Equipage

Stayed at the museum last night, more rain and floods, I needed to monitor; wrote on the Mac there but our server was down (and again today) so you'll get that tomorrow. Hopelessly out of sequence. Today is almost over and that was yesterday. A janitor day, today, cleaning bathrooms, restocking supplies, and I got to do some mopping, keeping up my form. Couldn't wait to get home and look for morels, found a few, enough for toast points, but I need to broaden my search area, so I go back outside with the long handled clippers and start a couple of crude paths. Just a way to get through the under-story without ripping your clothes to shreds. Can't wait to check the graveyard area, but it'll require effort to get there, so many snags. The natural world is a thorny mire. Somebody sends you a nice new shirt, a heavy duty denim, in your preferred color, and you put it right on, wow, cool, I needed a new denim shirt, and on the way home, for some reason, you're drawn into the under-brush. Looking for morels or watching a fox dig voles, whatever took your attention. I had the thought that I write in paragraphs to disguise the sentences. I had to think about that, I know my writing self really closely, but I could easily deceive myself into believing anything. Respond-ability. You might just have a degree in the wrong field. I became a janitor late in life, and that's too bad, I could have been Head Janitor at the Met. Which doesn't bother me, listening to tree-frogs. There's a valence, not just a vessel. Look closely. I think I know what I'm saying. Imagine a situation in which you could say anything. That you trust anyone so completely. I have text in two different places. Equally spread, as we are. The way life is. Another day, literally, came home and found the beginning of this paragraph Waiting To Be Sent. Three hours cleaning the kitchen today, the jug band evening was a food and drink event. Ran some errands and left town at three, to beat the rain. Needed supplies. The lower hollows, down near the river, are greening nicely. On the ridge the oaks and hickories are more careful, but they are budded. Blackberry canes are leafing. At the lake the napp is thunderous, going over the spillway, crashing into the breastworks below and shaking the ground. A sonorous groan. Ten inches of flow, 42 feet wide, crashing down a proscribed slope to build a standing wave at the revetments below. Great theater. You can't hear a thing but one single sound when you're up close. Rain on the roof, and the wind is a roar like trucks in a convoy. Freight trains moving through. The soundscape is certainly different here. Bright, vibrant, alive; drives me crazy sometimes, those fucking goat-suckers, tree-frogs, and a cricket, inside. The older daughter, Samara, called, she was stuck in traffic in Denver. Wondered how it was going with the morels. Told her I'd found a few, but my feet were hurting and I wanted out of work-boots, I'd found enough for an omelet. We discussed morel omelets as a seduction tool. If you don't mind washing sheets, egg on your face, all of that. Listen, I once birthed live pilot whales from a dead mother, not that that's unusual, but did you ever do it? Just happens I always carry a knife, prepared, in that sense, that I actually have a knife, and swung it open; flipped it casually, backhand, said something. I don't remember what it was.