Small Fires

It's not enough to be merely 'the fool'. To range freely, you need to walk about mumbling, often arguing with yourself, and striking out against invisible opposition. I'm good at this, because I studied with the best. Walking down Crow Pasture once (I'd made the walk a thousand times) with someone famous, a household name, it occurred to me that the terrain never changes, or rather, that the terrain is always changing. That, in order to stay aware, it was occasionally necessary to physically throw yourself against an immovable object. The result is, of course, that you're left broken and whimpering at the base of a great oak tree; and I asked this person, when we'd achieved the beach, after considerable bramble, whether or not it was worth it. We settled in the lee of a huge glacial erratic, out of the wind, sharing a thermos of hot tea and a handful of nuts, and she said she wasn't sure but that she thought it probably was actually necessary. The discomfort. The wind blowing sand like bird-shot. Did I mention I love this life? I make an omelet, with various mushrooms, it's not a political act; a piece of toast smeared with butter and that great jam Sara gave me. Set the stage, right? I can do this. Whatever the next thing is. Where it all comes in to play. I go back, reading myself is a pain in the ass, and add a semi-colon. Me, of all people. But it seemed correct. Periods are easy, and I spend a lot of time with commas, but semi-colons always arrive like a gun-shot in the night. Not to put too fine a point. I know, I know, if we open up the evidence to too close an examination we open up a can of worms. No, wait, I didn't say that. What I meant was. Spin this shit off. I have my best razor at home. I can shave myself out of this.