Smoked House

I don't really understand, thought it might be simple, low atmospheric pressure, but it's something else, maybe something to do with stratified layers of cold and warm air, but at any rate, two or three times a heating season I smoke the house up pretty good. Noticed coming home, numerous burning leaf piles, and the smoke was hanging low. I started a hot fire, left the dampers wide open, really heated the stack. I've done this for forty years, I'm good at it, still a room full of smoke (I would have caught it quicker, but after damping down I went outside to cut some starter sticks in the gathering darkness) that requires opening several windows upstairs and bleeding off the heat that was the point of the fire in the first place. Linda sent some Emily poems, on top of some things I'd written about acorns. Emily, of course had written about acorns too. The Emily Project is gaining legs. I like the contrast of the aging hippy and his surround of books, talking about her, then there she is. When Linda sends me these poems, that are germane to my rambling, I'm suddenly deeper into the language. What's being said. In a break right then, I needed a drink, I thought again about something that might be a problem, something I was thinking about as The Static Problem, but it isn't one: I can move, Emily can move. Glenn and Linda must go to Amherst, but I don't have to be there. The tombstone is important, the last couple of letters. I think she has the last word. D was back at the museum and it was a great day, I think we finally got a handle on the Photograph Show, he took charge, as he needed to do, and I disappeared into the background, where I need to be. I'm a very good utility infielder, but I can't hit a slider. Ground ball out to short-stop, I'm always on top of it, that's my problem, next time I'll bunt. If your only interest is advancing the runner. I could run a marathon, if it was absolutely necessary, but I choose to not, usually because I don't have the endurance I once had.