Nothing Satisfies

Considering several dead poets, something, a noise in the night, rouses me from reverie. Just the wind, but it sounded like voices from the past. I hear things. A particular cadence of bug song reminds me of something, someone reciting Lorca in the dark. I don't speak Spanish, but I understand the words, the pauses are pregnant with feeling. One of those moments that stand out against the background noise. I don't understand why one thing means more than another. Everything is conditional. Three crows, don't get me started. A single woodpecker. Comfort in the night.

The soft white
of blackberry blooms
says everything.

Maybe it was the rain that triggered the desire to pee. Up and outside, fresh green smell, cool mist and lingering bits of dream. Bed down on the sofa, sorting thoughts. Sleep, again, is impossible, so I continue reading David Foster Wallace, "The Pale King" which he left as a confused unfinished manuscript when he died in 2008. A monster book, and I can't read it straight through, so I'm also reading Samuel Johnson's dictionary. Not the whole thing, because I couldn't find a copy, but a 'Modern Selection' that runs to 450 pages. His preface for the first edition is included, and it's lovely reading. I use Johnson's dictionary to check Wallace's words, which leads to very funny confusion. Eventually I have out several other, unabridged, dictionaries and the OED, spending over an hour on the word 'affect' because the Wallace book is really about affect and boredom. Johnson says, under 'affection':the state of being affected by any cause, or agent. Then quotes Shakespeare (which he does often): "Some men there love not a gaping pig; / Some that are mad if they behold a cat; / And others, when the bag-pipe sings in the nose, / Cannot contain their urine, for affection." Merchant of Venice. Butterflies, just after dawn, hundreds of them. I go outside and several come to rest on me. Enough morels for breakfast, a frittata, with red peppers and shallots. Johnson says, of butterflies: "A beautiful insect, so named because it first appears at the beginning of the season for butter." A long dialog toward the end of the Wallace, chapter 46, between an attractive woman and a fairly boring nerd, both of whom work for the IRS (the IRS is a central character in the book), and by the end of it, the nerd is interesting and the woman is boring. Wallace was a very precise writer. There was some tripe, in the frozen food case where they allow oddments at Kroger, and I bought a package, to make a couple of different Mexican soups. Essentially the caul (the net in which women enclose their hair, Johnson), the omentum, the integument in which the stomach of a cow is held. It doesn't taste like much, a slight hint of organ, but has great texture. I spread it out on a cutting board still partially frozen, and cut it into a 1 inch dice, simmer for several hours, then add the hominy and greens and cook for another hour. This soup is said to have great restorative properties. I like the way it makes the house smell. If you're in a hurry, use canned hominy, if not, start the day before with dried product, soak it over night, save the soaking liquid, and cook it the next day, separately, then add it to the tripe, with whatever else. This time I'll use chard, some garlic, some onions and roasted peppers. I'll cook the hominy with a few chunks of smoked jowl, because I really like that smoky overtone with the heat of the peppers; this soup needs to be spicy hot, to be effective. Trying to get that word in there, so as to contrast affect. Talked with Mom and Dad today, both in the endgame of dying, and there was a point at which I had nothing to say. Her heart is giving out, he can't walk and his sight is almost gone. D and I were watching a severely handicapped person negotiate the curb, to get to his van, there were people in the van, and we assumed if he needed help they would give it when they thought he needed it. An uncomfortable position, because I tend to offer help, but I was restrained by the common restraint, that someone knew more about the specific situation than I did. Me, a passerby, just seeing the situation. A shadow. As I'm trying to get home, make dinner, go to bed. Reality is such a nuisance. I have to measure the napp and feel the fall of water. It's a personal thing. Like the way you smell or the sounds you might make. Leave almost everything unsaid. Mysterious is good. What isn't said.