Much Later

Screaming like a banshee. The wind woke me, shaking the house. That odd sound of trees groaning, as they bend through 45 degrees. On the coast, we'd call this a full gale; the surf, at high tide, would be smashing against the breakwater. My tell-tail is a humming bird feeder I no longer use, I couldn't stand their petty squabbles, and the disused feeder swings a dangerous arc. A few occasional stars, but mostly it's deeply dark. 64 degrees at three in the morning, I start a small fire in the cookstove. The secret, in big winds, is to get the stovepipe really hot, and heat water for a sponge-bath; strip down completely and pad around the house naked. Scrub myself pink, a change of clothes, then scramble three eggs, with store-bought mushrooms and minced onion. By rights, I should lose power, a tree falling on a line somewhere, but I fire up the hardware anyway, to see if I can write a sentence. When I remember, I SAVE. Thinking about Glenn's next movie, the weary janitor, leaning on his mop, talks about Thomas Hart Benton, how Jackson Pollack was in love with Benton's wife, Rita. What was said in those endless conversations. A few mindless strokes with the mop. It's after hours, cleaning up after an event, spilled wine, or water over the dam. Voice over, a discussion about modernism. Barnhart does a music piece that drowns out the words. A wall of sound that becomes the Ohio in spate. Black out. Color returns with dawn, our hero is examining frog eggs with a magnifying glass. He stares into the middle distance. Walks back to the house, perplexed. Starts a fire in the cookstove, steady mumbling to himself, fixes an eggplant marinara, then later, over a neat whiskey and a hand-rolled cigaret, pontificates about tadpoles. This wind, though, I don't know what to think, things are blowing apart. We could docent the wind, but It's hard to define what can't be seen. The cello suites rise from the background, he looks up, ignores your eyes, fucking wind is hammering the ridge tops. Finally go back to bed. Up again. Rain forecast. Severe storms and high winds tonight. Get the truck to the bottom of the hill. Clean out the fridge, clean and oil with heat a couple of pieces of cast iron. Rain starts and I harvest some water, make a pot of coffee, sit of the sofa, reading poetry for several hours. Emily, Olson, Zukofsky. Later, I switch over to whiskey and fiction. A lot of rain, driveway taking a beating, and I think about the basement at the museum. When I get in tomorrow I have to pack the last three pieces of glass, clean that gallery, the high school angst show comes in Thursday. Lindsey should be back at the pub, post-baby, and the banter level will go up a notch. Winds up again, I'd better SAVE. Good thing, as the power flickers. Put a small flashlight in my pocket and get out the oil lamps. Cooler tomorrow, but this rain and warmer temps the rest of the week, morels for sure, next weekend. I've been looking at mushroom recipes; a stew, for sure, and what sounds like a good mushroom lasagne, maybe a cream soup. A rough list of things I need from the market. Pantry badly needs restocking. I keep the radio on, low volume, to hear about local weather warnings and various outages. Extreme event out there, but most of it seems to be missing me. Drive into town should be interesting, if my yard is any indication. Branches down everywhere. I hear a few frogs, this rain has given them new depth, I'm not worried they'll survive; I'm more worried about myself, hung out on a limb. Too much information passes through my fingertips.