Funny Scene

At The Market Street Cafe, Susan, one of the owners, is there, but Loretta, who usually fixes our breakfast burrito is off and we try and explain that whatever Loretta fixes for us is what we want. But Loretta is not there and there needs to be a formula or recipe or something. Susan asks us to come back later, when someone else might know what we mean. We come back later and no one has a clue. Thought it was an item on the menu, but evidently not, and we have to try and remember whatever the fuck we're there for. We're just short of taking over the kitchen and fixing our own damned burrito when reason intervenes and we back off, being; all the while, very funny, comparing a trip to the coffee-shop being not unlike a trip to hell. When D and I are together we make people laugh, we both do this independently, but when we're together, we can be seriously funny; tears down your cheek, wet your pants funny. In my imagination, during the imagined take-over of the kitchen, there was a scene where we were wrestling for a particular pot, and I was winning, but called for a foul. Rules are for sissies. The natural world is live or die. Art work started coming in for "The Cream Of The Crop" and I'm an instant critic. Becoming an art historian caught me off guard, I read about things, it's what I do, if I have a free moment, look up something in one of the dictionaries available, and I have a lot of dictionaries, but suddenly I know a lot about specific small things. The way tadpoles become frogs, for instance. Who cares, really? But it seems to have meant something. I was hanging on the edge of my seat, probably it didn't mean anything for anyone else. A Non-Moment. For me it was major event, the real world exploding in my face. Tuck everything away, you're still left with a residue, doesn't matter how you play your cards. I have to go eat, I have a great dinner planned. Big storms rolling in. Losing power for sure. Power still out in the morning, then mid-morning some serious thunderstorms, power off again, back on a hour later, breaking clouds by mid-afternoon. I pretty much stay on the sofa through everything, reading Michael Gruber's new one, "The Good Son". He's really a wonderful writer. James says that the way I pronounce Tchelitchew is not quite correct because one of the Cyrillic letters doesn't have an exact English equivalent. I go online and read about Baltus for a while. Still don't really like the paintings, but I haven't seen one large and in my face. Late afternoon I go outside, select a couple of trees right on the upper, flat, section of driveway, and girdle them, chopping a goodly groove, maybe three inches thick, all the way around the trunk. When the sap is up in a tree, if you kill them like this, the moisture is wicked out by the dying leaves, they'll be ready to burn next winter. Ended up eating just an avocado and some cheese last night, in the dark. Lit a couple of candles later, but the light seemed too dear and romantic, and I finally just sat in the dark, with a drink, smoking, considering whether my successes and failures had balanced out. I go through the next couple of weeks at the museum, in my head, wondering if I'm really on top of it. But I think so, insofar as one prepares for the impossible. I try to sleep whenever possible and eat a lot of carbs. The impossible is just a little more difficult. If then, then that. I see the logic but it's an ephemeral thing, a wisp of fog. You want me to do what?