Inchoate

The music guy reads me to his mom, which is the highest form of flattery. She liked the last post, which says something. In a lull between very strong storm cells. Tornado watch. The weather is increasingly violent. I'm considering a cave. I lose power, of course, and walk around the house wearing the LED headlamp McCord sent. Great for reading at 3 AM when Adams County Rural Electric has taken a hit and the thunder is loud enough to wake the dead. Another night in the country. Nothing means much when you can't sleep because the natural world has so much to say. I try to apply my ground rule: when thunder and lightning happen at the same time, get under a desk, assume the fetal position, and pray, if there's anything you believe in. It's kind of fun, in a slumber party way; you, two friends, and a bottle of vodka. I don't know why I said that, I don't drink vodka. I have, before, but we don't need to go there. Fucking Russians. One of the high points of Neil's visit, it was raining hard, and I had put a five-gallon pickle barrel out on the back deck to collect rain water, we needed hot water to wash dishes or something, and were in the middle of a conversation about Caxton and Shakespeare codifying the language. I'd put my 3 gallon stainless steel pot on the stove, we were talking, and without missing a beat, during a driving rain, I opened the back door, dumped the contents of the bucket into the pot, Neil was impressed with my water system. I was proud. Sometimes I just think I'm crazy. Raining hard now, like a mule on a flat rock, and I'm reading Roy Blount, Jr., with a headlamp. Circumstance is the mother of invention. Grace is how you pull it off. I have a drink and I have tobacco, I don't need much else, maybe some cheese and olives, honest bread, but really, nothing matters, other than intent. Lost a post last night. Stayed in town, awaiting a major severe storm; storm didn't happen, and I wrote, but in sending, forgetting I was on the Mac, I screwed up somehow. A modernist ramble that I picked up with D today, drinking coffee and eating scones. Talking about modernism in the theater, and the movement away from histrionic acting into a more naturalistic mode. Tennessee Williams, Brando, Eva Marie Saint. There were still histrionic actors around, especially in summer stock, when I started to work in theater, it was painful. I was already into Beckett and Ionesco by then. I needed to stay off my feet today, because of a badly infected tick bite in the arch of my right foot. I got the tick out, made the bite bleed and washed everything with alcohol, and it was fine, but a blister developed, because I kept rubbing the damned thing against any curb I could find. Finally had to puncture the blister, disinfect everything again, put on some ointment and a bandage. 2011 is officially the Year of the Tick. The Midwestern show closes tomorrow, so I'm going in to dig out all the packing material and crates, get ready to start de-installing on Tuesday. I have plenty of time, so I can move slow and careful. An enjoyable activity. No one will mess with me, and Pegi even offered some help, but I don't need it and would rather work alone. K has a funny music box, maybe I can play the Cello Suites. When I think about Casals finding that copy of Bach's wife's copy, in a music store in Spain, my heart gives a little flutter; something, again, about the modern. Bach, I think, would be pleased with Casals, excited by Rostopovich, and completely apeshit about Edgar Meyer. End Corruption, I say, like my favorite road sign, which always sounds like a protest, End Road Work, or at least give me more opportunities to participate. I need to go to the hardware store tomorrow, buy a couple of cheap things. I need to repair some tables. Life goes on. I'm sorry I don't make more sense.