Ridge Report

Nice to be back in Arial 10. Need to go back to the museum tomorrow for a couple more days, and not just because more snow is forecast, but in my new capacity as Night Watchman. Seems our whole security system is essentially non-existent, and until it's resurrected and improved, next week, Pegi will sleep better if I'm there. We need for Pegi to be well-rested. Market Street was closed early for the holiday, and good for them, so we had to get coffee at Starbucks. There was still some coffee in my travel mug and the lady asked me if I wanted her to rinse it out. God no, I said, it's like a sour dough starter, I never rinse it out, it's what makes my coffee what it is. She looked at me curiously. Years ago, when they built the new high school we salvaged a carton of paper, 1200 mother sheets, 38 x 28 inches, but the cardboard carton had broken and the whole heavy thing had become aggressively floppy. It needed to be removed from the basement into D's truck, he can use it for dozens of books, and it's in my way. We slid a piece of plywood under it today, and got the damned thing into his truck. Also a very heavy, stainless steel drying rack, top of the line. We salvaged a huge amount of stuff when they moved into the new high school. A treasure trove. I'm teaching myself to become a graffiti artist, using paste pottery glaze as a medium (I have two cases of the stuff); I'm just doing large letters now, but I hope very soon to advance into pictographs. Herbert Senn could draw a nearly perfect capital Bodoni 'B' freehand. Try that at home. The really good painters I've known, it was all in the stroke. Fully charge the brush, Helen would say, and she would proceed to paint an entire Acanthus leaf in a single stroke. Sidetracks are often the message. I was going somewhere: right, the ridge. Did a few things at the museum, got rid of the paper, and I could then re-stack the pedestals, a little more space is all. Had to get dog food (Sherpa Carries Dog Food For Reality Show Host's Poodle On Their Attempt Of Everest) to the ridge. Needed to get home. Then I had to examine that and wonder what 'home' meant. Then think about what meant meant. Loops to get caught on. Without 4-wheel drive, I couldn't even get into the bottom of the driveway, so I parked in the mailbox pull-out. Probably safe enough, though I could get side-swiped if two vehicles passed there, long odds. Slog up the hill, with dog food and groceries in my back pack, another bag of dog food in my left hand, my mop-handle walking stick in my right, crampons, of course, stopping to admire the view. And the view, my god, black stick trees against a glaring white. It's stunning. This is my world. This is where I want to be, I just need to focus more attention on making it easier. The first take. Then the second take when I realize how fucking cold I am, and I need to start cutting wood now, for next winter. Talk about vacillate. I'm back in long-underwear, with jeans, a sweatshirt, fleece bathrobe and watch-cap, and happy as a stuck pig. Don't get me started on that. Camus on the killing floor. What is 'happy' and what is 'as'? Dog is crazy, running in circles, I feed her, to stop her antics. Get a drink, roll a smoke, consider my down pallet on the floor.