Cobalt Blue

Skeleton crew. Trish is out and D is off to Cincy, delivering art. Lauralee is in the classroom with a bunch of second graders, making something. Pegi is firmly lodged in her office working on the final report for an Ohio Arts Council grant. I meant to get out to the ridge tonight, but another serious storm is forecast. Pegi's husband, Steve, calls to warn us that the entire county could be under a Class Two Snow Emergency by morning. I finish the floors and start cleaning the theater for next weekend's final three shows. Walking down to Biel's, for some office supplies, notice that all the birds, grackles and doves mostly, are puffed out to the point of exploding. The Kroger parking lot is full, as everyone lays in supplies. If it is bad, in the morning, I'll make a crock pot of something, for whoever might show up. D got back from Cincy just before five, we closed up, and went over to the pub for a pint. Chatted with the owners. Everyone talking about the weather. We rolled cigarets, as we always do, just before we drained our glasses, so we could walk back to the museum, smoking, and linger a moment before we parted company. This particular evening, for reasons unknown, the sky is a deep cobalt blue. A rare color for the sky to be, hereabouts. It's beautiful, like a lustrous pottery glaze. I'm drawn to sit in Pegi's offce, in the gloaming, watch the last of the color drain from sight. When it's finally quite dark, I heat up some soup, consider where my life has taken me. Skeletal crow flies in from the forest, perches on a stop sign under a street-light, and has a few words to say. The walls are too thick, I can't actually hear him, but like Beethoven and those last string quartets, I sense what's being said. Structural cross-trees. Down-hauls, and the whiteness of a particular whale that shatters your meager boat. The luck of the draw, you alone, left to lie about it. Non-fiction is just another fiction. History is merely memory, slanted toward the victor. Or the survivor. Survival is a bare thing, not something to brag about, but a close call, lucky to be alive, you nod to various household gods, the lares and penates, Janus at the doorway, sacrifice a goat, and try to get on with your life. I've lost the thread, but I'll try to get get back to you, something about meaning. I'm suspect about my intention. There would be no reason for you to trust me, because I don't trust myself.