Cleaning Up

Lots of rain, all night, and when I walk out, early, it's still raining. I can hear my little rill, Low Gap Creek, carrying away my real estate. The grader ditch is a live stream, wet-weather seeps and springs on the uphill verge are leaking with a vengeance. I carry a cup, a cheap tin thing, so I can sample these waters, they're very good, bright and hard. When I get to the bottom of the hill, I divert over, through the brambles, to actually see where my kill joins the ditch that is the very beginning of Upper Twin Creek. I leave that drainage, after a few hundred feet, then climb the few hundred feet up to the beginning of the Mackletree drainage. My hollow is a minor hollow branching off a larger hollow. Dendritic. I defer to the greater flow. Crazy day. People don't treat public spaces the same way they treat their homes. The museum is classic post-party chaos. D and I set to. After just an hour, we haven't talked much during that time, we don't even discuss what we're doing, we both know the drill, The crows are giving Dog a hard time about her dinner, they thought it was for them, and they're squawking. Fucking zoo. The frogs are honking, as they slither over each other, there's no actual penetration, the males just spray everything in sight. Then my older daughter calls and says that I'm the worst father in the world. Nothing like that to brighten your day. I know what she means, but she's wrong. It doesn't diminish the pang of guilt. I couldn't stay in western Colorado, I couldn't afford it, and I had to get on with my life, if I didn't I'd die, simple as that; so now I'm a thousand miles away, and doing fine, wondering why guilt could be placed on me. That I'm guilty is too simple. "Rock And Drill" Pound in the cage. Hey, I thought we understood each other. I've got two days off, I'm capable of making a scene. What we accomplish might seem real, but in the light of things, maybe not. Of course I've been a bad father, I wasn't there. I feel bad about that every day. But I had to go on living, in so far as I could. My older daughter is so mad with me she yells and cries. Part of my survival mode is that I can no longer do certain things: I can't fly, I have anxiety attacks. I'm poor, a failure in that regard, I simply don't make enough money to flit around, rent motel rooms and dine out. For god's sake I eat beans and darn my socks, I dally with cold just short of frostbite. Don't lecture me on the necessary, I have a firm grasp on what it takes to get by. Look at my dog, and look at me. I'm a grease-ball that can't afford new underwear. I eat road-kill and don't have a bathroom, I piss on the side of the road and shit in an out-house. I'm not playing games here. I'm ok with my life, better than that, I love my life, the concessions I've made to be where I am, but I can't be more than that. And I don't want to whine. Fuck a bunch of whiners. I've done the best I could, which is saying nothing. Forgive me, I have sinned: diddle prayer beads, confess. But I can't be other than I am. On the other hand, I can't expect my daughters to understand what I can't understand. Anabasis. I need to go away, but there is no way further I could go. Of course it bothers me. I should live in a tree-tip pit and sign, never speak another word. Everything I say is confused. Jack of Diamonds. Life should be easier than this. I've carried in everything I need, but it's not enough. Lay my down pallet on the floor. Not crazy, but close; almost suicidal. March madness. Winter into spring. The frogs, the poplar buds, just enough confusion to get by.