Nothing Much

A squabble over compost. I hesitate shooting a coon because I'll have to deal with the dead body. Rain sweeps in from the northwest. Colder temps. A harmonica riff, been alive in the blues. James Cotton. Robert Cray. A distant solo guitar. Draws at my heart strings. If you need me, call me. Don't wait too long. I saw a stranger with your hair. What comes around. You've got everything you need, a succession of lyrics. Janus holds the door open. Why wouldn't you enter? The next thing I thought about was waiting for me. A dust devil, a swirl of leaves, nothing that made any actual sense. Ricky Lee Jones. John Lee Hooker. Black snake. Harmonics. Leo. People rush like water down the drain. Who is that? Neil Young. That strained voice. I couldn't see the trouble underneath. Nothing ever moved. I was watching closely. The world in which we live. Doctor John. If it wasn't for one thing it was another. Mountains to the sea. Late night radio (early morning) is sometimes quite interesting. From out of nowhere, the antiphonal chanting of plainsong. A lovely sound. Sleep a few more hours on the sofa. Put on a crock-pot of grits while I was up. A cup of grits, four cups of water, and a goodly pinch of salt. For breakfast I make cheese grits in the microwave, and top them with a perfect egg. Good enough to make you cry. Suit up in the black Carhartt bibs and split some wood. Reading the letters of Maxwell Perkins, who might have been the best editor in history. The flotilla of geese I saw at the lake yesterday, several hundred, are heading further south and I'm on their flyway; off and on, all day and into the night, skeins of them fly over, with the occasional lamenting cry. A little fire of various wood scraps and I roast a sweet potato right in the firebox. I'll miss the cookstove, if I ever do get off the ridge. Over ten years cooking with wood, took five of those to learn how. I must have burned between 20 and 40 cords of wood in that time; all in a firebox that's only 12 inches wide and 15 inches deep. I wonder how hot peat burns, or cow paddies for that matter. Things that can be burned. An all wood house, filled with paper, fully inflamed, could reach over 1600 degrees. Maybe I should be cremated in my house, just thinking here, but Clay recently drew me up a legal will, so I might not die intestate, and that gets you thinking about things. Disposing of the body, that kind of thing. I've researched the laws, and it really is ok, in extremely rural areas, you just dig a hole, and bury the body in a cardboard box. All you need is a death certificate, so you have to pay the coroner plus mileage, then you have to hire Booby to dig a hole with his backhoe, and fill it back in. Maybe two hundred bucks. Why would you spend a lot on a funeral? I don't get the logic. To my credit, I never did. You're organic matter, you're going to rot. I'd rather be fertilizer for a couple of grapevines than rotting soup in a bronze casket. Booby would probably dig the hole for free. Probably only cost a hundred bucks. If we can run him through the chipper, and use him as compost, we'll pay you ten bucks. I'm here now, and then I'm gone, my major thought-stream of the day; I don't give a shit about my physical body after I'm gone, burn it, dissect it, do what you will. Even everyday living takes it's tole. The body itself, is an outfit; you see that, you know everything is a game. I've said for years, to anyone who would listen, that it was all mirrors. I could duplicate anything, if I had enough images. Duplication is fairly easy, having an idea is hard. I have to go sleep, I've done nothing other than split wood and read some letters, somehow, it seems enough.