Slightly Tetched

"What is man, when you come to think on him, but a minutely set ingenious machine for turning, with infinite artfulness, the red wine of Shiraz into urine?" Isak Dinesen Yard work yesterday and a goodly fire break cleared. Need to rake it out. Sling blade and clippers. Two sessions, one before and one after lunch, broke early so I could fix dinner. Pork medallions with a similar mushroom gravy to the masterpiece from last month, fried cream corn with chilies, forgot the cole-slaw. Had been drinking beer. Jacob is a strange young dude. Quite handsome, has the requisite angst, and beautiful girlfriends, seemed to be talking about a kind of blended spirituality, which I don't really care about one way or the other, unless it bases itself in the natural world. He was, though, a good talker, and seemed to listen in turn. Could be the first of several conversations. I need a new person to have conversations with, a hole in my life with B gone. Oddly, got an email from Lily, saying she felt bad. From the context I couldn't tell if she ill, in her body, or felt badly about what had happened, not that it matters, but I tend to look for meaning. Specific meaning. Not that I find it. Rereading MFK Fisher's "A Cordiall Water" today, the Dinesen quote came from there, damn, but she, Fisher, I thought at first then realized both, is/are (a) damned fine writer(s). You can build your own sentence, I sell parts, don't sell, exactly, I merely post. I try to not interfere. The ritual, the interface, allows something to happen. You're not looking, blind-sided, whatever collision, maybe that wakes you. A hard knock to the head. Pain is a wonderful thing, it bridges movement. By bridging it loads. I have you to consider, where you might be, traveling either East or West. I'm pretty much locked in here, proscribed, consider what I actually said, nothing I had uttered, I was quiet, I hid behind a tree. Talk about what comes back to haunt you. I have to go, but hold that thought. Fucking thunder storms.