Iridescence

White scars where something happened. So many, and some so old I don't remember the actual wound. Solar shower on the front deck. Two days at 100 degrees with 95% humidity, then slightly overcast this afternoon and I can finally clean my sweaty body, examine closely for ticks, clip nails, wash my hair, shave, approach the societal norm for personal hygiene. D's making the extra trip tomorrow, to pick me up at the bottom of the hill, drive me to town, get my truck to the shop; if they can't repair it in one day, I'll just hang around the closed museum, walk to the library, spend the day in air-conditioned comfort, eat dinner and have a couple of beers at the pub, sleep on the floor in Tammy's office, not a big deal. Blues in the bottle. Something about a dog, a lost love, the sound of a train. Mississippi John Hurt, with that slack delta style, sloppy but perfect. Skip James. Robert Johnson already adumbrated that Chicago studio sound. That bottle-neck imitates the human voice, or at least human emotion. How it does it is a mystery, but it does. Watching a grackle, it's mostly black, but there's an iridescence on the surface that is amazing, every color of the rainbow, a silky pattern that floats above the surface. I know nothing about color, really, just what I seem to see. Doctor John makes me think I know something about human nature, what you're looking for, what you actually end up holding. Bonnie Rait explains it best, time these walls meant anything. Human kindness. And I think. That's the way to meet a friend.