Coons

Fates conspire. Two in the morning and a God awful noise. I cleaned some nameless leftovers out of the fridge yesterday onto the compost pile and there are two coons squared off over frozen bits of soup. They hiss like cats. They woke me just in time to catch the fire, before the house gets really cold. Fortuitous. It's 6 degrees, no new snow, clear as a bell; I'm in long underwear, bathrobe, gloves and a hat. James McMurtry, "No One To Talk To When The Lines Go Down". Robert Earl. I love the radio in the nether reaches of morning. It's like another person without all the problems that would entail. Have to laugh, the coons, in the beam of my flashlight, do look like bandits. A cartoon world. Supposed to get almost up to freezing tomorrow, 28, 30 degrees, fucking balmy. I need a bath. If I get to town, the museum is closed tomorrow, I could strip down, wash my hair, scrub my privates; more snow forecast, but changing to rain by Wednesday. Subject to natural forces. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. It's not supposed to be easy, an old logging road will always be overgrown with various vines, thorns that scrape any exposed skin. A little blood is not a big deal, scars are a rite of passage. I have a constant burn, at the base of my right thumb, where I always bump the hot firebox with my hand, rearranging burning logs. You'd think I'd learn. But no. I managed to hit myself in the forehead with piece of wood yesterday, in an incident I should have predicted, but I was in the throes of an internal dialog, considering the epistemology of something else. What we could understand about the behavior of another species. What, for instance, the fox might make of my doing something. I had jammed the wedge in a piece of Slippery Elm and stood up to strike it fully with the maul. I knew there was tension but I thought I was exempt. I underestimated the tension. When I released the confused grain, with a mighty swing, one piece, released, struck me between the eyes. I set back on my heels, blood running down my nose. Who would have thought. I like being cold and hungry, to a certain extent, it keeps me alert, and centered. But I don't like being stupid, which I manage with great regularity. If it had been the wedge I'd be dead. Stupid. Never underestimate kinetic energy. Wood cut under tension. One thing about living alone is you don't have anyone else to blame. Whatever you have to lose is your own fault. It happens all too often, you don't pay attention, you're buried in the detritus of the past. I don't mean that in a personal way. History is a fact of life. Hard times. Not hard to find. That bottle-neck slide makes it easier. Rooted in the blues. I need to nap.