befriending a woodchuck is fine writing; and someplace in the travel writing, a lecture that went into Maine Woods, ends with the line: -O make haste, ye gods, with your wind and rains, and start the jam before it rots- strikes me as Melvilleian. Is that a word? Do you leave out that last e? It would look better without it. I don't know the rule. I think the rule is that you drop the e. So it would strike me as Melvillian, which sounds doubly bad. Double, you see, loses the e. Our doctor, and he was, in Mississippi, was Mal Riddle, he enjoyed sewing me up, and delivered my older daughter. His name meant 'bad joke' and I kidded him about that, he'd jab me with the needle. It's good to have a working relationship, even if you can't handle something on the personal front. I relate fine with the people at work, can't wait for Sara to get back, so we can talk, but I do require lots of time to myself. 50% leaf-out, light is become shafted. Oh shit, I thought, I should keep a journal: then realized I did. Was going to leave for Florida tomorrow, but my truck is broke, something in the suspension, front end; my driveway eats front ends. Maybe I can get down there after D and the bride get back from the outer banks. I hate to leave the house because I'll be robbed again. And the natural world demands attention. The leaves, now, are a soft green and pliable, bend before the wind, not at all like their October self, rigid, or almost a kite. In acorns is the salvation of the world. I was privy to a vision, it showed these oak leaves floating . Maybe it was a dream. Uncle Vernon was calling to me, everything was dying, it's hard to escape the point. A tenth of an inch a foot is more than enough, shit flows downhill. A static liquid. Catsup, or some restaurant sauce. I have to go, the wind is blowing hard, we should both think about intention. I swear I'm innocent, no matter what anyone says. I merely observed a sequence of events, you and your people. I don't have a problem with that, you and my boss, whatever the hell we mean. I post a note later, nothing matches. Listen, meaning is suspect. I don't say.