Time Sense

Coming out of winter, my whole sense of time is skewed, I haven't slept a whole night through in longer than I can remember. I sleep enough, but in fits and starts. Having napped, I watch the waning moon and consider my failures. Two things about having a dog around: they run off the wild-life and they shit everywhere; on the other hand, if they heel, and listen attentively, they're better than a stump, and have a tail to wag. I reread Emily's letters to Judge Lord and they are passionate and filled with longing. She cuts or rips out passages I wish we had, but it is our right to reveal only what we want to reveal. Our life, after all. You know many things about me but the essential nature is concealed. The sound a sunrise makes. The morning light on your face. I think I'm a failed romantic, almost everything makes me cry, the smell of you, the quiet snores, but I'd rather be alone. Passion is a fancy fashion. I sound like Dahlberg, don't listen. "The Sorrows of Priapus." What you are isn't that different than a randy goat. Maybe the music is different, but you're left with a sticky residue. Don't cry. Get a paper towel and clean up after yourself. Living in color, despite rather drab circumstances. Keep the car running, you never know when you'll need to get away. The level of patience. I can't listen to pop songs late at night, where a single lyric is repeated over and over, I'd rather listen to nothing, or what passes for silence, when the woods go to sleep. Phone out last night, so I couldn't SEND. Tonight, March 9th, is to be the first major Frog Fuckfest. Too early, but they keep trying. I could hear them as soon as I crested the driveway, they sounded like ducks. They quieted, when I walked past, but after dark, deep into their orgy, they'll pay no attention to me. A little pissed at B, but as we're not speaking, it makes no matter. There are two parking spaces at the bottom of the hill, one on either side, driveway in the middle just wide enough for one vehicle. His truck was parked in the driveway, first day in weeks that I could have driven up, and I had a load of drinking water and supplies. Fortunately it's not supposed to get below freezing tonight. Inconsiderate, considering that it's my driveway. Dog is still here and I am not going to carry dog food up the driveway, but I had some of the cheap instant mashed potatoes (that I use as a binder in various fish and crab cakes) AND a winter's accumulation of bacon fat. She seemed to like it fine. She will not be coming back in the house and I have to get her a flea collar. I have to set out the Bridwell Flea Trap for the next couple of nights. I've mentioned it before, but for those of you newer to reading me: put a pie plate on the floor with an half-inch of water in it, give it a goody squirt of dish-washing liquid (it breaks the surface tension, if you don't use it the fleas will hit the water and bounce right back out), then place a small goose-neck lamp, so that it shines down on the surface, leave it on all night for three nights, no more fleas. I thought about going into the extermination business, especially after taking a couple of courses at Janitor College, "Modern and Homeopathic Methods Of Pest Removal, 101 and 201" under a brilliant and eccentric professor, a Mr. Hudson, whose actual, Hungarian, name was impossible to pronounce. The final for that course was designing and building a trap and I've been doing it ever since. Dog will have to eat whatever is cheapest at Big Lots and my left-overs. If she chases the fox I will kill her. I'm excited about the Frog Fuckfest, it's so natural and crazy and wild. I'm really pissed that B blocked the driveway. It's either a completely thoughtless or a completely thoughtful act and either way completely wrong. It's my driveway. I live the way I do so someone else can control my access? In the heat of my anger I remember he is a control freak, and I know several of them, so I'm not really surprised, but I usually strive to put myself outside that kind of petty bullshit. If I had seen B, I would have said some nasty things, but the Tao looks after us, and I didn't see him, and I could recognize what a sickness anger is. Regroup, fall back, Anabasis. Parse it out. A note on the windshield: "Are you telling me I shouldn't use the driveway or have you just forgotten your truck is blocking it?" or "I appreciate the message, but I'll make up my own mind." This doesn't make any sense, maybe he's dead over there, maybe that's why the driveway is blocked. I'll look for meaning anywhere. But surely his young bride or that extended family would have looked for him, therefore, blocking the driveway is either conscious or unconscious. I'm no longer willing to cut anyone any slack. Many a winter blow I've taken a reef in the mainsail, single-handedly, while steering with my foot.