Fragile Body

It's a good thing, once in a while, to push your body. A little muscle ache is fine, as long as you don't hurt yourself. I bleed more than I used to, so I wear old clothes when I'm cutting blackberry canes, and carry a hanky that's actually a square piece of tee-shirt. When I take a break, I wipe myself down with Witch Hazel and drink water. Fucking thorns will make a believer out of you, but they're minor damage and never fester. Little Sister doesn't see the point, her interest flags and she runs off after something she smells. Times in my life, I've done that too, so I'm sympathetic, and, besides, I need to be alone, so I can talk to myself, figure things out. No TV, no radio, no dog, just the soft green of early spring and the wind in the trees. I see a morel and stop dead in my tracks, look around carefully, spot three more, get the Kroger sack out of my back pocket, flip out my knife. In the field, you must be considerate of where you step. Few things are worse than stepping on a morel. I like to cut them right at ground level, leave to roots, the mycelium, to grow another day, like asparagus on fence-rows in Colorado, and I hate to wash mushrooms of any sort, because the flavor is diminished. I blot off dirt-specks with a piece of toilet paper, usually; sometimes I just eat the dirt, as a flavoring agent, salt of the earth. A little grit, once in a while, a mouth-full of clay or a charred stick, might be just what you need. Artichokes are suddenly cheap, the harvest at Castorville, and I'll eat one a day for the next couple of weeks. My favorite dipping sauce is mayonnaise with a touch of horse-radish. 4:44 in the morning, I had to pee, you're never far from my mind. Artichokes, go figure. Why we think the things we do. I'm still tending a couple of gashes that continue to bleed. My skin is thinner now and I bruise more easily, but it's not a big deal, I'm not going to die from blood loss. A car-wreck or a plane crash more likely, not that many people are killed by a falling tree, or a bee-sting, or some hypo-allergic reaction to maple syrup. Not death by blackberry cane. Usually we die of cancer, or some cardiac event, or blowing our brains across the sitting room floor; rarely do we freeze to death, or conspire to die oddly. Or maybe just disappear. You could just go away. For thirty years he whored in the barnyard then he disappeared. Slaughtering chickens is an ugly job. The stench is overwhelming. Nothing smells worse than a gutted chicken. Booby gave me one of his chickens, a roadkill, I brought it home and dressed it out, kept half the breast to grill with a Madeira sauce of my own invention. Madeira, butter, morels. And boiled the rest with potatoes for Little Sister. Another good day on the brush front. I'm two-thirds of the way around the house. Suffering the death of a thousand cuts, but otherwise in great spirits because of the hard work and wonderful food. Glad I waited to drop trees because several close by are standing dead, victims of the various ice-storms, and they will be perfect firewood for next year. Giddy with accomplishment, late afternoon, I grill my chicken breast and Little Sister goes crazy. She assumes all food is hers, I must stand guard at the fire, lest she steal my dinner. Farce is very precise. I feel almost German, guarding my chicken breast. Art is a lie, obviously, but if it plays real, it becomes more than that. A stout wind picks up, the leaves are swirling. I save this paragraph. I like the way it jumps. A Force 9 gale after a calm day. Whatever. Batten down the hatches, you know more than you might admit, a white whale might be a suspect subject. An albino rams a small ship. I questioned everything, ever the Doubting Thomas, but nothing was out of place, everything looked normal. Fuck a bunch of normal.