Powerless

It's been a record spring and summer for losing either power or the phone. Sometimes I just turn around and go back to town. Spending Sunday alone at the museum, where, at least, it's both quiet and cool. There's a big museum catalog with much text, from a show that was at the Columbus museum in 2000, "Illusions Of Eden, Visions Of The American Heartland" and I spent the day reading and looking at pictures. I did watch Julia and Jacques make sausage and pate (again), and another show, "American Pickers" where two guys buy junk for resale. There's some pretty good microwaveable frozen food, and I ate well, walked over to Kroger in the morning and got supplies for the day. I'd avoided the "Janitor College" book for a few days, I had the time and a high-speed internet connection, so I read myself for a while, looking for patterns, and made a page of notes about the ordering. Attention to detail. Not so much telling a story. It's all in the cove or ogee, the way detail is revealed. A large crown molding might say something, but it would probably be purely personal. Came back out to the house early this morning and all my services were restored. It's so nice to be back on the ridge, with services, that I celebrate with an old vines Zin and a mushroom omelet. No loss of sleep, though my hours have become odd. I write when I have electricity and send when I have a phone. It's a stupid system, but the best I can do, under the circumstances. A great title, I think, "Under The Circumstances", which might be what I'd call the Janitor College book. I love the page, a few years ago, in which I talked about Janus, the two-headed god that defends doorways, and I think that could be the opening of the book, custodial considerations. Then you actually study the work, one does, does the research, and becomes a docent. Glenn mentioned that connection in an email, and I printed it and push-pinned it on the wall. He was correct, he's nearly always correct, and he always brings a new single-malt, so I post that email on the wall, in a place where I'll see it and read it several times a day. I need to be reminded, takes a sledge-hammer for that. I'm remarkably inept when it comes to the real world. Nothing is what it seems. Enough rain, the last couple of days, that the fire danger has receded; leaf mat saturated and the young green plants providing an impenetrable barrier, and the ticks are so bad that only a fool would walk in the woods. So I don't expect to be surprised by any visitors, though I do keep a barely legal sawed-off shot-gun in a concealed but accessible place near the back door. Being robbed three times in twelve years seems to be a pattern, and if I'm ever here, when someone violates my space, I would shoot them in a heartbeat. When the poor rob the rich there's a certain justification, but when the poor rob the poor the system has failed. I could move somewhere else, but there are too many books, and I don't want to build another house. I'm tired, and this a perfectly good house, with a roof and everything. I screwed down enameled steel, this time around, so that I wouldn't ever have to deal with a roof again. Preparing for the endgame. Say what you want, I'm usually in over my head, anyone I went to Janitor College with is at risk, dropping like flies. No reason to panic. What you need is to clear the playing field. I don't argue, as a rule, because it's a waste of time, though I might disagree with your position, and you would certainly disagree with mine. Never nothing. Even a truck-stop in Kansas might reveal something: a storm front that looks like a mountain, tornadoes waiting to happen, dust devils swirling between buildings. The North Platt has dried to a trickle, particular birds are pissed, it's their flyway after all, and now there is no water. Increasingly, this is what we see. Everyone hanging on by a thread.