Leaf Rain

Some trees drop all of their leaves at one time. A tulip poplar on Rt. 125, was brilliant yellow on the way to work and then on the way home was bare and underneath, ankle deep, in a perfect circle were all the leaves. Stunning. Sara was staff today but I went in to get some painting done. I was falling behind my imaginary schedule. Sanded and touched-up the main gallery, sanded and painted the entry wall, taped and painted the signage wall. Lunched with Sara and Clay, lively conversation. Clay has my will drawn up, sign it next week and I won't die intestate. Leaving everything to the girls, and they have to sort it out. $12 and 10,000 books. Thousands of pages of text, several nice pieces of art, some arrowheads. A few books worth serious money. A minor legacy. The wind picks up and the leaves are dancing. Fall is a wonderful time of year. I took the back panel off the fridge, and sprayed everything with WD 40 and it no longer sounds like cats fighting. An aural relief. It was driving me crazy. Lubrication is key. There was a guy at Janitor College, Morton Fight, an assumed name, a Polish guy we all liked, who cleaned all the surfaces he touched. Interpol might have his prints. He died in a curious incident, if you're keeping score, climbing K 2, he slid all the way to China. Nothing left but a kevlar backpack and a couple of bones.The backpack contained nothing but a couple of Twinkies and a bottle of water. By now, the standard defense. On the drive home I'm subject to nuance. The slant of light, the shadows. I don't really believe anything, but I follow several narratives, in light of keeping up to speed. Lord knows I do like to keep up to speed. More or less. I have my own view of the natural world, which I think is authentic, a Remington Bronze, an isolated human starting a fire by twirling a stick. But nothing is reliable. I was reading Marcus Aurelius yesterday, the day before: "whatever this is that I am..." and everything is called into question. Really, what I want to do, is go to sleep. I think too much, or not enough. Halloween is a complete mystery to me, I can't imagine dressing up. Phone out, then on this morning and I can talk to Mom about the upcoming visit. She explains, with utter simplicity, the intricacies of perfect milk gravy, and I finally make a decent chipped-beef in gravy on toast. Comfort food. A small fire in the cookstove and I'm leaching a batch of acorn meats. Ten changes of water over a two day period, heating each one from cold to hot, is enough to make a meal that isn't too astringent when added 1 to 2 with grits. Makes a great polenta, which I now favor as breakfast, with a runny egg and salsa. Just today off, rather than the common three-day weekend, and I make no pretense at labor of any sort. Finish the Emily book. A short slow walk down the logging to the north, examining leaf structure. Sit on a stump, roll a smoke, clear the leaves from a space where I can safely drop my ash. My small hiking pack usually has a little nip bottle of single malt. I'd been carrying one, a Glendronach, for nearly a year (after Glenn had alerted me that nip bottles were sometimes the way to go) and decided there was probably no better occasion than the absolute stillness and quiet in which I found myself at that moment. There was sound, actually, if you stopped completely, and controlled your breathing, but the effect was one of silence. Even if you don't smoke, I recommend you do this. Tobacco is a potent drug. Visions are important. I imagine things, not sure if I remember or not, the line fragments, Brownian Motion, fractals. Half the time I don't know where I am. Forty-two geese (I count them twice) casting elongated shadows. It doesn't mean anything, but it is a pattern, I file it under Things I Might Remember, which is one box out from String Too Short To Be Saved. Nothing is certain. The world is in terrible state of chasis, chaos, you might say. If you were Irish. I stick to the letter of the law. You and me, we're not that different. B wants deed to the physical earth under his print-shop,and I don't blame him. He built it, with his money, but it is on my property, because he needed my electricity. If I didn't love my job, as I do, at the museum, I'd merely move away, the easiest course of action. Relegate the past to the past. I could probably get a job in Idaho, sweeping floors, or even someplace warmer, north Florida or central America, cleaning a whorehouse in Mexico. My attachment here is purely the museum, I've never felt more at home.