The Wind

I'm asleep and this dry whisper of a wind becomes a voracious, house shaking thing. Perfect timing, because I can restart the fire, pee, get a drink of juice; not concerned, really, that I'll blow away, I tend toward overbuilding and this house could probably roll several times before the roof caved in. But the wind is a freight train, howling and shaking my timbers. I like it, I have to admit, it's so astoundingly real. That's the thing with me, I'd rather the wind, sweeping in from Minnesota, than nothing at all. When the natural world consumes you, when the wind blows so hard you're forced to consider your building techniques, when trees fall as a matter of course, then I am engaged. I, what, enjoy the struggle. In a lull, I go out to get a few sticks for the fire. Nothing is more real than the natural world. Fucking wind has gained new ground, sounds like a young war. I put a log on the fire and go to bed. Annual hospital xmas party is a pain in the ass, and huge. 177 people booked and that's beyond capacity. I fear for the art work, but I always do. We put the two Cleveland paintings in the vault because they came with a no-food-or-drink restriction. Late for work, which I seldom am, always allowing extra time for everything in case I have to stop and look at something or field-dress a woodchuck, but another tree down on Mackletree and I stopped to help Booby clear it away. Re-fried grits. Excellent. Just had a couple of rounds, fried in bacon fat, with salsa. Need to mix some acorn meal with the next batch. Buy some limes, to fight off scurvy, and I could probably live on these. Eat a few weeds. Want to make a pate for the holidays, duck, pork and chicken livers. There was a duck in my mail box this afternoon, probably Shane left it for me. It was fresh, I dressed it out and put it in the freezer. I like duck fine, I do a couple of different things with them, roasted with an orange sauce, roasted on a bed of salt, lightly smoked; but I love them in a country pate. As an equal weight to the main ingredients, mushrooms, and some kind of nut, acorns, of course, for me. I used to use Filberts, I like them a lot. D and I had an interesting conversation about nuts recently and decided we liked them all. Some shallots, some watercress (I just found some in Mackletree Creek), two sticks of butter and half a bottle of decent sherry. I'll probably put some ginger in this, a few drops of hot sauce, lots of black pepper. A wing and a prayer. For instance when I write you and am cooking dinner at the same time. I talk to myself, I talk to the stove, I talk to the wind, if it's strong enough to stir the under-story. Hermeneutics, the way things are constellated. I can't not respond. That's all this is. A response to a certain stimulus. I always suspected me, the likely target, but I knew I was innocent. Suffice it to say, I was well out of the way when the shit finally surfaced. I distance myself from disaster. Like I have in a GPD that knows where I am: I fuck that up, as a matter of course, every time I open my mouth.