Decked Out

Done for the day. Found the shaving and hair-washing sweatshirt, so I can clean up a bit. Melted snow from dawn (the latest of the year) until late afternoon, 30 gallons of snow for 3 gallons of water. Pegi called from the museum and told me not to come in, even the main roads snow-covered and dangerous. I told her to turn right around and go home. Serious weather, cold house, start a fire and suit-up to go out. I figured to hand-cut wood for today, and fill the wood-box for tonight. Keeps me warm and gives the house the illusion of warmth. Not supposed to get above freezing until next week. It's rough going, the house is a mess, tomorrow's list is even longer. I'm going to bring everything that's split into the house, rick it up, so it can warm up. Then split rounds, all the while cutting enough wood for tomorrow. It's important in this weather to make one of the last chores of the day choosing all the sticks to start tomorrow's fire. I have a staging area. Make sure there's paper, in the proper slot of the top apple crate I use for storing miscellaneous kitchen stuff. I tend to start a better, quick, fire, if I pre-assemble the components. Need to get another cylinder of propane for the torch, another good way to start an important fire. Sometimes you don't mind messing with it a bit, maybe learning something, a new combination, but cold mornings, you want a fast fire. Today went well, I don't mind the weather, as long as I'm home: track up the house, in with frozen wood, out with the bucket to bring in snow, the kettle on the stove, burn another odd knot. There's a rhythm to it that pleases my physical self, even the discomfort is only marginal; throw on another caribou skin and it doesn't matter that much if it's cold inside. I have some outfits, now, that I never would have imagined myself dressing up in. They work, they're not interested in fashion, and, as long as no one sees me, I'll probably not be arrested. What's the charge? "Writer Apprehended On Snowshoes, In Bathrobe, With Funny Hat." I'm not saying we profile, but there I am. I put both palms in the air, my little hands are clean, I swear. It's the world that's ugly, the cultural world, the natural world is fine, almost ok, struggles against what we throw, craps, waits for the paper-work, and survives in the occasional bird-song. Sounded like trumpet to me. I'm almost completely lost, when I strike an old logging road, with which I'm not familiar, but leads to a drainage I recognize. Close enough. I know where home is. Don't go walking after dark, unless you're sure of your space. Rather than disturb sleeping dogs I'll cut to higher ground. I know where I am, now, that nameless ridge to the north and east. I must have crossed the road, lost in thought, but I know where I am, and in some ways, that's all that's important. A scant thousand steps away. Buck up. The worst is yet to come. The consequences are merely that the house is cold, and I'm used to that. High, wide and handsome. Suits me to a tee. Nuke some chicken broth and get on with your life. That's not an angel, just another mouse caught in a trap. Don't make something out of nothing. Jackson Browne has a nice voice, a certain strain. No way you could be prepared for what actually happens. Usually I wouldn't answer the phone, but for some reason I did, and it was an old friend, we talked, as if no time had passed, but of course, time had passed, and I had no idea what was going on. An intervention? Who would know me well enough?Elvis Costello, "Ship Of Fools" sail away from me. It's later than I thought. I have to go. A date with a sleeping bag.