Alone Again

I spend a great many holidays alone. It doesn't mean anything, just that most other people are busy and I hate to intrude. Today I read "The Best American Essays of the Century" and a book by Roy Blount, Jr. "Camels Are Easy, Comedy's Hard". Fixed a fine crock pot of chili and took a long walk in a deserted town. That pretty much used up the day. Everything was closed, of course, and I spent most of the walk looking closely at architectural detail. A light snow this morning and I was able to go up on the roof and examine the repair to the EPDM membrane. No sign of leakage. Out of the blue I remember Lynn Ward's novel in woodcuts "God' Man", one of the first graphic novels, I used to own a copy but I haven't seen it in years. Remember a quote by Satre, about Genet (probably in "Saint Genet") about elegance being the quality that transforms the greatest amount of being into appearing. Can't help a certain quotient of retrospection. The lean and leather years, the number of xmases holed up with a good book, steady feeding wood to a fire. Finding a range of comfort in situations that most others would find very uncomfortable indeed. Neil sent along an interesting book, I got it at the mailbox on the ridge yesterday: "Mechanization Takes Command". The writing, I think, is fairly dreadful, condescending and asinine, but the subject matter is really interesting, redeems the book (1948!) especially the section on The Mechanization Of The Bath. I might yet write a history of shit. A subject about which, I find, I know a great deal. Ending my outside-job-working-career as a janitor in an art museum continues to be instructive on that subject. The less said. But I had an experience recently that had D apologizing that he hadn't been there to help me with the mess. Nice of him to say that, but it was fine, I'm not offended by bodily function. Too many animals, too many years. When you've had your arm stuck to the shoulder up a goat's ass, trying to correct a potential breech birth, changing a diaper isn't a problem. And to extend that thought, dealing with art, everyone is a critic. One man's waste is another man's mortar, or fuel, or whatever. Hardware you might need to hang a door, some cable you could use as a windlass. Just saying. A degree in technical theater or a few years at Janitor College might almost prepare you, but the world is a rocky place, mostly you learn it off the road. A dirt-bike spinning out of control. Listen. First thing you have to do is listen, to determine where you are. Right, the Flats seem to say one thing, but mean another, 5. Glenn, you have to help me out. Nothing makes any sense.