Awakened

Putting two and two together, I realize this spate of being awakened is mostly the dogs. And it's cold, mid-thirties, first time this season approaching a frost. October 15th. 36 degrees at 5 AM. Out of my down cocoon, I have to put on a sweatshirt to go outside, see what Little Sister is barking at. Fucking monster raccoon out of a Stephen King novel. I have a pile of rocks on the back porch for just such an occasion. Rabies, I think, confused, by being so rudely pulled from such a warm and secure place. On the other hand, the unexpected is generally more interesting than the mundane. The jury's out on this. Part of me desperately wanted just to sleep and dream. Another part wanted some disruption, as a tangent that might engage my mind. I get a drink and roll a smoke, my usual response, everything is downhill, a matter of course. Glenn is correct, it's all drainage, but that's not really an answer, it's just a response. Mountain top removal is a bad thing, not because of what is gained, but because of the shit left behind. I finally do get back to sleep, for a little while, on the sofa, but the morning light is so intense that I'm up again before long, make a double espresso, collect my laundry and head off to town. I go out the back way and around, because I'm not in a hurry, and I want to see a different set of trees. I'm rewarded with a fresh road-kill squirrel, still warm, which I dress-out on the spot. I always carry a lovely drop-point folding knife Linda sent me, after the last robbery; and I always have a few plastic bags tucked somewhere. Stop at Boland's Quik-Stop, for a hand-full of ice. Wherever they sell ice there's always a busted bag, and I buy my truck gas there, so they let me have a hand-full on the occasion of fresh road-kill. This is extreme local economy. Brought home later, when I stop at Ronnie's place, on the way home, but I haven't even gotten to town yet. The owner of the laundromat I frequent is a retired engineer, designed power plants, and we talk for an hour about alternative energy sources. I have an arrangement at the pub, I don't remember how this started, but the owners grant me Happy Hour prices whenever I come in on Saturday. Doubly odd, because there is no Happy Hour on Saturday. All the new hires have to be instructed that I'm special, in that way. I make myself useful, carry in bags of ice, hook up a new keg. Often, I don't even pay for my pint, just sweeten the tip jar. What is mutually beneficent carries the day. I've always subscribed to a barter economy. Clay, who is a lawyer, agrees to draw me a will, for a beer at some future point. Makes some notes on the back of a bumper sticker. This is the way to do business. The fog was coiling around the river this morning. All of the bottoms. And when I got down to the river road, my headlights produced a bare tunnel. I could see maybe fifty yards. Drive through this for 10 miles and your sense of reality changes. What, exactly, hovers on the edge? A rain of leaves. B came over for a drink. Small steps. Megan has chicken legs. No matter what you say. Make me an angel. To believe in this living is a hard way to go. A running man's bible. Lunch was delightful, sitting at a table, with Sara and Clay, rather than eating alone at the bar. Justin served us, and he was curious that Velma had actually been at my house. Sure, I said, people visit me. It's not a big deal. He thought it was. A matter of perception. The sky's on fire, I'm going to Carolina in my mind. I'm going. Sara thanked me for opening the museum and I told her it was nothing, which it was. I was already writing this paragraph. The elements of that. Words and sentences and meaning. It's a wild horse. Read Emily's letters. The nature of reality coils like fog on the river. Nobody knows. A tunnel, a funnel, just a glimpse, life, as we know it. Standing here without illusion. Life is full of disappointment. Ten thousand books and I can't still understand the drift. I don't get it. Post and beam.