Another Thing

Cold enough to need a fire and I decide a midnight bath is in order. I wrote and ate supper twice reading Emily's letters. Interesting that as you read them over and over, as I do, that even the most opaque passages take on firm meaning. That anyone ever thought they could edit what is already stripped to the bone. "This is the very weather that I lived with you those amazing years that I had a father." Heat water on the cookstove, bring in the sheep watering trough, set out my sundries, the large rough towel I like for these occasions, stolen, as I remember, from those Catholics in Baltimore. I scrub off a layer of skin then buff myself pink. My feet need attention, and my nails, my hands drink lotion like they are starved. Ablutions. I feel better reading Emily when I'm clean. The provenance is perfect, hearing her speak from the page. The park ranger thought I was a retired professor but I told him I was just a run-of-the-mill ridge top autodidact. I tried to explain what a preparator did but I saw there were questions and I didn't want to talk any longer. I'd bought a small bag of apples in my campaign to get the fox back out in the open. Mackletree, in the State Forest, mid-afternoon, the slanting light and the trees created a strope-light that slowed me to a crawl, but I finally got home and took an apple to the graveyard, where I assume she dens. I suspect a certain warren of caves under sandstone ledges but I really don't want to know for sure. Tree tip pits vary with terrain. If a tree fails in an ice-storm, and it falls down hill, a significant amount of dirt sometimes covers the base of the trunk. Woodchucks like to burrow there. Squirrels deposit nuts in middens. I've clipped paths down to a couple of viewing thickets, where I might watch from, without interfering. Something as simple as a woodchuck sticking out his nose can be an event. I could allow myself to seem simple. Must have fallen asleep, a warm bath after midnight will do that, then woke up confused. Must haven written early yesterday, then eaten, then read for several hours, then ate again, then bathed, then started writing again, then just passed out of the sofa, woke once, fire out, got a blanket, back to sleep, that awful dream where I'm trapped on a very high landing and the stairs are falling apart, the railings are gone, I'm on the edge of panic. Woke in the usual cold sweat. Decide to take the day off, fuck the weeds. Tomorrow is soon enough. Memorable lunch of potatoes, venison steak pan-fried with mushrooms, eggs, and a scone I picked up yesterday for this meal (a minute in the microwave); a fruit smoothie (kiwi, banana, plain yogurt, protein powder, orange juice) and a perfect double espresso. May be my only meal of the day. Walk out to the graveyard and end up spending several hours wandering around in the woods. No specific purpose, just looking at things and reflecting. Part of the time there's an internal monologue, part of the time there's nothing but a child-like engagement. I taste things, I smell things. There's a very small violet, a teeny plant, that I like very much, and when I find them, I hunker down and look closely. This late part of my life, I set the pace, that's the rule, I can only do what I can do, a small fraction of things, really, but the best I can accomplish. I consider, again, that prospect of moving to a place that had running water and a thermostat, and I dismiss it out of hand. No. I need to be engaged by the world, the natural world, nothing else makes much sense. Dean of Liberal Studies at Janitor College was one "Mac" Knelson. A fucking tyrant. He tormented what would be called TA's today but were then merely assistants, to memorize certain passages from "Macbeth". So they could better control what was presented. Right, pretty sure I get that, but what do you, exactly, mean? I'm on top of this, I have a notebook, with me , I'm everywhere, I make notes. They almost look like words, but they're not: it's that other language, just under the surface, where we actually communicate. I have to consider that. Left out to dry. Hanged out to dry, what does that mean? When you listen to the radio, a baseball game, I saw the interest spark. My advice would be don't question my competency, I explain myself a lot, a simple sand-wedge; not a difficult shot, but you choose to make it difficult and we come to loggerheads. I say nothing, learning my place, a mere instructor.