Grand Central

Shortly after I got home yesterday, a voice from the driveway, Drew, history professor from the college, with his young son, were on the ridge to visit B but stopped over on the way. We shared a rye whiskey, then B showed up and had a nip. Brought a new and lovely book of his, just published. We talked mostly history, with the usual detours as Drew picked up books from the table and asked about them. Still mulling my dream, as I don't remember many of them. Slept late, not knowing I was so tired, then made a very nice omelet with caramelized onions and asparagus tips. Started with the house cleaning, then retired to the sofa to read the Henning Mankell novel, probably the last of the Kurt Wallander books. A good read, in the reading for recreation category. Still no morels, they're there, I'm just not seeing them yet. Talk with Mom, officially now has congested heart; Dad can't see and using a walker. They sound marginal, and I'll probably have to get down there soon. Leaves like mouse ears. The sassafras buds are exploding, huge buds, glowing yellow. It's a sight. The big tree, behind the house is dying, beat to death by ice over the last few years, is putting on a huge, gaudy performance, maybe her last turn. A lot of red today too, the red-buds and the red maples. A few frogs eggs in the puddle, a lot of either newts or salamanders, and I've gotten quite confused about which. I hadn't intended to study salamanders. The 11th Britannica has several good pieces. I spend so much time reading those, with a magnifying glass (my set is dense, compact, and small, printed on bible paper) that I get a headache. Go out on the back porch with a smoke and an early afternoon drink, just a splash on ice, sit, with my feet on the step, take in the sun and air. Solid breeze out of the northwest. Because I know what caused the headache, it's easy enough to tilt my head back, stretch my neck, eyes closed against the sun, and will the damned thing away. B came back over today, for a cup of coffee, to talk about the driveway, to see what I thought about the new book. He knew I'd have already gone through the thing, and I had, 158 pages of really solid narrative poetry. I read a third of it, last night and this morning, I'll read it all, and more slowly, in the coming days and weeks. It's very good. "Enridged" Brian Richards, Uno Press. We write about the same place and some of our concerns are the same, so it's especially interesting to me, to see what he talks about, how he talks about it. It's normal to encounter difficulties in a relationship. I just took out a comma and a sentence became more clear. Simple pleasures. I've taken punctuation seriously my entire life. Call it a fetish, or whatever, like my fascination with ankles. Just something I notice. There's a whole list of things I notice, because I take the time. No other reason, just stop and look. I'm the opposite of dangerous. I know some things, I've learned some things, but they prove nothing, repetitive motions that result in a product. Building houses, binding books, the issues at stake are greater than that: is it a good book, does the house deserve to stand? We'll probably have to get into that, but I don't want to right now. I was chasing something, another dream or a mirage on the horizon, another place you might be. You being it, of course, the cosmic explosion and all that. My muse. It's only because I'm read that I exist. Bear that in mind.