Burning Pallets

I have no idea what comes on them, boilers, or big AC units, but I got permission to haul pallets away from the major plumbing supply house. Most of them are the usual, half-inch slats, over three two-by-four rails, all hardwood, usually oak, but I have a couple that are cherry, and one that's a mystery wood, probably rock maple. Then there are the big guys, three feet by eight, four-by-four rails and three-quarters of an inch slats. One of these is firewood for a very cold day, over-fills the box, so in milder weather might last a week. I cut them up with an electric chainsaw, a tool with which I'm comfortable. I stand on the pallet, and cut with the line of the saw outside the plane my body, so that if there is kick-back it misses me. Exceptionally careful about this, because I'm all alone and mistakes are not allowed. B came over for a drink and chat. We talked about Emily, how she might use a lap-desk and stay in bed a lot. Idle speculation. When he left, across the slush and ice covered porch, we agreed we were more careful now, knowing exactly where the foot falls. Increasingly careful. I think I'll take a day off from work, they'd hardly miss me; take a bath and shave, apply some unguents, clip nails, drink several cups of tea, read something, make a few signs in the air. I got up to pee, maybe four in the morning, the almost full moon was spectacular. It's cold in the house, the fire is long gone and I'm not ready to start another day, I just want to crawl back into my down bag. Instead, I start a fire and get the fleece bathrobe. I have leftover roasted potatoes which I intend to feature at a breakfast later. Come as you are. An invitation to be as strange as possible. I'll warn you though, I know some strange people. I have five gallons of melted snow. I feel pretty good about myself right now. Prideful even. Weird, how we're empowered. Huge breakfast, potatoes, omelet (onions and mushrooms), toast, grapefruit juice, coffee. Then propped on the sofa, alternating essays by William Gass and Hugh Kenner. Listened to NPR until it bored me, Republicans are boring, then a walk outside, checking the early morel spots. Nothing yet. I do see a Spring Azure, the earliest I've ever seen that butterfly. Two I want to see, both Polygonia, are the Question Mark, and the Eastern Comma. I spent an hour looking at a butterfly book. When I talked to Pegi this morning, to tell her I was taking the day off, all she said was thank god. Next year, if I take all my paid vacation, I can leave an hour early for 30 days, take a four-day week-end once a month, and take a nine day break to zip out to Denver and see the girls. Best behavior, all that, meet the friends, tell a few yarns, watch a play, visit a few galleries. And bookstores, Denver's good on bookstores. I'd have a car, I could bring a box back. Talk about coals to Newcastle. I'd have to start a new pile, "Books Bought Recently In Colorado", which would get read, and then other books, not from that trip to Colorado, would start getting stacked there, because it would a new place to stack books. I like a piece B brought over the other night which perfectly describes an empty waiting room. I'd en-jamb it, but he opens it out and it works, because the language is so clear. I think about DeFoe and Orwell, a kind of plain-speak. What Gass was talking about when he talks about the particular voice one assumes; around that same time, '84 or '85, writing itself was changing. I could edit, and not have to retype the whole damned thing. It took me years to get to something approaching my natural voice. I imagine just talking to a good friend, Linda, or Kristi, or Glenn; someone I know well enough to just start right in, without any preamble. The next thing I would say would probably be lost in static. Then, maybe, a beginning.