Mute Radio

Chilly and overcast, everything is gray and soft greens. I burn junk mail and another chair I got from the dumpster. I can't write, listening to the NPR fund-raiser, so I mute the radio, but every once in a while I go over and punch the volume up so I can get a snippet of news. There's a disembodied quality to it. I listen to a single fact, a perfect game (baseball) for instance, and I explore that fact for a while, maybe an hour, the contingencies of a perfect game. A good soup is right there, so I have a small bowl with a few buttered saltines. One of the butchers at Kroger has agreed to save veal scraps in exchange for pate. Running through an ingredient list in my head, I think about the largest batch I can make, which would be about five pounds, and what the ratios are, the algorithm into which I plug. Badly said, but you know what I mean. It'll dirty every vessel in the house and require over an hour and five gallons of water to clean up the mess, but there will be this product, at the end, an incredible product that I'm actually capable of producing. In a dead heat I probably cook better than I write. I'm hoping I don't have a single unexpected guest, nor a phone call for the next couple of days. It's cool enough that I have Linda's hat pulled down over my ears. I don't want to hear anything. Fucking input overload. Don't remind about the memos, I thought about writing in that form for a few days, how it might appear, 'Memos From The Janitor', and I blew it off, no reason to be sarcastic. I don't care what you do in your off time. I look up words. A fairly benign occupation. Not wanting to be sent. Couple that with actually wanting to be heard. You, with your speech impediments, and me, with this uncontrollable desire to dance. A passing fancy. A jig. It's the Church Of England that did this, fuckjing Anglicans, what they thought they knew. I don't have the patience for anything religious.