Too Late

Black or pink, I mean come on, I'd choose black every time. I like pink ok, where it occurs naturally, in flowers or sunsets, but it's a chance color in my palette. Mostly, I lean on shadow, blue, gray, black, and, this time of year, shafts of yellow that defy logic. Going into work I was blinded by the shafts broken by the trees. The way light plays is ephemeral. I pulled off into the church parking lot, just because it was available, and because I couldn't see well enough to drive. I know if I stop, roll a smoke, sit in the open door of my truck, and breathe carefully, that I can regain composure. That the angle will alter. That, eventually, I'll be able to see. Thus drive, and get to work. I'm pulled-over, in the church parking lot, not bothering a soul, and the deputy sheriff pulls in next to me. I hate the idea that anyone can ask me questions. I do what I do because I have to, it's not like there are options. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong, but I drive slowly, and that makes me suspect. He asks me to roll him a smoke. I know this means we'll have to talk, and I'm not happy about that. Ends up being a fine conversation about wild turkeys. He knows me, knows where I live, and, like B, knows every road in the west half of the county, knows the name of every hollow. I tell him there's a large flock above the corn field behind the new stables and he's sure they'll let him hunt there. He hunts them the way I used too in Missip, with a .22 rifle, going for a head shot. A shot I used to be able to make, at fifty feet. I learned to shoot from a cousin in Water Valley, Mississippi, shooting from his parents back porch, shooting at walnuts on a tree 75 feet away. He and his father were both great shots. They hunted quail and only fired when two birds were crossing and they could take both with one shot. With his .22 he rarely missed a nut. I got pretty good. D got a wild hair at work and cleaned the kitchen, bitching, correctly, that it wasn't his job, and I helped, without saying a word, because I enjoy D's colorful language when he's on a rant. Had to get off my feet for a while, and I read a very good essay about Winslow Homer. I'm studying the American Watercolor, and it's interesting, the break from European influence. We did something in the afternoon, I forget what, and I couldn't wait to get home. For one thing I'm going to have a vine-ripened tomato sandwich, and for another, it's just a cool place to be. Piles of tottering books and vine ripened tomatoes. I'm not sure it gets any better than that. Walked through the door at 5:32. turned on the AC, saw that it was 88 degrees inside (a digital thermometer on the AC unit), and before I could change into a wife-beater tee-shirt and weightless pants, the power went out. I almost went back to the museum, but there was light enough that I could build an open-face sandwich with mayonnaise and tomato and mozzarella and a can of tuna in oil with a sprinkling of white balsamic vinegar, had a couple of drinks and didn't want to drive. Crashed early on the living room floor, and when the power came on, at 12:43, I started this. I know when the power comes on because Black Dell says "please wait" and then there's a tone, it wakes me from the deepest sleep, and the digital clock starts flashing. But the phone was out and I couldn't SEND. On the way to work I see the problem, another blowdown has taken out the line, and when I got to work, walked across the parking lot, out back, to where the Frontier repair trucks gather for their morning coffee, and told one of the drivers exactly where to find the break. Still, I get a telescoped page when this happens, things get out of order. I'm impatient and cursory with taking notes. I need to get a cheap lap-top with a battery and charger, just to write on, no other function; should be able to get one for next to nothing, as what I need is someone's last generation. I need something for when I travel, and especially for the gig at Chatauqua. Diana wants me to edit out a book, one of several that exist, in the more than 2,000 posts, and I could get a manuscript together, but I have no idea who would publish a book about Janitor College. I maybe have a few hundred readers, I'm not going to jump off the shelves. A backwater, where Detroit Rip-rap (dead vehicles) attempts to alter the flow. In this deranged drainage, which it is, nothing is ever simple. Brecha is a trail made by animals, a great word I first heard in western Colorado, usually referring to a deer-trail. In rugged country it's the only way to get from one place to another. I need a good soak followed by a serious day of scrubbing, I'll probably emerge pink, but what's to be done? Thinking about what a friend had said, that the power grid held no storage, I wonder that the system works at all. For the first time in 72 hours, I have both electricity and a phone. Simple pleasures. I get a short drink and smoke a bowl, doesn't matter what time it is, I should keep a bottle of champagne in the fridge, for times like this, when everything is working. Too much text, Mail Waiting To be Sent, and I take out some words, add a few commas; this is after going through and altering the punctuation so that it more accurately expressed my spoken voice, but I was concerned that there was too much of a run-on quality and commas allowed a pause. So I went back and added a few. This is what Emily was doing, tweaking the language with her dashes. An attempt at order. Hearing is different from seeing. Smelling is different from touching. Senses morph into an apparent reality and what we experience seems to be real. I'd better send this, while everything is working.