Late Blues

Doesn't matter what keeps you awake. A monkey on barbed wire, the wind in the trees: at a certain point, it's all the same. 4:44 in the morning and the bugs beat an incessant rhythm. The season of the witch. When I look out my window, something strange. Must be the season of the witch. Either aliens or fireflies, or some other phosphorescence of which I'm not aware. I meant to go to town, having things to do, laundry and such, but rain was forecast and I had plenty of whiskey and tobacco, so I buried myself in a Thomas Perry novel and only left the sofa for the occasional snack. At 4:44 in the afternoon, in the interest of symmetry, I got a weak first drink (it was 5:44 in Nova Scotia) and read myself for a while. I usually only read myself to see where I am, but sometimes I step outside, to look at the way I'm saying things. I can make sense of myself, but as I was explaining to Clay, it's really difficult to be transparent. Joel, the Wittgenstein Plumber, corrected my date on Marconi, and he was correct, but that cable snapped almost right away, and it was four more years before the connection was reliable. But hey, to be read closely is more than I could possibly ask for. I make a lot of mistakes, and I make shit up. I'm not a reliable source. No one is, which is the point maybe. I haven't been downstairs at all, where they're folding and screwing boxes, and I'll need to install that show, but I had to install the show upstairs, because the announcement had gone out. There are certain time constraints. I assume I can get up to speed on what I've missed. I look forward to screwing boxes. The rest of the show is a fairly standard installation. It isn't arrogance, but merely confidence, that allows me to operate. I'm a hack really, a fiberglass figure you meet around the corner, John Lee Hooker singing about a black snake, a blip on the radar. I'm ok with that. Surprised I'm even a blip. I do love John Lee. Surprised this connects with Faulkner, but there you are.