More Notes

Up to two folded sheets now, that's thirty-two panels and a lot of notes. I have notes to remind me what other notes mean, as I tend toward the cryptic, and some that just don't make any sense at all. I cross those off, exactly as if I'd done whatever it was, and I actually have crossed them off, which counts as something. So tightly focused on what I was doing yesterday that I was bone-weary exhausted when I got home. Didn't really know to what extreme until after I'd eaten and written, but remember know that I was so tired I didn't want to go through the whole SEND procedure and then forgot this morning. Rather I slept late and didn't have the time because I needed to get right back on that horse. Enough leaves down on Mackletree that a rooster tail follows you. Fucking black walnuts are a minor traffic hazard, I stop and collect a Kroger bag full on the way home, some I'll put in a bucket of sand under the shed, to plant, they have to go through a freeze cycle before they'll sprout, and I'll crack enough of the oily bastards for a wilted spinach salad. A dressing of hot bacon fat with balsamic, mix in the bacon and some fresh mozzarella. A salad, you know, to die eating. I consume a lot of fat in the winter, and eat a big salad with a scoop of tuna-fish every other day, for lunch, at the pub. Considering diet, I remember the lessons I've learned from the goatherds I've managed, primary of which is: eat a balanced menu, but yield to the odd craving. Suck on a piece of charcoal maybe once a year, eat a little clay. There could be something important in library paste. Pay no attention to me, I eat acorns, for god's sake, and I'm planning an acorn squash, thickened with acorn gruel, soup, for the staff. Cooking a proto-type miniature version now, with a small acorn squash I took from a seasonal display at the local Tim Horton's. I can't help myself, in these situations, I always take the vegetables that are going to rot anyway. The displays at Tim Horton's can feed me for a month. Feed me well. I make some hominy from the corn, rick the squash in as if I had raised it. Sometimes, when I read myself, I think I talk funny, and my writing is very close to my speaking, right now, so I look at that and listen to myself. It's a tight loop. I'm very interested in immediacy, memory, and I want to cut out the chaff. I'm older, I don't have time. Edit on the fly and SEND. I'm pleased anyone can understand anything I say. Language is so goddamn difficult. Andrew, a sharp critic, said he wished there had been more of me reading in Glenn's Wrack movie. It's hard being me, expecting a limo, and having to change a flat instead. What. When. Where. I felt like a critic, briefly, sometime today. An extreme day. If you've never worked back-stage in theater, you wouldn't know what I meant. I worked at the very limit of what I could do, today, as hard and as fast as I could mange, teetering right at the edge. Someone remind to do a page about D Rings. The Butler Museum sucks. Everything is relative At some point I back away and look at what we're creating, Jesus, with this show, there is almost too much. I match Sara smoke for smoke as we consider what she has created. I'm comfortable with this. I like being here. To be engaged is actually the best possible state. Fuck you and your index. Go girl. I'm pretty sure I agree with her. I'm sorry, what did you say?

Tom

Three crows,
they don't mean
anything.