The Wind

Who could sleep with the house shaking and the whistling sound wind makes in stick trees? A winter concert, woodwinds, and the occasional snap when a branch lets loose. The ridge seems desolate: stick trees, gray sky, rain for days. Then this morning, after the fog dissipated, the clouds blew away, and blue sky rim to rim. I docent a few people, show the vault again, run some errands (get a chicken pot pie for tomorrow) and leave an hour early, to get a fire started and chase the chill from the house before the temps fall at sunset. Another holiday alone, which must not bother me very much, because I do nothing to change the fact. Which I could, easily enough, as I actively fend off offers of company. I don't buy most ritualistic or ceremonial bullshit, not in my nature. I'd rather take a walk and eat alone. The wind was nasty today, but when I got home, just before sunset, it died completely, and the silence was almost complete. I had to kill the breaker for the fridge. Still the hum of my main-frame, but that is become merely a low-level white noise and it doesn't bother me. Decide that I need to work on firewood tomorrow, cut a path to the woodshed (I haven't been out there since last March and the blackberry canes are six feet tall), inventory what I have, then start hauling wood from down the driveway, maybe split a few things. Maybe bleed off some of the frustration I feel about trying to mediate the friction between Pegi and D and failing. Caught in the middle. I just want to keep hanging shows, I don't care about the politics. I don't care about the Cirque and I don't care about D's MFA, fuck a bunch of petty bullshit, what I care about is the next show at the museum. The logistics, when do I get what, and what am I supposed to do with it. No question mark, though there was a question, implied. It's very difficult to write the way you actually talk. Punctuation becomes an issue. Consider the comma. She swore I wouldn't be accountable. What, exactly did she tell you? I make sense of things in my own way, no one pays me for this, it's something I have to do. Not merely numbers, not an algorithm, just a way of life. Those last bullfrogs, burrowing into a bank of clay. Something I noticed. Another thing.