Animadversion

The pot calling the kettle black. Not unlike the last time someone tested my resolve. March 15 and I'm in a tee-shirt with the windows open. I started a small fire so I could fry an egg, which I had with beans on toast. I'd rescued a couple of containers of red raspberries from the trash, unopened half-pint packages, from Mexico, as it happens, and they were so good, with cream, that I swoon and remember a high-school sweetheart. Two o'clock in the morning and I have to tell you about a container of berries that I got out of the trash and ate with cream that reminded me of a girl I knew in high school. Something about that ripe raspberry smell. Some synapse that locks on a similarity. When it comes to base (bass) functions, we have very little control. Review the literature. Mongolian's  last nudes, I mean come on. He captures something there that's rarely caught, a sense of urgency and a sense of the perfect form. I look at this "Reclining Nude" from 1917, at the Met, and I'm completely blown away. It all comes together, that elongated torso, the perfect breasts tucked up under her armpits, that right thigh in our face, the split of ass. And look at her face, she knows we're looking at her, she enjoys this cat-like stretching. The middle of March and I'm waiting for the other foot to fall, six inches of wet snow, or an ice-storm, certainly flooding, probably ducks frozen in flash ice on the lake. Thunder, but it seems far away, just a reverberation I feel mostly in my feet, I can't really concern myself with everything. First off, it's too much to bear, and secondly, I don't have the time. Living is more than enough.  Imagine a meeting between Kant and Wittgenstein. What they might talk about. The nature of reality, what we might have seen, that peculiar slide into fantasy. Myself, I don't slide that often, occasionally wishing I had more wood under cover. What we might call a 'practical realist' though monikers hardly apply. What I am is simply left to the imagination. Opened early for the county high school art teachers, took then through the folk art show, then they were in the classroom all day, downstairs. TR came in for a couple of hours and we set up for lunch and music in the main galley, then he left, then Trisha left, then Peg left, and I was the only one there. I didn't feel like moving tables and chairs by myself, so I spent some time reading about Outsider Art, trying to figure out how it was different than Folk Art. One of the art teachers are also a morel enthusiast, and we compared notes on when the season would begin. We both have 'early' places and 'late' places where we find them, and he wanted to know how to dry them and reconstitute them. We compared recipes, food gatherers of any sort share manners of cooking, and the usual snake stories. Springtime in the woods around here, and you're going to have some snake stories. We should get some flooding, in the next couple of days, being a confluence and draining a large area; but flooding is not a big deal around here, because people have learned, and mostly what's flooded is bottoms, where no one would live, and you plant corn, both fertile and toxic. The road beds are boosted, though they, too, close off in a calculated sequence that drives you miles out of you way. Ride the ridge-tops and get your ass home. It not as easy as that, maybe it would be if I could let go of things, maybe you could, but I can't, this current squabble has me completely in the dark. If there is a problem and you solve the problem within five minutes, what's the problem? Control is always the issue. I can't be in a relationship right now, because I'm not willing to concede a single point. A fool, in the shadows, holding five balls aloft. I've seen all of this before, when I cleaned up after every performance, there were extra balls lying, laying everywhere, and I just brushed them into a pile, as though I would just sweep them into a pile, not anything scientific, just sweeping the corners.