First Acorns

Harvested a small batch of acorns from a tree in town. A Pin Oak, and I know from last year that the acorns aren't too bitter. Shell them out and cut them into 6 or 8 pieces each, put them on to simmer in the crock pot. Two changes of water so far, and two more before I go to bed. Rain water is good for this. Tomorrow I'll dry the pieces (first fire in the cookstove, supposed to be in the 40's tonight) then grind them and make cheese grits with acorn meal. This stuff, which is quite tasty, along with alfalfa sprouts, would keep you alive forever. Now I just need a still. I'd need to buy corn and sugar, but I could sell part of the whiskey to pay for that. Spent most of the day at the museum, doing a few odd jobs, waiting for D and the last of the art from Cincy, needed to touch base with him about installing the rest of the show. Lunched with Sara, on barstools at the pub, and it was lovely. We talk about such a wide variety of things, and we both enjoy the conversation. And we both smoke. I only really enjoy being around people who can teach me something, though 'teaching' and 'something' are just relative terms for anything that takes my interest. Living alone, eating acorns, I don't have to make many compromises to what anyone thinks. Sara accepts me as what I am, which is refreshing in a world of hype. Yesterday, after I got to work, I realized I was wearing a really ratty tee-shirt, something I'd pulled out of the wrong pile. Sara and I were sitting out on what she calls 'the concrete sofa', which is what she calls the loading dock off the kitchen in the alley where we retreat to smoke, and I apologized for my ratty appearance. She said she hadn't noticed, which meant she was seeing me and not my clothing. It was a nice moment, for whatever reason, intensely rewarding. Far beyond, really, the specific situation, two people perched on the concrete sofa discussing the next show. It has to do with connection and the way we communicate. I'm not blessed with fingers that can twitter, I can barely wipe my ass, but I can talk, I can tell stories. Does that count for anything? Take the last sentence you heard and parse it, the Grammar Police will be here any minute, what do you do? I throw everything into the swimming pool and disavow any knowledge. And run like hell.