Idiopathic Current

The contrary gene. A Native American woman I knew once was never satisfied with anything or anyone, loved to complain and cussed like a sailor. Fun to be around, for awhile, but then it got old. Did it again, had to make the extra run to town, a load of laundry and stopped at the grocery. Some haddock on sale and a bought a couple of fillets to turn into fishcakes. Caramelize a shallot, add any fresh herb at the end, then mostly fish with enough left-over mashed potatoes to hold everything together, fried gently in butter. With a fried egg for breakfast, the yolk serving as sauce, this is exalted fare. I had them almost daily for years on Cape Cod. Night fishing for cod off Nauset Beach. I liked to sell 50 lbs, for gas money, the rest I'd eat in cakes. Blue-gill perch make decent cakes too, little fillets poached in chicken stock, served with lemon slices. I'm negotiating for a box of salted cod, a winter's supply of breakfast food; remember learning to salt cod, from a newspaper guy in P'town with a family place in Wellfleet, kosher salt and the clothesline, a simple system. Mostly I just froze them, cutting the tongues and cheeks out, for an excellent chowder. What we do with our time. It's amazing, isn't it? I've always leaned toward hunter-gatherer, I stop and harvest what I find, it's not a big deal, I got a great salad, Friday, in the parking lot, some beautiful dandelion, which I washed several times, in several quarts of water. I hate wasting water, but this batch was dirty. Power went out, I read for several hours by candle, slept on the sofa, this morning continued reading about likely Bronze Age world travel. Finally got a copy of Thor Heyerdahl's serious book on Easter Island, "Archaeology Of Easter Island", on inner-library loan, and it's a keeper. He asks questions and refuses to accept pat answers. That pesky script comes up again, an almost exact parallel with an un-deciphered early Indus writing, but larger plates, so I can see clearly that they are the same. The provenance is good too, because the discovery of the Easter Island text precedes by decades the discovery of the Indus Valley text. First leaves are falling, had to get up in the night and shut all the windows, 49 degrees, the last day of August. Feels good, but I have to put on some socks and worry about firewood, which means another drink, a couple of cigarets, staring into the dark. Nothing clarifies. Everything of unknown cause. Dawn, the slanting light announces a different season. The world looks different, long shadows and a hint of change, just after first light I put on a threadbare and tattered sweatshirt, seems appropriate, though early to kiss summer goodbye. Sara says I seem to have a plan, but I think it's only seeming, my actual plan is merely watching where my foot falls, staying upright and not breaking something, that should be enough, being careful, until my habits catch up with me, what is it Greg Brown says, "I drink too much and smoke too much and play too much guitar". The leaves are dancing outside my window, an animated green, they seem to mean something but I can't tease it out, something that seems apparent but isn't clear at all. Not transparent, at any rate, but more the usual muddle, where you try and make sense of what's happening but nothing springs forward. The whole concept of making sense is called into question. I write blocks of text, other people carve things, or make music, it's all the same, a painting called "Paint On Canvas", by extension, "Actors On Stage", "Dancers Dancing", you get the drift. Our best intentions are chaff in the wind.