Left Field

From far out in left field, but not beyond the pale. Anything I think seems to fall within the realm. Even if I try to not make sense, sense emerges. Not that it's a game, but it seems to be. Something Wittgenstein said: "But if I hear a tune with understanding, doesn't something special go on in me --- which does not go on if I hear it without understanding? And what? --- No answer comes; or anything that occurs to me is insipid. I may indeed say "Now I understand it" and perhaps talk about it, play it, compare it with others etc. Signs of understanding may accompany hearing." This approaches the heart of things. When I listen to the Cello Suites I don't so much understand as I'm transported. Beam me up Scotty. Oak galls are bitter, but at their heart, there is a sweetness. A lushness, call it Romantic, or whatever. Harmonics play a large part in it. Listen to the Allman Brothers. "Sweet Melissa", I swoon. Two shots in Glenn's movie about the Wrack Show, that shot of Sara, and the boat carving a white line, what makes sense, really? A couple of chords, a progression of sorts. Work on firewood for a while, but feeling tired, coming down from the final rush of getting the show opened. Need my energy for the next show as we change out the upstairs gallery soon, photographs (all must be framed) and related materials, objects from earlier businesses in Portsmouth. History show. Reread parts of "Zettel", Wittgenstein stripped bare. "In a certain sense one cannot take too much in handling philosophical mistakes, they contain too much truth." Two nice boles of pine I'd picked up and dried all summer, I don't burn pine but I do use it for kindling, and I busted them in half to check the dryness. Both pieces have perfectly straight grain, what a treat splitting them will be. Need a froe, left mine in a tool box in Virginia. Burning Osage Orange is like burning hickory, hot enough to burn out your stove. I'll save the rest for deep winter. Solved the mystery of the floating wood. 50% of river wrack is poplar, then sycamore (a water tree), then oak; but there is also a lot of Osage and it didn't make any sense to me, because it is a very dense wood, about as dense as Live Oak, .95 specific gravity, 59 pounds per cubic foot, and it shouldn't be floating at all BUT it doesn't absorb water. Must have silica in there somewhere, because it actually repels water. Which, of course explains why it makes such good fence posts (in the words of Big Roy in Missip, "damned things will wear out two or three post holes"), absolutely refusing to rot. Quiet relaxing day until the woodpeckers arrive, I don't mind them, really; quite like watching them, so businesslike, so busy, and it wasn't all that quiet, with the breeze through drying leaves. It was relaxing, though, a nice walk down the logging road, a slow saunter, stopping to look at things. The Sassafras is lovely right now, yellow leaves and green branches, and the Red Maple is beautiful. A few fall mushrooms, and I collect a batch of chantarelles, a rare treat, right back to the house, I cook them slowly in butter (they get tough, is their only fault), just salt and pepper, serve them to myself on toast. With a second, smaller batch, I make an omelet. This is eating high on the hog. I had planned to make chili, but I can do that any time. I imagine an acorn/mushroom stew which I think would be very good: leach-slow-cook acorns, shelled and chopped roughly, two hours, changing the water less frequently, then toast slightly. Do not boil, the fats will go out with the baby. Simmer the chunks in chicken broth, slow cook the chantarelles, chopped roughly, in butter, add them, add some garlic, add an onion that you've caramelized in yet another pan. Served on toast, in a bowl, sprinkled with good cheese and minced scallion. I have to fix this as soon as possible, it sounds like something, and the idea of something perks my interest. Me and Molly, me and Emily, what was I thinking: now I've got this tombstone, staring me in the face, "called back" indeed.