Some Thoughts

I wouldn't trust me any further than you could throw me. Cooking grits in a crock-pot is a sign of genius, but I stole the idea, someone always knows more than me. I'm a jack-daw, a crow, I merely hop around. I don't keep track of myself, I just respond. Glorious sunrise, clear blue sky and the morning light stabbing in hard shafts through the thick tree cover. Slow my heartbeat down and move at half-speed, fixing coffee, local fresh eggs on toast with salsa, a two-bucket shower on the front deck. Read some Wendell Berry slowly, marveling that anyone could be so clear-headed. Part of the drive into town, certain times of year, the low light slicing through a road-side stand of young maples is almost painful. Still, get to town, stop at Market Street for coffee, go ahead and get the breakfast wrap Loretta has made for me, go do my laundry, stop at the liquor store, open the museum so I can eat half the wrap while reading in an air-conditioned space, lock up, go have a beer at the pub, have two good conversations, get back and open the museum for real, all before anyone else gets there. I read in the kitchen, for another hour, to enjoy the coolth, then headed ridge-ward with liquids and other supplies. The driveway is drop-dead nasty. Going down isn't too bad (merely terrible) because you can hold a line, but going up is a nightmare because any little thing will throw you into the grooves you were specifically trying to avoid. Not an arcade, though. D and I were talking about taking risks, I'd listened to an NPR show about that sixteen year-old that tried to sail around the world single-handed. I had withheld my opinion about this event for two reasons. One, I didn't want to influence what anyone might say, and, two, I didn't really know what I thought. I've known a lot of sailors, and they're an independent lot. The first piercings were just harpoons the whales threw back. Look at the tape, your guy, Starbuck, was rowing away from the action. It's clear, the runner at third was out.