Perfect Failure

Unpleasant dream. A sense of helplessness. Can't get back to sleep. Nothing specific. Get up and make cheese grits, a cup of coffee; then sit in the dark, listen to the rain. There is no sunrise, but the day gets lighter. Eventually, I walk down the hill and go to work. The museum, and especially the kitchen, are trashed. Food AND drink functions are tough on the facilities. First, though, I have to work in the kitchen, because Trish needs space to prepare lunch for a board meeting. A lot of dishes, all the platters, and 150 wine glasses are dirty. Load the portable dishwasher with half the glasses, but don't hook it up because I need the sink, wash the sink drain-board full of dishes, then wash platters and dry them by hand. Get half the surfaces clean, for Trish to make lunch, and when I get back from my lunch I'm right back where I started. Re-clean the kitchen then put away 100 chairs and 15 tables, then sweep up debris. In real time, tonight, as I write about the day, big winds, not in the forecast, 50 mph or better, the house creaks, the trees scream like banshees. Turn on the radio to see if there's a tornado warning. Probably lose the phone. It's blowing like a bastard out there right now. Some hail. A full gale. I suspect it's just a line front, the Ohio river is often the boundary for colder and warmer air meeting. The weather anywhere is always interesting, I've lived a lot of places, this place is a cauldron of undecided. A major system can miss or hit us here, within just a couple of miles. I wanted to eat before I lost my lights so I very quickly made three crab cakes. They were almost perfect, I used nothing but a couple of small red potatoes and crab, salt and pepper; because I had Anne's remoulade sauce, which, I think, had some sweet relish in it. Excellent combination. The cakes were a bit crumbly is all. The presentation was a bit shoddy. I may start using just a little library paste. The ones tonight, I cooked them in butter, and I turned them too soon, they need to caramelize before you turn them. I'll get this down, I'm studying on it. The last one, after I had learned some lessons, was one of the best things I've ever eaten. Nights like this, I put a little single cell flashlight in my pocket, so I can find a larger flashlight, matches and some candles, then get out the oil lamps, a pen and paper. I'm rehearsed in this, things are where they need be. Now it's 4 o'clock the next morning and the lights just came back on. What a blow. I don't know what time the power went out. I'd finished the crab cakes and gotten a drink. Thank god I took off work an hour early yesterday, had a good fire going (burning ash table legs, from a Scandinavian Modern table I got from a dumpster) before the hail started. It was late enough, and I was tired enough, that I just went to bed, after knocking over several piles of books in my fumbling. Hell to pay when the power did return. Book-slides. The timbers were creaking, I'll tell you that. The house was bending, like a longboat in a heavy sea. No warning, is the odd thing. Usually they blare a warning on the radio and issue a High Wind Alert or something. I get the feeling that this one was just for me, a micro-event that focused forces on Low Gap Hollow. Picket's Charge, The Light Brigade. I'm still standing, at any rate, though ankle deep in books. The hail was vicious. The roof on the woodshed is just tin over purlins, and it sounded like a young war. Before I went to bed I went out back with a flashlight, wearing a football helmet (yard sale, $1) and the pellets were the size of marbles with the occasional golf ball. Fucking dangerous. The unexpectedness of weather. Now it's quiet. I can still hear the wind, but it's a murmur. I was never really concerned, I built this house after all, but it was like being at sea with Conrad during a really bad storm. "I set out now, in my boat, upon the sea." Olson, not Conrad, but you get the drift. Whatever I meant to write, I didn't, so rudely interrupted. Society is corrosive, nature is merely intrusive. If I had my faculties down, I'd tell a joke here, but I can't think of one. Two parrots go into a bar. The natural world is relentless, it bangs against your window. Thinking back, I prefer a cave, with a single mouth I can protect with fire. A long time ago, but I still remember. Spitting my hand-print on the sandstone wall.