A Nest

Bachelard says someplace, must be " The Poetics Of Space", that a nest is always special. He says that "to read poetry is essentially to daydream." Je suis l'espace ou je suis, I am the space where I am. What is it about a bird's nest that produces such a response? Meaning personified. It's not so much that I think it means something, as it does. Consider your usual workman coming home, loppers over his shoulder, and he finds this construction, perfect in every way, in the middle of his path. He picks it up, who could not, and examines the structure. He's built things before, but nothing like this. Twigs woven with consideration. He'd like to think he could do that, but knows he couldn't. Knowing your limitations is one step. Choosing the proper course another. Proper might not be the correct word, correct might be better. Or necessary. I spent a season with an eagle nest, this was before I gained my fear of heights, and I'd rapel down a shear face to see what the babies were eating. Eagle nests are cess-pools. Shit and small bones. Good to see that someone is messier than me. Fucking eagles, man, they foul their nest. Mom can't wait to be shed of them. Learn to fly, goddamnit, learn to fly. She boots them out, finally. Richard Thomson at his most pissed, he says love is a fantasy. I tend to agree. No one I love knows I love them, it's better that way, better that you'd think I wasn't emotional, somehow removed from that. Of course I'm not. I bleed like anyone else. Blood a fact of life. The Aminah Robinson came down today, which meant getting four of the five large and very heavy crates up from the basement. Too large for the elevator, we had to carry them up through the aisle of the theater. Had a third person, young John from the Cirque but had to wait for a fourth person to lug the last two up; too wide for the aisle they had to be carried at an awkward height over the seats on either side. While we had John we accordion-folded the 60 foot piece of fabric art both ways toward the middle, as instructed. A heavy and delicate piece of work, enlisted Pegi to help us get it centered on a blanket and lifted into its crate. A flurry of activity and we packed the rest of the show, the framed pieces going quickly; then stripped the hanging hardware, mollys and hooks, leaving large holes everywhere and hundreds of smaller holes where nearly 50 feet of velcro, cut into small pieces, had been attached to keep the top of the fabric piece in place. Tomorrow I'll start patch and repair. Extensive. Relocated four turtles on the way home. Exhausted, I stopped at the lake as no one was there, rolled a smoke and drank a beer, watching the spillway, feeling the earth shake beneath my feet. Two geese families expected hand-outs but I had none, retreated to the table top. The goslings are already chicken-sized and cute as buttons, whatever that means. Cute as a button. In that fabric piece of Aminah's there must be 10,000 buttons, dozens of neck-ties, 17 music boxes, a snake skin, several sticks, stuffed toys, folding it was a nightmare. The guy who delivered it, another Brian, who is picking the show up tomorrow, in his off-hand funny manner, said, when we were unloading it, -some shit falls off, just sew it back on-, so we did, Folk Art sucks in its construction. Wasted, all I can do is open a can of soup and make a toasted cheese sandwich, read some light fiction, after, get a drink and roll a smoke, address you. The high point of my day. Attempting sense. Depending on factors I don't understand I make more or less sense. What Wittgenstein calls a game. I've been playing a big one with myself, concerning child support payments, which I've made for 12 or more years, and the end is in February, last payment actually January, and maybe I can buy some socks, finish the back porch. This whole period of time has been close to the bone, in every way I could have imagined. I had only suicides as role models, but I knew I didn't want to die, my problems were more of discomfort, not terminal; a toothache, not a fugue state. The most important thing for me, is to have a nest. I'd rather it be between two perfumed breasts than alone in the wilderness, but here's where I find myself. A slightly fungal smell. Spring. Forget the ticks.