Recently

I leave out almost everything in my study of what's necessary. I split some wood because I love the way Osage Orange burns, no ash, complete combustion, and I had a good fire going, I could burn rocks, if I needed to. Coal is almost a rock, but dirty, I can't imagine burning peat. A fucking mess. Everybody lives in the kitchen and you sweep the hard-packed dirt floor often. I went out today, to get an armload of frozen wood, and left a trail a leaf parts. A desire path, that leads from the back door to the wood box, little cleats of mud, from the driveway, that dry, and shatter into dust. I'm reading a book about dust right now, it's amazing what happens to even very hard rock in just a few million years. Sandstone is ephemeral, newsprint, practically; 'Popeye' Reed, one of the artists in the show, a hundred years in the elements, becomes just another rock. Maybe durability becomes a criteria. Maybe not. Maybe ephemeral is part of the criteria. I write so much that nothing I say requires criticism, or even a passing comment. I could get away with murder and it would probably get excused under some grandfather clause. In Texas you can buy a gun at a drive-through. In Louisiana you can carry a martini while driving. In Montana you can drive as fast as you want to. In the mid-west there's a Lutheran backlash, where things are regulated, sort of. Not a pope, exactly. but someone in charge. It's all about mediation between you and god. As an outsider I can say with some authority that's it you and an inner voice battling over turf. Nothing real involved, even those rows of corn could be an illusion, simply lines converging on (to) a vanishing point. Look beneath the pattern. There's a message in the dust, a direction, someplace you could look for answers. Just kidding, there is no such place, what you have is a room spayed with vomit, I looked for a better way to say that, but what it comes down to is actually what happens. A lovely day, a couple of inches of snow. I could be trapped on the ridge for a day or two. Split a little wood and read a history of glass. After I got a fire going I melted snow for wash water and roasted a batch of baby red potatoes. Excellent snack, with a little bowl of garlicky mayonnaise to dip them in. We used to take a container of fried potatoes when we went fishing, a loaf of white bread, and a jar of mayo in the cooler with the beer, and make fold-over sandwiches that were incredibly good, but then almost anything is good, in an open boat, trailing a line. Mid-afternoon I slice a few of the potatoes in half and make a fold-over sandwich, with a thick slice of sweet onion. It's very good. Enough of a breeze stirs up to strip the branches of snow. Many of the poplars are breaking bud, the frog eggs are swollen to the size of small marbles, and it's supposed to be in the teens tonight. Then warm up to fifty tomorrow. Roller coaster ride. Since Linda informed me about kale chips I've been making them once a week. It's a thankless job, because you eat them as fast as they cool, but I've moved on to other leaf crops, mustard greens are particularly good, and beet greens. Picked up several cans of spray olive oil at Big Lots, and it's certainly made the prep work faster, I work on waxed paper and rub the new pieces in the over-spray. I never imagined that baked green leaves could taste so good. Thank god I live alone, I didn't have to kill someone over the last chip. I've had a few leftover, not many, but when I do I fry an egg to put on top of them, a match made in heaven. I want to do an eggplant marinara with Justin next time we cook. For when you have vegetarians over for dinner. Cover all the bases.