Menagerie

Cleaned out the fridge, odd bits of this and that, and there's a feeding frenzy at the compost pile, red eyes glowing in the beam of my flashlight. A opossum family and a very large coon. You'd think they'd never had shrimp fried rice. I'd cleaned out the cookstove completely (a twice a year chore, cleaning the chase around the oven) and there was a thick layer of ash on top of the pile, with the recent rains almost concrete, which holds paw tracks beautifully; I briefly entertain the idea of casting the whole thing in lead or bronze or something, but dismiss the thought as above my pay-grade. I think through the process, and I could do it, but it would be expensive and involve molten metal. I'd probably hurt myself. It's a nice conceit though, an installation of bronze mounds with a bunch of footprints. We could argue about what art is. I'd take a fairly liberal stance, if there was an argument. There were some horse droppings, on the way in today, that I found interesting. I could reproduce those and call it art, who could disagree? Nice to be back home, after a couple of days away, though it is colder than a well-digger's ass inside. Start a fire of oak chair parts (dumpster find) and red maple. Change into winter writing garb: long underwear, sweat pants and shirt, fleece bathrobe, fingerless gloves, and my Linda hat. The field mice have moved in, droppings everywhere, so I set all the traps, baited with peanut butter, knowing full-well that I'll be awakened by snapping in the night. I throw the dead bodies on top of the outhouse and they're always gone the next day. Recycling. Disposal is a huge problem, as witnessed by the myriad dead appliances and vehicles that constitute the back yards of trailer-homes out in the country. Good Smart-Talk today with Kate and Renee (pronounced ren-ee), the bird textile ladies. While, of course, the hospital crew was setting-up for the Doctor's Party downstairs. I came home an hour early, taking my winter prerogative, because things seemed well in hand. Could be a long day tomorrow, and I needed to start a fire, get away from all that. The silence on the ridge, this time of year, is profound. When there is no wind and the birds have gone to nest, the insects are gone, and you're not on anyone's flight pattern, the quiet becomes a palpable thing. For the first time this season I kill the breaker for the fridge. All I can hear is the cracking of the fire in the cookstove and the hum of my computer. Johnson had trouble with the word 'sublime', it offended his sense of religiosity or morals, or something: too hedonistic for someone Calvinistic. Virginia Wolff thought Sir Tom was a great stylist. And she, of course, gets that from Emily, but where did Emily get it from? The history of green tea and Buddhist monks, trying to stay awake, that state of alert quietness. I've honed a system of remembering, as accurate as I could get. An imperfect system, with sets and sub-sets, and no rules. I should have gone quite loony by now, if I didn't write you. At least I try to remember. Flights of fancy. How could anyone expect a reproduction to be the thing itself? Expectations are usually dross. Not unlike that crap that floats to the top when you melt sinks for a pour. What dross really is. Some esoteric electron spun off in a fit of passion. Quantum mechanics. I just want to keep the boilers running. Fuck a bunch of speculation.