Nasty Weather

Sleet, then rain, big winds tomorrow (maybe 50 mph) then very cold, probably snow. Pegi ran me off, told me to get my ass home and build a fire. Park at the bottom of the hill and slog up, carrying extra whiskey and makings for a ham and bean soup. Finally, the hospital crew came and got their stuff and I could clean the floor in the main gallery, pretty much encompassed my day. Hoping the rain will stop before very cold temps tomorrow night, there'll be ice enough. I try to track down the Wittgenstein Plumber, to thank him for the corn products, but he's maybe living under an assumed name, I can't find him. If anyone sees him, tell him to call. I guess I could send him a postcard, but my handwriting has become illegible. Read Emily letters for several hours, yesterday, last night, and Linda is correct, about the sexuality. Having known a great many poets and read hundreds of manuscripts, I've got to say, that in a way, the style, the punctuation, could be construed as a cover for a really randy Victorian. They didn't say leg, for god's sake. One could admit an almost masturbational glee in certain poems. I'm not a critic, and a worse editor, but I'm running this over, in my mind, creating a fiction, what a novel idea. Or a film script. The wind has moved in already, that sound it makes, broken only by stick trees, a kind of whoose. Shaping up as the first tribulation of winter. I'm in better shape than I was last year, which should count for something. A different sound, the rain has turned back to sleet. Not looking good, but probably just the opposite of that, it will most likely be beautiful, tomorrow morning. Mornings are generally beautiful for me, another day, another dollar, and the fact that I walk in the real world. I wouldn't trade this for a barrel of monkeys. You accept the changes, and then you die. This is the way it's always been. I have to go down and do some damage control, holding a flashlight under my arm, because I don't want the drainage to jump the driveway. Another rut, who's keeping track. One thing becomes another. Three crows, I merely watch.