Reciprocity Failure

"Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after." Thoreau. I'm cooking a road-kill squirrel for Dog, I saw it die so I know it's fresh; it made one of those stupid decisions for which squirrels are famous, running back under the bumper of a small truck when it was actually in the clear. Squashed head but the body was in perfect condition. I skin it like pulling off a sock, cut it into five pieces, dredge the pieces in seasoned flour, brown quickly, then simmer for an hour in chicken stock. It's so good I eat the loins and a bite off each side of the butt, then serve the rest, on a bed of cheese grits to the tail-wagging Dog. I saved out the heart and liver, fry them, sliced in butter, fold them into an omelet with Stilton cheese. Certainly one of the strangest dishes I've ever fixed. Another gray rainy day, great weather for reflecting on my failures. My phone is down, so I can't SEND and Samara was going to call, to ream me out again, nothing is working. Every ambiguity meant. I read John McPhee's little book of essays, "Silk Parachute" today and fretted about my relationship with my daughters. I won't sleep again tonight, and all my hair will fall out tomorrow. I have what I now know are hives, I poured spiced rum on them (someone left it here) and drank a glass of whiskey. It's interesting to note that it could well be twenty or thirty years after I'm dead that my daughters might know what I might have felt now. Or maybe never. I talked with Glenn, who knows me best of all, and he'd been following things, as he does, offered only the comment that men seemed to be more interested in logistics and that women (my slant, he never said) were more swayed by the emotional. I understand that is true. I know it to be true in my logistical, deep-centered self, where I crate things and ship them off to places unknown. I think of myself as deeply emotional, I've been known to cry when I thought an ant was carrying too heavy a load, and I sympathize with anyone, whatever their cause. I've fended off the stones and arrows. And I'm weighted down with guilt. Branding me with any letter would be appropriate. I've done them all. Done that, been there. Actually, I like for you to surprise me, I'm just a construct, after all. A game. Several encouraging notes about the impossible situation. Thank you, Bill. Odd, that twice in just over a year, first one of my best friends then my older daughter think that their agenda is more important than my job. In this economy with a job I love. Power and phone out last night. Gray and windy today, I mope around the house, make a small pot of black beans and a pone of cornbread, shared them with Dog. I'm almost depressed, open a decent Zinfandel, mid-afternoon, let it breathe for an hour, took a glass out on the back porch, rolled a smoke. Dog cocked her head and looked at me, slipped under the house. I was approaching that point of feeling a little sorry for myself, when a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. First sunlight in days, and it backlit the poplar buds and that fuzz on new shoots of Sumac. It was beautiful. The first touches of green on the ground, dock, dandelion, those little miniature pansies that next month will have perfect purple blossoms, a quarter-inch across, with a yellow dot in the middle. I'm not happy with my response to things lately, there's still an anger inside me that I don't like. I keep thinking I've gotten over it, out-grown it or something, then someone yells at me, and I don't like be yelled at; I can be lucid, verbally coherent, and yell with the best of them. Defending a space, real or imagined, with great tenacity. Don't get me started.