Wild Greens

I collected a bitter salad which I softened with a sweet dressing. I'm making one now that's based on a fairly hot home-made mustard with walnut oil and a splash of white balsamic, a tablespoon of sorghum. I use it, instead of lime juice, on an avocado, and I hear the pearly bells. I have a private language, it mostly involves cooking, though, on the surface, it sounds slightly sexy, in which I congratulate myself for anything that works out. In a way this is taking advantage of happenstance, in another way it's stupid. Don't mess with the help, you could end up stapled to the sub-floor. I work with a range of marginal people, so I tend toward being careful. If I didn't love my job, I'd live someplace else. This  impossible ridge would be a thing of the past. I'm out of everything. Make my down pallet on the floor. Edouard Manet much admired some Spanish painters and went for what was supposed to be a long visit, lasted ten days before he had to go home because he couldn't stand the food. Unlike Wittgenstein, who would eat almost anything (he, I would have fed roadkill, he would've understood) but whatever you fed him at the first meal of his visit, you had to feed him at every other meal. I measured artwork most of the day, for the permanent record. By the end of the month, I will have looked at every piece in the permanent collection at least three times. I have some favorites, the Carter watercolors are luminous; some of the late abstract prints are lovely things. I covet one in particular, overlapping nebulous nude female shapes. Just two colors. Very strong. I don't know where you could see these, I think Spanierman (?) Gallery in NYC carries some of Carter. Editions of 200, if you found one online for one or two hundred it would be a good deal. I'm looking, actually found a couple, in that price range, but they weren't the ones I wanted. Out back for a smoke, at the museum, and the LGB's (little gray birds) were riding the pampas grass in the bank parking lot. It's a sport with them, as I recount every year, a time marker. The grass stalks are uniformly eight feet tall, one bird flies in and clutches on just below the seed-head, then another flies in and lands just below her. The stalk bends over in a lovely and very clever arc, then springs back and they use the spring to launch themselves back into the air. They enjoy it tremendously, I can hear them chirping, but it was also a spectacular display, a spectator sport. Birds at play. Wow. That last sentence. An afterthought. But I love the incredibly tight constraint. I should think about short sentences more often. Birds of prey. I allow myself some slack. What were we talking about? I do this all the time, construct imaginary constructs. I've had the thought that I was probably crazy. Swat that out of the air like a birdy spiked. Just as often I think of myself as the last sane man in North America. I also amuse myself. I'm not above planting evidence.