Beady Eyes

Cynical beady eyes. If I had any sense I'd be hung over but I decide to get another load of firewood, do the laundry. Firewood first, physical work, get the juices flowing, 16 ounces of carrot juice. The produce guy at Kroger puts remaindered Bolthouse juices aside for me, he knows I'll drink anything. Big Lots, while the clothes are in the wash, stewed tomatoes, tamales, enchilada sauce, I rarely pay full price for anything, and these canned tamales, as John Thorne promised, are not bad. The wood pile groweth, the lord knoweth. Also, more socks, a couple of tee-shirts (seconds) and a couple of candles toward next winter's power loss. I love Big Lots, I get a big jar of pickled sliced jalapenos for 80 cents, pinto beans are 49 cents. I cook beans all the time, but it's nice to have a few cans on hand. La Rochefoucauld said "We commit the sins of our youth to have to meditate on in our old age." I'm still going, actually, as it was still dark, I had a final drink when the birds and bats got me up this morning. An old tradition, in the Hebrides a morning dram is called a skalk. I had nowhere to be, it wasn't like I was letting someone down. It seemed right at the time, I wrote a scant paragraph and remember feeling foolishly happy. I love that image of awaiting serve, naked. It was the crows at the cairn with their beady eyes, I had stopped again because there were more homages, minor rock piles, it's becoming an event, as it should, this is a work of transcendent beauty. It needs to be documented, I want Sara to see it. Ephemeral art is so difficult, certain things only exist for a few minutes. The veils of ice that might fall from a power line explode in seconds, if you're not paying attention everything passes you by. Road side bombs. They killed our best.