Inside Out

Hurried home from being staff at the museum. It had been a beautiful day, but a front moving in. The remaining leaves are inside out, the dead ones falling hard and fast. Huge haul of firewood yesterday, then went over with D and loaded his truck, Red Maple mostly, a nice firewood that seasons quickly. Saw a fox this morning, not mine, but lovely, raiding drops from a semi-wild apple tree down the creek at an empty house site. At the pub, for lunch before work, talked with the staff guy there, Justin, who seems to be a reader of mine. He asked about writing and I told him it was just like playing the guitar (which I know he does), the more you do the better you get. Nuked left-overs, I don't feel like cooking, the last of the Risotto. I make plans for a crock-pot meal, a beef stew with turnips and some greens. I love turnips, they're like sophisticated potatoes. Something in for a reason, our mandate is not to judge. Good luck with that. One judges every fat ass in front of one's self when waiting in line. What else can you do. Read the tabloids and glance at the items you're supposed to buy on impulse? I carry a folded sheet of paper and a cheap ball-point pen at all times, you listen closely, you hear a cadence, make notes. Sketches, even if you can't draw. I'm reminded of the time I was stuck in a line. Hearing a blues line in my head, "I want you to ride me, like my back ain't got a bone." Late at night, the blues provide solace. Every time I go to Memphis, I hear the same old bad news, if you can't drown on Beal Street, you're not alive. John Lee Hooker crooning in a road house. Mississippi John Hurt and his slack guitar. Lost power and half a page. Still raining this morning. I make a crock pot of grits, with some added acorn meal. They're ready for a late lunch: eggs, cheese grits, toast. I read all day, finishing up some things, reading the New Yorker fiction issue from the summer. In fact I read three New Yorkers front to back, they're addictive. Much cooler. Sitting still, I have to put on a sweatshirt and thicker socks. Clean out the fridge, and during a late afternoon break in the rain feed the dog all the left-overs with her kibbles. Other than the sound of rain, it's very quiet. A serious bout of introspection. No closer to any firm truth, but I think it's a good thing to dig deeply into yourself once in a while. See if there's anything there. With my new, sleek black phone, which has a working nine, I'm able to call Mom, and both she and Dad sound fine, but I can't reach either my brother or sister to verify that story. I'll be down there next month, to see for myself. Not that I could do anything about anything, just so I would know. How much did they pay to have a cyst removed from my brother's testicle? It was out-patient surgery, but, what, eight, ten thousand dollars? Where did they get the money? My sister, the banker, will be all over this. But I don't want my parents taking a second mortgage on my brother's balls.On the other hand, I'm not there, and what do I know? Next to nothing. Having daughters will make you know how stupid you are. Nothing is what it seems. I don't need another watch, I throw them away, the time is always apparent. Look at the obvious clues, the patter of the rain, the way his right hand moved. There's a melody that's off the beat. Just acorns falling, but something, nonetheless.