Water Works

Of course, when you stop water from entering at the point of least resistance, it will, being the liquid it is, find another point of entry. Nice early drive in to work, so I could stop and admire the various flowering bushes. The barberry and the few remaining dogwoods were stunning. The redbud seems to generate it's own light. Yellow phase, Timber Rattler, is when they moult, Ronny said; Jenny, the naturalist isn't home for my phone call. Very beautiful thing to see. Anyway, Ronnie wondered what was up, I told him about the snake. Everybody around here is an amateur naturalist, they all trap and collect roots. Did well on morels this weekend, 6 meals, but also ran out of butter, hiked another pound in tonight, more cream and juice. Supposed to rain for several more days. The flooding is now, I think, the most extensive I've ever seen. The Mississippi was as high today as during the 1937 flood, same set, then, of circumstances, nowhere for the water to go. Flaubert came up in conversation Saturday, so I've been reading him a little, jumping around, maybe reread him next winter. I owe him a debt, the realist twist. Writing didn't come easy to him, sometimes labored over a page for a week. Ironic bastard too, said "To be stupid, and selfish, and to have good health are the three requirements for happiness; though if stupidity is lacking, the others are useless." Although, maybe he wasn't being ironical. I spent the day in the basement, shoveling shit and pumping out water, thinking about Flaubert and Proust, it was a good day. I put on the yellow rubber boots, so I could wade around. The sump-pump isn't much larger than what used to be a one pound coffee can, it's sitting in a one gallon plastic bucket that has holes drilled in the bottom and around the lower edges. It clogs up, and needs attention, so you really can't leave it alone for very long. I'm doing this in the dankest deepest darkest hollow of the basement. Some bounced light gets in, enough to allow you to remember some really bad trips. I have a metal folding chair I've sacrificed to the cause, I pull it close to the sump-pump, so I can tap away debris with my stick. Janitor duty in spades, and I don't mind doing it, it's interesting. At least I'm not watching a musical. I have a headlamp Howard sent me, and I use it to read, in these situations; strikes me as funny, 'these situations', who finds themselves there? Where is that? Barb wanted us to try the new menu, at the pub, and I was chewed out early on. I can only eat so much. Anthony questioned where my knife had been, I viewed it as a friendly question. Maybe I should take some classes. I could certainly ask leading questions; maybe I should just go along, to identify reptiles. If they bought me a room and dinner. Otherwise, I'm out of here. I'd rather, you know, drown, in that amalgam, than have you throw something in my face, rice or tin-cans. I'd rather do nothing, with a certain grace, than intercede in anything. Strikes me as a little harsh, but I guessed wrong again, the power is out to the house, I could have stayed in town and written. But the sky was clear, and there was no reason to not go home, where at least something would be familiar. The fact that I write longhand, when the power is out, just notes, nothing of account, but a record. I do this only because I must, means nothing; you and your various lovers. Too many commas. Whatever is said. Fucking Whip-O-Wills, 113 repetitions, I get the point, variations on a theme. I'm not really suited for a relationship: like Flaubert said, I'm too selfish. Not unlike Emily, so wrapped up in the moment. Billy, at the pub, asked me out on a blind date, seems his girl friend had a friend, and she'd heard about me, the recluse from the ridge, wondered what I'd be like. I wondered too, depends on where you find me. I ask them out for dinner. When all else fails, I can cook. I'm a better than average cook. I'll do a pork tenderloin with wild fennel pollen, roast some root vegetables; we can talk, see if there's any common ground.