Coon Dogs

I have to call Albert again, his dogs are fucking with me now. They prefer my left-overs to chasing around after coons. They're good dogs, but I'm bad for they're training. I let all four of them inside, two Blue-Ticks, a Red-Bone, and a Black-Mouth Cur. I think they're going to love me to death. They drink about a gallon of water, then chow down on pot-pie and cornbread. Four in the morning, I caught the fire just right, and make them another pone. They're so expectant, that when I'm getting the new pone out of the oven, they're all four right behind me (they know the stove is hot) in a kind of dog chorus line, on point. In one simple lesson I've trained four very smart dogs to tree cornbread. We had our little snack. I smeared their pieces with bacon fat and had mine with butter. We all had another drink, then I took them out to pee. It was like a circus act. Then we all went back inside and I got out the foam pad I use when I sleep on the floor in summer and put it over near the stove. They were asleep in a scant minute. They must have been running all night. Since I'd stoked the stove, and it was after five, I put water on to heat, so I could shave and wash. The house is quite warm, heated by dogs; there's a smell of wet wool, which I find attractive, musky, and the murmurs they make in their sleep. The next time someone asks me what I do, I'm going to tell them that I run a hostel for coon dogs; that for recreation, I follow a fox down the driveway. Stimulation is a variable. I perform well, under pressure, it's just one of those things, I tend not to panic, just do what needs to be done, and move on to the next thing. Those rills today, wet-weather springs, were so alive. Everything was flowing. Hiked around in the woods with B, looking for a suitable dead tree and found one only a hundred feet from the woodshed. Going to harvest it tomorrow. Might be able to wheelbarrow it right to the shed. Excellent news as it's supposed to be near zero Thursday night. Got out and back today, on the frozen driveway. Supply run. Holed up, now, against the festivities and the drunks on the roads. Had to turn NPR off as I was sick of year-end lists. I've started doing little lectures in my head about aspects of writing that I want to talk about at Chautauqua. I've never taught in a classroom, so I'm not used to this, but I am used to telling stories, which is the format I seem to be adopting, reading a few relevant pages to emphasize whatever the point was. It amuses me, trailing behind B, walking in the woods, thinking about commas. His knowledge of the woodland is extensive, and I love hearing him talk about trees (or anything else), and that'll surely be more than one of the stories: walking in the woods with someone who knows more than you do. I'm going to take the vehicle down early tomorrow, before the sun hits the driveway, because it's supposed to snow soon, and I'll be busy with firewood all day tomorrow, but I still need to access town, so I need to get the vehicle down there. I'll need whiskey and tobacco at some point. Read more...

Morning Hike

Meet up with B and we hike down to his new/old house. Just about a mile, down the driveway and around on Upper Twin, and it'll be less than half of going straight cross country when he gets a trail hacked through. And he is a great hacker of trails. We studied his roof issues. The house is a small 'L' with a hip roof on each end and at the corner. He wants to raise the ceiling, which will involve taking out some structure that is load bearing, which means putting some temporary structure in place, then he would just start at one end and move the germane ceiling joist up to the new height, where it would become more of a collar-tie. I can see how to do it, and I explain to him how I would do it (much the same way he had imagined) and in what order. I visualize this kind of thing very easily, which I attribute to working for years with Herbert and Helen at the Cape Playhouse. Herbert was the best I've ever known at seeing how to get around a problem. It was a nice hike. Spitting snow, right at freezing, all the freshets flowing because the ground is saturated. On the walk back we talked about various books, then went over to his cabin for a mug of coffee and further discussion. It's always a treat to talk literature with him. Between us we probably read 600 books a year, with 25 to 40% overlap, so there's always something to talk about. Walking back to my house, I sat on the front porch of the print-shop and rolled a smoke, thinking about his roof, and realized I would add Hurricane Clips to all the rafters that would no longer be triangulated with ceiling joists, a cheap and simple solution to racking. And I might add some cross-bracing, above where it wouldn't be seen, just because I could. I actually vision this in three-space, more a habit than a capability, I always look at the way the load is carried. It might affect where I stand during the ceremony. Walking up the driveway with B, I don't often walk up the driveway with anyone, I was struck with the fact that we are both old men, we stopped to catch our breath; but we still do this, walk two miles, in freezing temps, to talk about a roof problem. He generously offers that there will always be a place for me there, when I can't achieve the ridge, and that there is an heating system with a thermostat. Fuck me nine ways from Sunday. If I had known there were thermostats, I would have bought into this a great deal earlier. Hot running water? You have to be kidding. Read more...

Midnight

At some point I rolled up in a blanket and fell asleep. I hadn't realized I was exhausted. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was asleep, and would have stayed that way, but around midnight a pack of hounds found the compost heap. I'd buried some stuff, cleaning out the fridge, but the nose of a Blue-Tick Hound can find a ham-bone, whether it be on the other side of the world; a couple of feet of compost is hardly a deterrent. I can tell these are good dogs, expensive dogs, they're not feral, and they have tags. Polite procedure, no matter the time of night, and these are coon hounds, they only run at night, is to restrain one of the dogs and call the owner. A Red-Bone female wagged her tail at me, and I took her into the house, so I could read her tags. I gave her some water and the last of the bean soup, and called Albert, to tell him I had his dogs. He said he'd be over directly. He knew exactly who I was. I don't know whether this should be alarming or not. Thirty minutes later, he shows up at the house. We're dressed the same, in Carhartt bibs. His prize Red-Bone bitch is curled up in front of my cook stove, and when he calls her, she seems reluctant to leave my hearth. Yes. He offers me money, but I refuse, "having your dog, sir, is reason enough". and I think he thought I was crazy. Off to town, before the sun could hit the driveway, and it was just barely frozen. I literally just got up, made a travel mug of coffee, and left. The museum was closed today, no one there, and I was able to take a sponge bath, shave, and wash my hair. Got out of my long-underwear, so I could wash them with the rest of laundry; put them in my pack, and stashed the rest of my clean clothes at the museum, knowing there was no way I'd be driving in this afternoon. Stopped at Kroger for whiskey, cream, and the ingredients for a large chicken pot pie, about all I wanted to carry. I had expected the driveway to be muddy, and I wasn't disappointed; but the Jeep is at the bottom of the hill, and I have supplies to last for several days. Stopped at the library and B was there, he pointed out the new Michael Gruber novel, which I snatched right up. This guy is a great writer. A completely gray, overcast, day, but not cold, and I curl up on the sofa with a nice Old Vines Zinfandel, a plate of cheese, olives, gherkins, and saltine crackers. The cheese is especially good, a splurge, a Double Cheddar from England that I favor. They've named the Mac And Cheese at the pub for me, the side with hot peppers and bacon. I tend to order outside the menu, and they've always been good to me about it; but now that the pub is changing hands, I don't know how that will continue. Today, went I went in, Cory told Lindsey that there was a beer for me, where the cold kegs were stored; he had poured out an oatmeal stout, to make sure that tap was ok. He knew I'd appreciate the gesture. It's a great beer, $5.50 a pint, and he understood it should not go to waste. I'm flattered that he thought of me. I get humus and crackers, which is not on the menu, and watch half a soccer game, nursing a second beer. Barb comes out and sits with me. We talk about transitioning to the new owner, Francesca. Barb and John (himself) have a condo for two weeks, the beginning of February, in Vero Beach, Florida, and it's clear she's looking forward to that. February was always the month I liked to get south, when I lived in New England, spend a week or two cooking for Mom and Dad. A cold rain moves in. The ground is already saturated and the lowlands are flooded. Shallow lakes of great expanse, where the bottoms have been cleared and leveled to grow corn and soy beans in rotation. Herons, now, up to their knees, fishing for perch. The largest trout I ever caught, in Colorado, was in an irrigation ditch. I can file that among my dubious records. The patter of rain brings me back into a relative reality, if I'm to believe my senses, and think I know where I am. End of the year, best of the best: movies, none; books, non-fiction, "The Swerve"\; fiction, Pynchon; poetry, Stephen Ellis. Best meal was probably when I wrapped those pounded pork tenderloin medallions around a morel stuffing. I truly hit it on the gravy that night. The best thing I heard was Eric Clapton, late at night; the best thing I saw were these egg-tempera paintings by Koo.The wind is picking up, I'd better go. Read more...

Stray Cat

A black kitten has been hanging around, I have no idea where she goes at night. She meets me on the driveway, when I'm walking in, and sometimes scratches at the door. I don't feed her, I've never let her inside the house. I don't want a pet, don't want to be responsible, it's more than enough to deal with my own needs, this time of year. But it tugs on my heartstrings that she'll die this winter, and be eaten by her fellow members of the food-chain. Sympathy only extends so far. For years I tended so many animals, 50, 60 at a time, but I'm well and truly shut of that now. I can't do it anymore. Went in to work, started inventorying the light bulbs. We use a lot of light bulbs, a lot of different kinds of light bulbs. I gave Mark a break, so he could go to lunch; went over to the pub, but I'd had a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit on the way into work, wasn't hungry, and just had an oatmeal stout. A friend, Loren, who actually works in the kitchen at the pub and was sitting at the bar, on his day off. Speaks highly of a place if the help hangs around on their day off. He was Pozzo in my "Waiting For Godot" at the college. We worked together for several years, so we smoked out back (theater people are good at this) and talked about various things. Single people, that are not in a relationship, are almost universally completely concerned with relationships. I'm more concerned with keeping the weevils out of the cornmeal, not to draw too fine a point. The driveway was slick coming in this afternoon, and I wished I had just parked at the bottom and walked in. I should be able to get out early tomorrow, before the next freeze/thaw cycle begins, leave the Jeep down there, so I can get to work next week. Doesn't take the entails of an animal to fore- see mud in my future. Assuming I get out safely, I can shave and wash my hair at the museum, get a few things, do my laundry and leave it in the car, walk back in, and be snug in clean long underwear. That's my goal. Pork Fried Rice, and a book from the library. Sunday I need to saw up a couple of things. Monday I can do the list of the strangest ten things that happened to me in the past year, and Tuesday I'll cook and drink to excess. It's a plan. Read more...

Planning Ahead

It's probably too much to expect that the Bill Gates or some other benevolent foundation would step in and buy my whiskey and tobacco, so I need to cut back on that. If I stay home, don't eat lunch at the pub and don't drive back and forth, I save, minimum, $13 a day. I'd like to get a Medicare supplemental policy, $100 a month through AARP, so I don't end up destitute. What with land taxes, and vehicle insurance, an electric bill, and staying warm enough to function, eating and drinking and staying alive, I'm right at the end of my rope. Next month I have to upgrade the suspension and tires on the Jeep, I have to get a new computer, $1750 at least; I'm not happy with the numbers, but there you go. Unexpected expenses. You need a fund for that. My tree-tip pit is better than yours. I can keep a fire going, at the mouth of the cave, and keep the animals at bay. Turns out I didn't have to go in to work, still I could drive door to door, as the driveway is again frozen solid, and I could bring some things in. A beer at the pub for lunch, and watched part of a soccer game. Beautiful day, clear, came home the back way, on Odle Creek Road; lovely, stark winter scene. I had a bag of rolls from the last party in the freezer at work, stopped and fed the geese. They went into their usual frenzy. They could easily kill a little old lady, and they actually frighten me a bit. But I like recycling the breadstuffs, of which there are always tons left over. The geese are fun to watch, from the safety of a vehicle. Most of this group (42 birds) are all about the same size, 15 to 20 pounds. Talked to the painting crew today, nice guys, and they're doing a good job, lots of repair to the substrate. They're not looking forward to the main ceiling. I can't even bear to watch. I may have to stay home and take a sedative, an Irish sedative. My days of working twenty feet off the floor, with no railing or safely line, are long past. I have trouble, now, changing a light bulb. Read more...

Pleasantly Surprised

Pleasantly surprised, I got up to pee and it was very cold outside. Put on your red dress, baby, we're going out tonight, put on your high-heeled sneakers, wear your wig hat on your head. And it's a great blues set on the Athens NPR. A wonderful anodyne. Buddy Guy, "Mustang Sally", rocking the ridge. This is so unexpected. The complete opposite of seasonal music. Puts your big fat feet on the ground. I've spent 40 years with the blues, ten of those, I had access to the archives in Mississippi, but this is a great set, goes on for two hours. I stoke the fire and get a drink. John Lee certainly had the greatest voice ever, but I love that delta guitar playing, almost slack, it seems pregnant with emotion. Someplace in the middle, a Dicky Betts riff with Dwayne Allman. Then Clapton covering Lightning Hopkins. The greatest Xmas gift ever. Early morning, I've gotten nothing but the blues, and it's oddly perfect. I open a red wine, a blend from Napa, Three Lions, and I want to let it breathe for a couple of hours. I always taste the wine right away, to get the level of liquid down in the shoulder of the bottle, so there's more surface area; and this wine is good off the starting block. Bodes well for the day, because I'm short on whiskey, having never gone back to town. Later though, having cleaned up and shaved, I was following the fox. I was cleaning out the fridge, washing storage containers, and on one of my trips to the compost pile, she was standing at the edge of the clearing, flicking her tail. I go back inside, get her an apple, and roll it over to her. She pounces on it, flattens out on her belly, and holds it under her front paws; rolls it around with great dexterity and eats the whole thing in about two minutes. She grooms herself, not unlike a cat, and prances over to the driveway. I decide to follow her, but go back inside and get the things I never leave laying around,:my wallet, my keys, my checkbook. She leads me right down to the Jeep, then slips off through the brush. When asked, as I will be "what did you do over the holiday?" I'll be able to answer that I followed a fox down the driveway. Since I was down at the Jeep, and I had my keys, I decided it was a sure sign that I should go to town and get some whiskey. Everything was closed, even Kroger, which houses the only liquor store in town. So I went to museum and borrowed some whiskey, filled a flask, got a couple of gallons of city water, which is supposed to be safe. Town was deserted. The drive back home was post-apocalyptic, not a single vehicle in 17 miles. I called Joel, in Atlanta, and he sounded good; then I made a risotto and a small pone of cornbread. I thought I was supposed to be at work tomorrow, but TR thought the museum was closed, either way, I'm going to town, I need stuff. I want to make either a pork or shrimp fried rice, and I need to check my mail. This is survival mode. The wood boxes are full, all's right in the world. Read more...

Firewood

B came over and we decided to look at his roof tomorrow morning, so that he can enter holiday festivities later in the day: kids, and the whole extended family. I have modest plans, a quick trip to town, for sushi and a bottle of Irish whiskey. Then some more time in the woodshed. I made a good start on it today, and got a good fire going in the stove using odd chunks of wood. These chunks accumulate, especially if you collect pieces off the side of the road. Knots and crotches tend to burn long and hard, but they're a pain in the ass to deal with. I don't mind the pain in the ass. A good night-time log is worth the extra effort of splitting out a recalcitrant stump. I put the soup on to heat and I have half of a small corn-pone from last night. It's great soup, but I just might freeze the rest of it. I think I'll make a risotto on Xmas day, with onions, mushrooms, and winter squash. Maybe I'll get a small steak when I'm in town tomorrow. The cut-rate meat bin should be full. I'm not opposed to the idea of fixing pork neck-bones on a bed of sauerkraut. I'll certainly have a fresh pone of cornbread. Mostly, I'll probably lay on the sofa and read. The radio will be maudlin. Best that I just hole-up, wear a bath robe all day, and lament the breeding habits of dust motes. I have things to read, and notes to take, toward some future narrative, and I manage to engross myself. B said it all, leaving, walking carefully across the back deck and down the two stairs. He looked over his shoulder and said he couldn't afford to fall. I'm right there with him. I made five trips in from the woodshed, and I was very careful, looking where I put every step. This time of year, a fall could be the death of me. So those are my plans: to not fall, and make a risotto on Xmas day. I might call someone. I have to go, the wind is blowing a gale. Much colder. There was snow in the morning, B came over and said it was too cold for walking down to his house, and I agreed. Another session in the woodshed, Had to wear a watch cap and one of those tubes that goes around your neck. Steph had sent that last item from Iowa and it's very warm. I stayed outside until my feet got cold, then came inside and had tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I seem to be burning a lot of calories. TR called, to tell me about the latest little shake-up at the museum (he was there, avoiding having to go to Xmas Mass), it seems that our new part-part-time education person quit on Friday. It's a ten hour a week position and should be easy to fill. TR said the painters were at the museum. Another huge mess coming my way. We do have a crew coming in to do the floors afterward. Everything was brittle outdoors today. Clear but there was no warmth to the sun. Lovely, though. And being able to see the terrain through the stick trees. A few extremely ruffled birds. No sign of any other animals in the new fallen snow. Very quiet. For the longest time, I was only aware of the sound of my breathing and the crunch of my boots on the crust. When I get a good fire going, I use the temperature dial in the door of the oven to tell me when to add a log. After about an hour, when I've built a fire, and I open the draft that circulates the hot smoke around the oven, thus the term smoke-chase, the temp in the stove steady rises. I control this by draft, and by what I feed it. So if it spikes (oven temp) at 600 degrees, I notice that number, and when the temp drops back down to 500 degrees, I need a log, I need to poke the coals. It's a system built on empirical data, I've probably had two thousand fires in this particular cook stove. I love her dearly. But she is quirky. Read more...

Roof Line

B wants me to look at the intersecting roofs of the old farmhouse he bought down the way. I might have some ideas. I'm blessed with the ability to see the way a load is carried. It's just a gift, I know nothing, mathematically, about how the stress is dispersed, but I can see it. When a big wind hits my house, I see it in color, and certain attachments are highlighted in red. I over-build as a matter of course. What you don't see can only help. For instance, where the pony-beam that is exposed in my house, dies into the outside wall, you see nothing, the beam merely dies into the wall. Actually, there are eight 2x6's that form a pocket for the beam, inside the wall. It's really clever and handsome, the beam dying into the wall, but there's a lot involved, that you don't see. It's the nature of things. Most everything is hidden. I told B that I wasn't going anywhere, the planets are so rarely aligned; that I felt it was my duty to listen and watch. When the power comes back on, my computer always says "Please Wait". The pickle buckets are full; I decanted several gallons of drinking water, and filled the pot I use for shaving and washing my hair. The next time I'm this plush in water it'll be melted snow. Waiting for a phone call from my sister about Mom's ongoing heart problems and I finally realize that my phone is not working. I start a small fire in the cook stove, venting the heat directly, just to heat water. I need to do a few dishes, clean up and shave. B walked over and I told him we might have to wait to do the walk-through of his new/old house. Generally speaking, roofs in older houses tend to be under-engineered. The ridge beam itself is usually under-sized. A single 2x8, for instance, if the rafters are 2x8's, because you can through-nail into the adjacent rafters, despite the fact that a toe-nail is much stronger than a through nail. Bad judgement based on faulty information. I built several houses in Colorado with large hips, and I was always amazed at how stout the main hip-rafter needed to be: in one instance, for a span of twenty four feet, it needed to be a doubled 4x14 laminated beam. A monster that required a crane and many anxious moments. There was even a required bolting pattern. I knew my building inspector very well, in Colorado, Greg Pink, and since I was usually building in almost inaccessible places, he would often ask me to just photograph what I'd done, so he could give his stamp of approval without having to actually visit the site. This ham and bean soup is one of the best ever, and I revive a Johnny-Cake I remember from my youth, nothing more than a cornmeal pancake, but hot, and slathered with butter, one of the great treats the world has to offer. Memory is such an odd thing, inspired by smell or sound; what actually happened is subject to revue, but not the gut perception. Clearly, she was out of bounds, the referee was obviously just looking at her ass, and who could fault him? she had a great ass. Still, some rules must apply. What are the bounds and what is out. I had a great conversation with a lesbian friend at the pub recently, and she argued, convincingly, that sexuality had nothing to do with spirituality. She's a fairly devout Catholic, which is difficult for me to wrap my head around, I've always had a problem with faith; and she believes there is a god, and that the local priest, somehow, is a conduit to the pope, with his funny slippers and hat. First thing I'd do, if I was pope, Tom the XLII, is lose the accoutrements. I'd wear jeans and a denim shirt, fuck a bunch of convention. I'd be a good Pope, or Supreme Court Justice, I'd actually listen to the argument. What I notice anymore, is that no one has a clue. Still no phone. I almost walked out and drove to town to call my sister, but there's no point in it, a phone call from me wouldn't matter, and I've been drinking since the first phone call, thinking about life and death. I shouldn't drive. B argued that I should get a satellite link and just buy a lap-top. Wouldn't cost much more than AOL, MCI, and Frontier combined, and it would probably be more dependable, certainly faster. Not that I care that much about speed, I actually prefer moving slowly. The immediate reward is that you tend to notice things. I was walking an old logging road today, thinking about death and heart-break, and there's been so much rain, recently, that I was soaked through, after just a couple of hundred yards. It was warm, though, and it didn't matter that I was wet. I have a stump, on the point, where the last slope dies down into Upper Twin Creek. It's a nice place to sit and roll a smoke. I have a foam pad, to keep my ass from getting wet, and I have a wee dram in my flask.This is not a bad place to be. I usually exhale, blow my spirits away, then smell the place where I find myself. But there was this huge web, six feet across, perfect in every detail, even down to the beads of light, glinting at the edge of my attention, right in front of me. It's beautiful, and I'm lost in a reverie. It's just a spider web, but nonetheless, it seems to be a considered construct. Everything, in nature, is considered. I need to run into town, later today or tomorrow, cream for my coffee, juice, and the makings for shrimp fried rice, maybe a ten pound pack. On Cape Cod, this time of year, always alone, I'd usually walk down through Crow Pasture to where Quivet Creek discharged into Cape Cod Bay. A lovely marsh, where I had seeded oysters and mussels on public estuaries that were, essentially, private, because no one else knew they were there. Ten minutes work for a sea-food stew. Where the creek cut into the bay I could always catch something, a striped bass, or a bluefish, or a cod, using a clam for bait. I had a 'Beginner's Rod And Reel" kit that folded into almost nothing, and I carried it everywhere; mostly, in those days, I ate sea-food, it was free. Even the bait was free. I grew potatoes and shallots, I had a bed of watercress; I ate cat-tails and mushrooms that were questionable, but I lived from the sea. It's one of the things you miss, moving inland, that briny smell, and the sure sense that you could simply dissolve into various salts. Lucretius. Or Thoreau, or Prost, maybe. Anymore I just look for connection. I would I were a weaver. Read more...

Yearly Raid

I made my yearly raid on Tim Horton's. They make this huge display of fall root vegetables and I rescue some, before they rot. Cream of squash soup for the winter. Christmas in jail. They missed the point. The days are getting longer, thank god, and the woodpeckers are active. Rain, as projected, and I put out my pickle buckets to collect water; then caramelize an onion, and put on the meaty ham bone to simmer. It was one of those expensive cured and smoked, spiral cut hams, so I forgo any salt, and just add freshly ground black pepper. I'm two dollars into this pot of soup, and it should make six meals. Cornmeal, for the bread was free. A sidebar (everything is a sidebar): Joel had sent me some cornmeal and grits that were the best I had ever had, and I immediately ordered some more, Logan Turnpike Mills (loganturnpikemill.com), then wrote them an email about how good their products were, and told them about John Thorn's wonderful essay on grits, and they responded by sending me some free cornmeal. I elected to not go to Drew's holiday celebration, because the driveway is a mess, I'm warm, and the house smells wonderfully like ham and onions. The guest list was completely to my liking, but weather like this, I'd rather just stay at home. A group of people I care about, but that know me well enough to know why I'm not there. I don't have a problem with being alone, not to say that I'm not occasionally lonely, but I always have about ten things I'm reading, and I can always make soup. Rain and more rain, I can only imagine the napp at the spillway. After a walk outside, I smell like a wet dog. I have a lot of rain water, so I make myself a bath, in the sheep watering trough, next to the stove, and scrub off some layers of grime. Four hours later, I scrape the last meat off the bone with a tablespoon, and eat the marrow slathered on toast, add a couple of cans of Great Northern beans to the pot and turn off the heat. A great soup is mostly a matter of circumstance. I had this ham-bone and bought a couple of cans of beans. One of the best soups I've ever eaten. Right up there with clam chowders on Cape Cod. I have to go, it's raining hard. Read more...

Muddy Slog

Got to work on time, though my shoes were caked with mud. Fifty degrees today and I knew the frost would be coming out of the driveway. Still, I needed supplies. Charlotte told me to leave early, so I stopped at Kroger: whiskey, juice, eggs, bread, and the makings for another ham and bean soup (which I'll undertake tomorrow, on a hot-plate, because it's supposed to be sixty degrees) to last me for the three days I'll be on the ridge. I need to do my laundry, but that can wait. The walk in, with a heavy pack, through the mud, was as bad as expected. A heavy pack, and carrying a bag, with the eggs and bread, in my off hand, and my mop-handle walking stick. I'd heavily waterproofed my work-boots, so when I got to the top of the hill, I cleaned them in a puddle and stamped around in the leaves. I'd picked up sushi for dinner, so I didn't have to worry about cooking tonight. I need to work in the woodshed this weekend, because it's supposed to get cold again, Monday night. I need to clean out the fridge, left-overs from when the girls were here. I need to boil the sauce, while I have some surplus pork fat (from the ham trimmings) and put it to bed, confit sauce. Doing that will provide me with enough cracklings for an absolutely killer pone of corn bread, which will go nicely with the bean soup. If the power goes out, which I expect (they're calling for four inches of rain and high winds), I'll start a fire in the cook stove and open windows to the leeward. The important fact is that I'm on the ridge and not in town; and I can stay here now; without any pressing concerns. If I can get to town, fine; if I can't, fine. I have some painting to do, and two shows to install at the beginning of February. I'll be there for that. You can count on me. In the interregnum, I suppose, there could be some confusion. Should we be more Conservative or more Liberal? Read more...

Pawn Shop

I never frequented these places before, but there are two pawn shops within a couple of blocks of the museum, and now I check them out, once in a while. One of them Diamond Loan, has a large collection of tools, and I like to poke in the pile. Last week I found a beautiful splitting-maul head in the bin, two bucks, it needed a handle. Following B's advice, I found a young Black Gum sapling and I've spent some hours shaving it down to fit. I drove the handle into the head tonight, split it, and drove in a wedge. It feels very nice, it's tempered, and fairly sharp. The first red maple stump I hit blows half-way across the yard. This is a maul as God intended. Assuming a god. I have a bunch of chains for my electric chainsaw, which I just use in the woodshed, to cut branches and splits to length, and I sharpen one of them to deal with what I think of as the Osage Orange Problem. I need to clean out the woodshed . Burn it all. The past is a bucket of ashes. Staff Xmas party at the pub. I only allowed myself one beer because I really wanted to get home, despite the fact that it meant a walk in, after dark, on a muddy driveway. It was completely overcast and therefore as dark as it could possibly be. My small LED flashlight had me following a cone of blue light all the way home. I left the pub when Steve Free started singing carols. Not in the mood for them. The new bosses had kind words for all around. Barb had saved us the back section, separated off with a folding screen. Very nice. Good food and good conversation. Pegi is taking a group of eighteen kids to do a performance (condensed) from her Circus Nutcracker, and some other Cirque/dance pieces, at a women's prison on Saturday, and we talked about that. There were some prison stories, Mark had hung an art show at the same prison, Pegi was there last year too, so they compared notes on the physical plant and the tightness of security. It's a maximum security prison. Charlotte, naturally, knew someone from Louisiana that had done time, and I've known several. Story time. I wanted to stay, but I wanted to get home even more. I'd already eaten, and that meant I could just get a drink and go to my computer. I couldn't remember where I was in my writing, not that I keep track, but I couldn't remember if I'd started another paragraph. I knew (I thought) I had sent one last night. I nearly always have a paragraph started now. Sometimes two of them. If I saw the fox, on the walk down the driveway, I might open a file at work; occasionally I stop in the middle of a paragraph (when it's perfectly obvious where I'm going) and start another one, that might not be quite so obvious. I actually like not knowing what's going to happen. I gaze off, into an infinity of chose's. Is there an implied noun, is that why 'chose's is correct? I call several people, and it seems I'm quite accurate when it comes right down to it. What I remember is the same as what you remember. Three crows singing in the dead of night. Read more...

Overtime

Buy me a new pair of shoes. Nothing to do with anything. I wouldn't bet on it, if it came right down to it, I think your Queen's pawn is in trouble. Stayed in town, rather than walking a slippery slope after dark, and had a great time. John Hogan, himself, was at the bar in the pub. He bought me several Irish whiskeys, and we sat there and talked for hours. Mark and Charlotte came in, just back from DC. After they left (and Barb had gone home to do something) John and I had Alicia streaming music... not Irish music, but early folk, rock, and jazz... off a cell phone into the sound system. We were a bit loud, but no one else was there. The hospital crew finally came and got their stuff at two in the afternoon yesterday, only 28 hours late. TR and I got rolling this morning, put away chairs, our tables, and spent some time on the floor. I left early, because there was finally someone else there. If I attend the Xmas dinner for staff tomorrow evening, and I should, I'll probably stay in town again, rather than walk up a muddy driveway after dark. We have a thaw coming, over the next few days, and it's going to be extremely messy. The frost coming out of the ground. If the woodshed were full, which I can easily do, and the larder was well stocked, I could stay up here for days or weeks at a time, which is my inclination now. In the inclement weather, go down maybe once a week, for books and booze. Hole up, in town, when I needed to install a show, but otherwise, off the radar. This came up several times today. And the night before. My friend Kim has departed his job, for the state of Florida, and John Hogan, himself, has accepted retirement (again) because they need someone younger that's willing to work full-time. And it hit me, when I was walking in, I'd stopped to decipher a kill-spot, the fox had gotten a vole or a mouse, and there was disturbed snow, some blood, and a spiral spread of fur. The tracks said it all. I studied the area closely for maybe half-an-hour. A narrative was like reading an essay or a short story. I read a page, on average, in three minutes, so a thirty minute diversion is the same as a ten page story. Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, but it may have been the day before, I was looking at a reproduction of a Wyeth painting. I looked at it for an hour. Had a smoke and a wee dram of Irish, called a friend who is wiser than me, made a small sup, with potatoes and eggs, and generally retired myself, still looking at the painting. The alternative world it's possible to create. If I'm not beholding, to anyone else, then I'm a free man, and I can look at a picture for an hour. I was never an Art History major, but I was always a quick study. Read more...

Waste

It's appalling, what gets thrown away. I could have fed a hog for a week on the left-overs from the brunch. I rescued the ham trimmings and a bone, several cups of minced onions and peppers, and enough biscuits to gorge the geese down at the lake. I had to buy two cans of beans (two for a dollar, Great Northern, house brand) and I'm well on my way to making a pot of ham and bean soup that would feed at least eight. It freezes well, so it'll be eight meals for me. With the cornbread (I need eggs, another expense) this works out to 30 cents a meal. Not counting my time: splitting wood, reading at the island; standing up, when I roll a smoke, so that I remember to stir the pot. It's all a matter of time. This is how you control your food budget. The last dinner party I attended, I took one of those gallon zip-lock bags ( I've never bought one these, I just recycle ones that cross my path), and stayed late, to help clean up; made a vegetable soup, from leavens, is that the correct word? It's either late or early and I go out to pee. It's cold, but there is one star, shining through a break in the clouds. Just enough. Joel asked me if I was satisfied, and I told him that I was. I've now been on the ridge longer than I've ever been any one place. A matter of circumstance. Early morning light is a wonderful thing, the way it breaks over a bleak landscape. Hard stop. Read more...

Fixed Agenda

The next few days should be a real test. I might have to stay at the museum for a couple of nights, just because I'll be the only staff person there. Mark and Charlotte are off to DC and Pegi is doing her Xmas thing on the main stage at the University. I can do this, with my MFA in logistics: first one thing, then another. Once you get into the swing of things it becomes fairly obvious. One thing follows another in a deliberate way, a desire path, and you end up with an actual path leading where you want to go. Trampled leaves and snow. Access is a relative term. Nothing is what it seems. I'm back on the ridge. Stayed the extra night in town, so that the hospital crew could pick up their tables and decorations, and, of course, they didn't show. I knew they wouldn't, despite Jennifer's promise that they would. I seem to have left a paragraph unsent (Brittle), so it's out of order, but I'll send it along anyway. The 'next few days' were a test, three days alone at the museum, but I managed to read several more essays on Andrew Wyeth. It's interesting to note that, like Carter, he thought of his work as being abstract. The walk in, this afternoon, was very cool. The fox was coming down the driveway, and when she saw or heard me, she turned right around and pranced back up the way she had come. Led me, at a distance of about fifty feet, right to my back door. She waited around until I rolled her an apple. Her coat is lovely now, filled in and fluffed out for winter, and she twitches her ass in a way that I find most becoming. As soon as I got the stove hot enough (450-500 degrees) I made a small pone of cornbread and ate nearly the whole thing. For a six-inch cast iron skillet, a cup of corn meal is just right, an egg, baking powder and soda, enough buttermilk to make it flow, preheat the skillet, with a dollop of bacon fat, until it's very hot, and bake it for twenty minutes; with these new/old artisinal whole-corn meals, with a liberal application of butter, it's one of the great things ever. My younger daughter, in the foot-steps of her grandfather, enjoys it in a mug, crumbled, with sweet milk. Dad will be 94 next month, and Mom 89, but they can't see, and struggle getting to the bathroom. My sister thinks they'll outlast us both. And she's probably right. I have no desire to out-live my usefulness. Read more...

Brittle

A black cat at the back door. It's very cold, 3 degrees, when I get up to pee. I don't want a cat, though I am probably more of a cat person than a dog person. The snow on the back porch is a crust, and the footing is good, because of that; you break through, and stick to the substrate, because even the outside of your shoe is so much warmer than the air. Granite, 2.69 specific gravity, 168 pounds a cubic foot. While I was outside I was thinking about the dual jetties at the harbor in East Dennis, on the Cape. All granite. Rip-rap of large stones, 500 to a thousand pounds each, topped with a fairly flat cap stone, a walking surface, maybe six feet wide, eight or ten feet long, four feet thick. 6x8x4 times 168 is a large number, 32,256 pounds. I would love to have been on the crew that built those jetties. I digress. One of the first winters I spent on the Cape, 1970 (?); and my usual footwear at the time were these double-soled moccasins, no arch support, made by a guy in St. Augustine, Florida. I wore those for years. Finally realized I needed some arch support. I walked down to the harbor almost every day and the bottoms of the moccasins would get a little damp from walking in snow, the jetty was frozen solid, and my every step would stick just enough to give me perfect traction. Right now the driveway is frozen hard, the high today was 23, five degrees last night and ten tonight, and the ice layer is like glass. My crampons weren't breaking through and it was a perilous walk. I took one controlled fall, into a snow bank, when I found myself sliding backwards. A nothing day at the museum, lost to the hospital party. Tomorrow, clean-up from that, then Saturday the reunion party people set up. I'll be there all day Sunday, then Monday for the pick-up of all the tables and other party related items: the portable bars, the booze, left-over food. We should be a museum again by Tuesday morning. The floor will probably be a mess. I vote that we hire Leo; young, strong, and a hard worker, to come in and clean the floor. I may be done with mopping. I'm done with a great many things. Read more...

Cornbread

I'll have to hike in with what I need, that much is obvious, I'll make a bean soup and cornbread. I'd like to stay home Tuesday, but I can't, if the museum is to open, because I'd be the only staff person there. This has spun out of control. Four days in a row, I'm the only staff person there, everyone else is either other occupied or MIA. It's cool, but I'm ready for a break. I need to chop wood and gather kindling; rich people drive me crazy with their various concerns. Not to sound elitist, but it all comes down to bean soup and cornbread. I love the way Wyeth focusses on almost nothing. Two boots trampling a weed, a laundry basket, I need a third thing, the way he always places the horizon line high in the image. Meaning is a mystery. I only started this whole Wyeth thing because I knew he and Carter had met. Tenuous connections. Glenn and I, for instance, we go way back, before the beginning, often try to define things by how they appear. I caution you, nothing is what it seems. Read more...

The Brunch

That was exhausting, and fairly loud. There was a harpist. I watched with great interest as she unloaded and set up. Awkward instrument. She had a padded hand-truck attached to the heavier back end of the padded harp. It was on its side, on a sheet of plywood that had blocks of foam glued on, to keep the unit from sliding. Handles on the plywood. The whole thing slides easily on the carpet in the back of a mini-van. The husband helps here for a total of 30 seconds: 15 seconds pulling it out to the tilt point and flipping it over onto the hand-truck unloading, and the reverse for loading. A very nice hand-truck, large wheels, well built, and she wheels it around quite well. Unstraps, unwraps, and I stash her equipage in the board room. This was all before nine o'clock this morning, she said the instrument needed to acclimate before she tuned it. She was back at eleven (the event started at noon) to tune it. She tuned it by ear, I suspect perfect pitch. The food arrived at nine, with eight workers and a supervisor, and I fetched various things that people needed. I grazed rather extensively. The sausage balls (with a horseradish sauce I'd saved from another event) were excellent; the omelets were cooked on too high a heat but what do you expect when making custom omelets for 120? Lots of bacon. Biscuits and gravy. Excellent ham, of which I got all the trimmings for a pot of bean soup. I didn't even look at the sweets, but there were a lot of them. Debbie gave me an entire Kringle, when we were cleaning up, a pastry the size of a very large cow paddy. At the end of the party, as things were thinning out, I mingled a bit, as I knew everyone there, and I had my own stash of whiskey upstairs. Some interesting conversations, nothing deeper than a sweet potato or higher than a roasting ear, but an exercise in civility, wherever that fits into the great scheme of things. That Wyeth painting, "Wind From The Sea" blows me away. He's left out everything and yet it's complete. A neat trick, if you can do it; a salt lick, picking blackberries, walking down a country road. Read more...

Flying Solo

As expected, I was alone at the museum most of the day. I cleaned the floor, which was sorely tested last night. No receptionist for the morning, so I sat there and read all morning. Staying in town because snow is forecast and I'm the only person at the museum tomorrow. The set-up crew for the Sunday party will be in. I'm kind of looking forward to the event because it's breakfast/brunch, and I do love even a fairly bad breakfast. Right after work, I went to Kroger, got whiskey, a breakfast protein drink, an avocado and cheese for dinner; I had olives and gherkins at the museum, sundry crackers from past events. A veritable feast. If I have to stay tomorrow night, I'll spring for sushi, maybe go over to the pub. I need to shave and wash my hair, take a sponge bath, before the hoards arrive tomorrow. But with hot running water that isn't a problem. And it wasn't. Crashed early last night and awakened feeling good. Busy all day, solving problems for Debbie and her crew. Actually they finished about three and I read at the front desk until closing time. They'll be in early tomorrow, to set up the food. I think the event is from eleven to three. The catering crew thinks they can be out of here a little after five. One more night in town because I have to be here Monday morning. All the shows close next Friday, they'll have to be taken down and packed. Then the painting crew for a month, and the galleries I need to paint, but I should have some time for editing and research. Glenn sent me the fox archives from my writings of the last several years and I'm excited about getting into that. I like the writing, it's crisp and clean, maximum amount of information with the fewest possible words. I'd better go. Read more...

Tipping Point

All these bills coming due, the end of the year: vehicle insurance, land taxes, added expenses. I'm OK, but I marvel at the way money moves in and out. I need aggressive tires, special shocks, a kick in the ass; but I have to say, I am on the ridge and I can afford new tires. I'm wearing Linda's hat, and the fingerless gloves, a bathrobe over all my other clothes. Your free radical is never really free. Not unlike that first kiss of dawn, a lightening in the east. I'm comfortable with this, almost freezing to death.The big put-in for the hospital Xmas party, Jennifer (who does nothing but coordinate events for the hospital) buzzing around all day. I've known her for years. The house was much warmer when I got home today. I heated it up last night and put on a large night time log, the stove was still warm this morning. Warmer, in spite of the fact that it was colder today; the temperature approaching zero tonight. I have an un-split Osage Orange round for last log. As always, the walk up the driveway gets easier in repetition. I'll be in good shape again by the end of February. When these damn parties are over I'm going to spend about 18 hours in a motel room and take three or four showers and baths and slather myself with udder balm. I need to grow a new outer layer, the largest organ. I sharpened the chain on my electric saw, so I should be able to cut up all the miscellaneous branches I've hauled into the woodshed on Monday afternoon. I have to be at the museum Monday morning (billable hours) for the hospital crew to come and get their tables and party supplies, and I need to touch base with the alcohol providers to come and get left-overs. I get the opened bottles of wine, because they obviously can't take them back, and I have my own little event which I refer to as "The Post-Hospital Party". They serve decent wine. I even bring the whites home, for de-glazing pans or adding to the sauce, because I hate wasting anything, especially wine. Fox tracks in the snow. Walking in tonight, head down, it's hard to know when to look up or down, I noticed the tracks. My fox, for sure, because she's lost the nail on her front right middle finger, and I can follow her, pick her out of a crowd.. She came up the bank from the hollow and walked on the edge for maybe fifty feet, then tracked back down, into the hollow. I wonder what she smelled. Read more...

Storm Front

First is the line of wind. Wakes me from a sound sleep. The last few leaves rattle against the metal roof. You have to pee to the leeward. A few stars, but nothing like living on the Western Slope, where the entire universe was visible. It's more constrained here, in southern Ohio, one star and the shadow of a moon. It's a different mind-set. Sometimes I listen to Rostropovich and sometimes I listen to Eric Clapton. Just saying. What I noticed, after the holiday, was that I enjoyed being alone. Mumbling to myself. When I flip the breaker on the fridge, it's very quiet, and what I hear is different. Cage, "4:33", or any other situation in which almost nothing happens. Staff meeting at work, and I'm still trying to figure out when somebody else will be at the museum, so that I can leave early or arrive late. Told everyone that I was leaving early today and tomorrow, because I need to prepare for the cold. The hospital people set-up for their Xmas party tomorrow, and I don't so much have to do anything, as point out where things are. I made a list and crossed off about half of the chores, then told Mark I needed to get home. Carried in a light pack. First walk in this year, with crampons on crusted snow and ice, but the wind had died down and it wasn't too bad. Lovely, actually, late afternoon light revealing contour, the lay of the land. As soon as I got home I turned on the Infra-Red heater, donned my motor-pool jumpsuit, and headed to the woodpile. Split out kindling and starter sticks, and felt good about my place in the world. The house was cold, 38 degrees, but I can deal with that, and I split out enough small stuff to get me through the next couple of very cold days. Scored a 35 gallon trash can, with lid, from a dumpster (it has a has a hole in the bottom), and I intend to fill it with extremely dry kindling. I had a little trouble getting a good fire going, because the wood was frozen. I took out a comma, I hope it was the right thing to do. The very fact that I could think about a comma probably means I'm OK. It's early yet, but I have a great bed of coals, and I top-load a really gnarly twist of oak that will probably burn all night. Enough residual heat for water to shave in the morning. The way my days are constellated. I'm breaking in a recently discarded mop-handle as a walking-stick, and I think it must be left-handed, it just doesn't feel right. The left-over food is over the hill, so I fry some bacon. Fry some shredded potatoes in bacon fat, and fry an egg in bacon fat, a nice piece of toast, with butter and jalapeno jam. My road to perdition. Read more...

Obiter Dictum

Good thing I headed to town early, as we got quite a bit of snow in town, and I'm sure the ridge got pounded. I brought in extra outer layers and boots for the coming hikes up and down the driveway. Remembered to put the crampons and my mop-handle walking-stick in the Jeep. I'll need to leave work an hour early for the next couple of days, for the walk in, because nighttime temperatures are supposed to be in the single digits. Pretty well supplied at home, but I won't be spending my usual two or three days alone until weekend after next, as I'm scheduled to work Saturday and Sunday for the second party. I actually get paid extra for working Sunday. Still have to get the shocks and tires done. It's all catching up with me, but I'll get it sorted out. Next Monday I have to spend working on firewood. Xmas break I can haul split rounds from the driveway depot to the woodshed, and I have a goodly stash of oak pallets. B said he'd chainsaw a couple of windfalls that are close to the driveway, right where it crests, goes almost flat, not quite, it's still uphill, but the angle, the degree of slope, is negligible, compared to where we usually harvest wood, deep in ravines, one-seventh of a mile away. The last large tree that B and I worked on, he had to plunge-cut from both sides; I had to split it into quarters before I could carry them to staging areas. 100 vertical feet, so I leveled a spot at 50 feet, cleared a place at the top, built ricks, and just bumped the splits along. Surface moisture is an interesting thing. A sapless wood, like red maple or sassafras, ain't going to clog your stove pipe. Pope Daft The 28'th. Read more...

Serious Weather

It's been raining for 36 hours, the temperatures dropping from 55 to 30 degrees, and now things are starting to ice over. I got home OK yesterday, but no electricity or phone, so I brought some extra clothes in today. I was the only one at the museum most of the day. TR relieved me at the front desk for an hour, but he was sick and when he went to get Meaghan I told him to go on home. Pegi stopped in, but left almost immediately; told me to go ahead and lock the doors, as the only person all day was Chris bringing me my lunch. It's supposed to get nasty tonight, sleet, then snow; then another round on Sunday with the temps never getting above freezing. A layer of ice, then six inches of snow, then another layer of ice. I locked-up, walked over to Kroger, got whiskey, sushi, and a couple of protein drinks. If I get stuck in town, I'll be fine, and if I get stuck on the ridge, I'll be fine. I'd rather have electricity, so I could write, but we're sliding down into survival mode here and I could be reduced to a pencil and paper with a couple of candles. I spent the day with a beautiful, elegant, catalog; an art book, actually, for a retrospective of Andrew Wyeth's work. 2005, Atlanta and Philadelphia. Very good essays and 166 color plates, which, in the case of Wyeth, means a lot of light and dark browns. One of those days in which I totally lose track of time. I hadn't known that Wyeth and Carter had met. Sometime between 1938 and 1944, when Carter was at Carnegie. Wyeth must have been in Carter's studio, because he references "Lady of Shalott". He also thought Carter's "Jane Hunt And Dora Reed" was the strongest painting in a large show called "American Realists And Magic Realists". Well, I did get home and start a fire, got it banked, spent a cold night, then Headed right back to the museum this morning when it started snowing hard. Still no power or phone at the house, and I wanted to write. Went over to Kroger and got cream for my coffee and a few things to eat. With the two Xmas parties coming up this week, I felt it was better to be stranded here, where I'll be needed. Jus Canonicum. Just stumbled on the fact that "Hiawatha" is written in the same form as the "Kalevala" ---unrhymed alliterative trochaic verse--- and also that Jean Sibelius based several pieces of music on K, which is not surprising. I've had a copy of it amongst the 100 or so books that I keep out, often for several years. It's hard reading. Just so you know, I have no control over this formatting. I saved the first part of this, and it reformatted itself in the saving: and the whole point of letting the machine wrap the line was that I didn't want to be concerned with where lines ended. Read more of the Wyeth. Thresholds suggest transformation. The liminal space of thresholds. Which is another similarity with Carter. And, oddly, their relationships with their wives was similar. The women ran everything, so these two guys could paint. At one point today I opened up the galleries and turned on the lights, and took a tour, talking out loud, as if I were docenting. I wormed Wyeth into the presentation. It was a good performance. I'd picked up a good Zinfandel at Kroger, to lubricate the afternoon, and I'd occasionally go back to the reception desk, for a liberal pour. One thing serious weather does, is throw you on your on devices. Read more...

High School Art

Part of a national program, "The Memory Project", where students (and some teachers) do portraits from photographs of orphans and the portraits are given to the kids, who are photographed receiving them. Most of these kids have nothing from their past, and this gives them a picture of themselves, fixed in time. Twenty of them, in the smallest gallery, and they're very hard to get straight on little saw-tooth hangers (when I do get them straight, I lock them into position with small pieces of double-st tape on the back). I get them all hung, then make labels, and install them. I need to add two more lights tomorrow and clean-up for the opening reception tomorrow evening. We're supposed to get the front edge of the next big storm early in the morning, big cold rains turning to snow; temps are supposed to drop like a rock. Two Christmas parties coming up at the museum and everyone but me will be gone, and when the weather turns off like this, if I'm the only person, and I have to be there the next day, I stay in town. Which means I stay at the museum, often sleeping in the Carter room that is dedicated to his later work that mostly involved ovoids, and there's a three foot high fiberglass egg, lit from below, that I leave on as a night-light. I'm not sure if Mark and Charlotte will approve of this arrangement, me sleeping at the museum, but Jesus Christ, there's hot running water and somebody has to be there. Here's the deal: I'll do it, if it's ok with them, and if it's not, I'll quit, unless they rent me a motel room close by. I just can't guarantee that I can make in from the ridge. If the footing looks questionable, I blow it off; at the drop of a hat, I just stay on the ridge. My sweet spot. Read more...

Mud Season

It seems early for mud problems, but carrying just a few loads of wood, I break through the leaf litter to the underlying layer of top-soil and clay. It's a mess and I track it into the house. Nothing to be done. I recycle old tee-shirts into mop-cloths. I let the tracks dry, sweep up the solids, then wipe down the residue. I'll repeat the sequence hundreds of times this winter. Keeping house. Breaking dawn finds me deep into concerns about a particular comma. Half-way between a wee dram of whiskey and that first cup of coffee, I opt for rolling a smoke and having a wee dram. I don't have a fixed schedule for how I interpret events. Mute stratified colors are a good way to start the day. A little bird-song. Some grits. I start almost every day with some grits and a fried egg. Staff meeting, and I can tell that I'm going to be at the museum more than normal in December and January. Everyone is taking some time off, Mark and Charlotte have a week of driving to get the Renaissance show back to the lenders. And someone will have to be in the building, when the painting crew is working, most of January. I believe that will be the Facilities Manager. I have a lot of walls to paint; but when I'm there alone, I need to read myself, and edit. We're getting new computers at work, a whole system, and maybe I can start dealing with all these files. A couple of people came in the museum today, to tell me what a pleasure it was, to have heard me read on Sunday. They seemed a little surprised, that this writer person, whom they knew in a different context, was actually the same person. Jenny, who is running the event (first Sunday readings through the winter) wants me to come back this same winter. They liked me. Push comes to shove, it's nice to be liked. What I noticed was that there were three places where I didn't make any sense at all. I think it's because I wasn't reading it correctly. I'm usually careful with text. Actually, I'm always careful with text. And it threw me, when I wasn't transparent. Two of them, I teased out afterwards, but the third just doesn't make any sense, whatever I meant at the time. As I think about it, it's amazing that are only three minor glitches in an hour of text, fifteen pages. Not acceptable, of course, but I hadn't even read over those pages before Friday. I had made a couple of corrections (in both cases marking out words) and I stumbled a few times, in the reading, getting the emphasis correct, so that the sentence did what it was supposed to do. But, by and large, I was coherent and remarkably calm. If I can read sitting down, it's easier for me to stay centered. The audience is more comfortable if I'm comfortable. Late in the reading, Ronnie called out from the bleachers that I should tell a certain story. This happens a lot for me, people want to hear a specific story that I might not have written down. I'm a good story-teller, and it's easier, actually, than writing. Writing is difficult, because of all that punctuation, if you're telling a story, you just pause, and there's a cadence that's established fairly quickly. A rhythm. And you roll with that. I like to improvise, the narrative is never the same way twice. Case in point: the story Ronnie wanted me to tell. It was a real incident and I can approach it from several different angles. The nature of loss, the futility of labor, getting on with your life. Read more...

Oneiric

Had to go out, the days are too short to get anything done before or after work. Garbage to take to the dumpster, needed whiskey, wanted to check my electronic mail. A pint at the pub, I sat down at Barb's end (someone was sitting in my usual place) and we chatted. Astra came out to say hello, and Cory thought my daughters were cool. Barb thought it was great that we took over the front room on Tuesday; then crock-pot chili and Scrabble at the museum on Wednesday. Thursday, on the ridge, was fantastic, though it started in a very cold house. We generated a lot of garbage. I was surprised, but there was a lot of cooking and eating and drinking, and I shouldn't have been. One large trash bag thrown in the museum dumpster. Not a big deal in the history of things. In a sudden reversal, the driveway is now sloppy at the bottom; the top, with the camber and a good grader ditch, is quite solid, but the bottom, where things flatten out, is slick. New shocks and serious tires this week. When I got home I made a few trips, carrying wood to the shed. Two crows dogged me about, but I'm currently out of frozen mice, and they went begging. Lovely outside, it must have been in the forties, not much wind, just right for carrying wood from one place to another. The birds were all over, celebrating the end of a cold spell. This time of year they start eating the sumac heads, but it doesn't seem to be a preferred food. Fuzzy. I made a great frittata from the egg yolks left over from making the meringue for the Key Lime pie, and the last of the roasted root vegetables. A lot of several cheeses. Excellent and hardy. Local turnips and parsnips, at this time of year, are perfect. And the acorn squash. Tim Horten's always makes a big fall display with pumpkins and squash, and just before the first freeze, I always harvest the squash. A cream of squash soup makes any winter night more bearable, as any chowder would. Read more...

Justify

TR had asked me what a specific word was, and I couldn't remember, then it came to me in the middle of the night. He meant justified, both left and right, the letter-spacing would be altered so that all the lines were the same length: standard book text. Maybe a hundred characters and spaces per line, at a guess, I don't feel like counting, an average number. Hard left and hard right margins, the text actually looks like brick work. I work with a hard left margin, and let the right end float; the whole reason I work in paragraphs now, is that I let the computer wrap the lines. Freed me from the daunting chore of deciding where a line ended. Now I can just work at making everything sound like a natural voice. It's not, of course; it's an artificial construct I use to describe actual events. However many removes that might be. Everything conditional. If it doesn't rain, I need to do kindling tomorrow. Actually, even if it does rain, I need to do kindling tomorrow. But I have a stash of dry things in the woodshed, a chair, a table-top, some shelves, all hardwood and all bone-dry, for when I can't just collect twigs and small branches. I have pallets. I need to move some of the pallets into the woodshed. I need to organize the woodshed, it's a mess. What I need to do this winter is burn everything in the woodshed and start all over again. Burning mostly kinder-garden furniture for a year has warped my sense of wood protocol. One of those little desks? Rock maple for god's sake. I can bust one apart in maybe two minutes with a hatchet. An evening's firewood. Ultimately, we can't depend on burning kinder-garden desks, but pallets are ubiquitous, and, as I've said before, any firewood you can cut without using a chainsaw greatly extends your potential life. B drove me to the reading and introduced me. I was pretty good, Joe Casual. Jenny was the perfect hostess, bought B and I a drink, and we did have the end room, where a wall of glass opened out on the forest. An attentive audience. They laughed at all the places where I imagined I was being funny, and I told several stories outside the text, one of which Ronnie asked for, from the floor. TR and Megan came over, afterwards, and drank a bottle of wine, I fed TR a plate of Bridwell Thanksgiving food, and Megan had a piece of Key Lime pie. Great conversation. By the very nature, any performance is exhausting, and I'm not good in a self-critical mode, but TR and Megan said I was great, and that's good enough for me. I never thought I was that good anyway. Read more...

Unholy Ruckus

I swear to god, I have enough trouble sleeping, so a pack of feral dogs at midnight is something I don't need. I'm nothing if not-sentimental and send them packing with a couple of well-placed marbles from the Wrist-Rocket. One of them, a pit-bull cross, wants to give me some trouble, but I dissuaded him with a shot to the ear. Still, though they are gone, they got me fully awake, and that's the worst of it. Means getting a drink and rolling a smoke and considering my place in the pecking order. Scott had made a great vinaigrette, sweet, with a touch of jalapeno jam, and I toss some, with baby spinach leaves, halved grape tomatoes, and a smoked mozzarella I'd held aside. It's so good I feel guilty. I read over the pages I'm going to read at the lodge tomorrow. Then sit for an hour or so, in the sunlight, on the sofa, thinking about what I'd just read. Very nice pork tenderloin sandwich, with horse-radish sauce, and a small bowl of chili. Joel, The Wittgenstein Plumber, calls from Atlanta, and he sounds upbeat. When I knocked over the three piles of books, because Modigliani, stuck out into the travel lane. I can explain that. Read more...

Food

Crazy days. Lost track of time. It's difficult to wrap my brain around the last three cycles. Tuesday was the endless dart tournament, when we took over the front room at the pub, then Wednesday, we made a couple of crock-pots of chili, at the museum, one vegetarian. It's true, that if everyone gets hungry enough, eating is not a problem. We went over to Kroger, bought a game of Scrabble and a deck of cards. Scott won the dart tournament with TWO bull's-eyes, and I considered killing him, but I redeemed myself at the Scrabble board. I hadn't played a game of any sort in thirty years, nor considered the competitive spirit. TR stayed late with us, at the museum, because we were amusing. B came over, with a former lover of mine, and her partner, and I did the docent thing. I'm not unbeatable at Scrabble, but I'm very good. B said the driveway was passable, and we made plans for the holiday. They'd meet me at the museum, having been to Kroger, and we'd aim for the ridge. Which we achieved, and I built a fire, because the house was very cold, and we needed the stove to be hot. Rhea had requested corn bread, and I had promised a key lime pie, so I did those first; Scott jumped right in, preparing root vegetables for roasting, while I rubbed a couple of pork tenderloins with a mixture of spices and nuts that Rhea had ground with a mortar and pestle. At some point Scott screamed out "Old school!" which I considered a compliment. He made a meringue, for the Key Lime pie, to die for, and we roasted the vegetables and cooked the tenderloins, and it was a epic meal. I sent them back down the hill with a couple of LED flashlights, some heart-felt hugs and a couple of kisses, parting is such sweet sorrow. Really, dude, I have a life. Once I was a weaver, after that, I grew shallots, whatever turned the dime. You might assume one thing, but it could be another. I was up early this morning, woodpeckers drumming on the trees; B came over, to make sure everyone had gotten away safely. The extended Richards' family gathering was huge, filling a barn, three tables of food. B said there was one turkey that never even got sliced. A whole left-over turkey. Imagine. I was confronted with a refrigerator completely stuffed with left-overs, food for days. I got a good fire going, and heated water. Rhea had kept up with washing the dishes, but there was still a sink full of serving platters, cook-wear, and utensils. I had warned everyone off from cleaning my cast-iron, and there were three or four pieces that needed to be cleaned and re-tempered with walnut oil in the oven. Samara called about noon, just as I was finishing the clean-up, and they were already back in Denver, preparing for a nap, before an evening performance. She said it was a great visit, the dart tournament, taking over the front room at the pub; the Scrabble marathon, over bowls of chili at the museum. I napped too, then split a few rounds of firewood. By late afternoon most of the snow is melted, before it gets below freezing again, and the house is warm as toast; the sky is a spangle of pinks and oranges, and I strip down to long-underwear and sweat-pants. I make a tenderloin and roasted root-vegetable frittata, with the left-over egg yolks, that is to die for, and don't make a dent in the left-overs. Life on the ridge. Read more...

Stranded

Best intentions, but no way to get out to my house and up the driveway. Pegi called the museum this morning, from her house, and said she couldn't get down off her hill, that the ground was covered in sleet and hail, and she lives out beyond me, but at a lower elevation. Samara, Rhea, and Scott got to the museum at noon and we went to the pub for a beer and lunch, then a couple of hours of me doing the docent thing then back to the pub for coffee in the front room. Comfortable space, sofas, a TV, and Barb had offered it. So we just stayed there, as the sleet turned to snow, and threw darts all afternoon, then a leisurely dinner, lively conversation the whole time. It was an interesting and fun day; recounting the past and bringing Scott up to speed. The girls wanted some of the stories from my past. Scott told some cooking tales, we exchanged some recipes, or not recipes exactly, more like a discussion about methods and combinations. I'd go outside, occasionally, and curse the weather that he and I couldn't spend some time cooking together. We may yet have the chance, but the snow is accumulating. Weather in which I would either stay on the ridge, or in town, but not attempt the commute. The ridge is nearly a thousand feet higher than town, and it makes a huge difference in accumulation. A half-inch of rain in Portsmouth at 33 or 34 degrees, is four inches of snow at 31 degrees. This is when winter laughs at me about not getting those first and last frosts when the cold rolls down into the hollows. This is serious cold, on a ridge-top, without a windbreak. A trip to the woodshed is about all you want to do outdoors in weather like this. I seriously doubt that I have either electricity or a phone at the house. I could get there, if I was alone, in the Jeep; carry a light pack up the hill, I've done it a thousand times. Light the oil lamps, a couple of candles for the flicker, crank up the wood stove, put on either a pot of chili or a stew, and curl up, under a blanket, with a book. You could say this was a specialty of mine. Get comfortable and read, it sometimes involves a hat and gloves. I need to get some ear-muffs. I'd never thought about them before, but I need some now. My ears are cold, I'm growing old, and my hearing isn't what it used to be. Read more...

Off Line

I'll probably be gone for a couple of days. The girls got in, with Samara's partner, Scott. I met them at the museum. Charlotte and Sara were there, with the graphic designer, to work on the catalog for the Alan Gough retrospective, so we visited for a few minutes, then went over to the pub. I'd already rented their room at the Super 8, and gotten their keys. The weather isn't co-operating at all, and I was afraid to go home, lest I get trapped, so Rhea agreed to stay in the motel room. We're right on the edge of this storm, just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. We might have to stay another day in town. Great to see them, and we lingered over a beer and dinner. I like Scott. What's not to like, he's bright, a cook, and works in theater. We agreed to meet at the museum tomorrow, and come up with a plan, if all else fails, we'll eat and drink all day. I would so much rather be out at my place, but they can't afford to get stranded, they leave early Friday morning and have a show in Denver that night. They leave so early, Scott's going to leave me one of the keys, and I should be able to get into town for a shower-bath-shower before check-out time. I love rooking the system Nothing better than birdcalls to rock the boat. Read more...

Smoke Chase

Bitter cold, the girls get here tomorrow, and the stove is not drawing correctly. B came over to help out, and we cleaned the stove pipe. Still not drawing. You access the smoke chase through a little door under the oven and at the back of it there's a throat where the re-circulated gases go up the flue. It was clogged. Working from above and below we were able to break the clog apart and clean it out. Problem solved. I started a fire and we sat around, discussing literary matters over a cup of coffee until the fire was roaring. All good. High temperature in the low twenties, low of fifteen tonight, so it's good we got it figured out. In a couple of hours I have the oven heated to 450, so we should be fine for Scott and I to cook. It's supposed to warm up maybe ten degrees on Tuesday, which will be welcome. The difference between twenty and thirty degrees is a critical jump, maybe mostly psychological. Within a couple of hours the oven is hot enough to do Tandoori. An 800 pound stove heated to 600 degrees is a considerable heat source, and I have some Osage Orange logs for the late night stoking, they burn hot and long. All set, barring terrible weather, and I don't see that on the horizon. I vacuumed downstairs, a nod toward housekeeping, but if Rhea stays here, she'll probably want to vacuum my room, where she'd sleep, in my down bag, because the dust bunnies seem to be breeding up there. I sleep downstairs on the sofa all the time now, cooler in summer, and I can stoke the fire when I get up to pee in winter. It's a very comfortable sofa to sleep on, better than most beds, and I'm close to my computer, so I can tease out an occasional line. Leo, from the Cirque, is excited about doing some yard work for me. He needs the money, I need the work done, and I have the money right now. I'll be stretched a little thin, with the girls' visit, shocks and aggressive tires for the Jeep, and a new computer; but if I cut back on the sushi I should be ok. Samara calls and we finalize plans; Tuesday could be a problem, because it might snow, and that would screw up our shopping plans, but we'll cross that bridge. Read more...

Gone Wanky

My left hip pains me when the weather is cold and humid. I was burrowed in my down sleeping bag, on top of the bed upstairs, dreaming about the winter beaches of Cape Cod. I needed to pee, so I unzipped, sat up, swung around, found my house slippers. Beyond a certain point nothing is easy. I have to sit down, on the top step, and consider my options. Railings are mostly psychological. You touch them to chart a passage. Sometimes you use them, to navigate. My hip was hurting and I was being very careful. I had to stop, several times, on the way outdoors. Older, and failing. The back deck was iced-over, footing was suspect, and I relied on an old mop-handle to keep my balance, but it was worth the risk. Cold and brisk. Sound carries in a different way, everything is harmonics. Ronnie tuning his guitar. I was sitting in the front row, once, when the Boston Symphony Orchestra was rehearsing; I was the entire audience. Before they launched into Berlioz, they were tuning, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. I've always liked rehearsals better than performances because the dancers are always in tattered tights and there's usually a great deal of profanity. The real world. I'd slept late, because I was up most of there night, wondering whether or not I needed a couple of commas, which can become an issue, if you live alone, and don't speak for several days. B came over, I heard his trill, like calling a coon dog to bay, made us a cup of coffee, and he wondered if there was anything he could do. I mentioned the stove-pipe, and he said he'd be over tomorrow morning; he's fearless, and I can't climb a ladder anymore, without worrying about my sense of balance. Winter, Alan said, was perfect, because you didn't have to make anything up, it was all black or white. Snow and stick trees. There's more than that, certainly, but it is the basic framework. The natural world. Glenn called and we talked about that. It's easy enough to see the connection. What exists in the real world and our connection. Nothing succeeds like success. B had some questions about how the roof- load was carried, and I have a gift for visualizing; I don't know where it came from; but if I look at a problem long enough, I can usually find a solution. Actually, I run through a number of solutions that are more or less elegant, and I look at the materials on hand. Fact is that I visualize things. I can't not. Seeing and believing. He agrees to clean my stovepipe if I'll look at the question of his roof. A fair exchange. Read more...

Appearances

I know it matters, the way you appear. But I've gotten beyond that. I never threw dog shit on the roof, so that it looked like the neon rain-deer had shat (Charlotte's brother-in-law) nor did I ever smear stinky cheese on light bulbs (her sisters). I was never engaged by petty vandalism, because it always seemed a threat to my freedom. As long as I flew beneath the radar, I could pretty much do what I pleased. I prefer a world in which I can do what I want, so I go out of my way to make that possible. The die is cast. You reach a certain age. Quiet day at the museum, Board meeting, various small chores; then I stayed for Mark's six o'clock lecture "Renaissance Space", which was very good. The creation of proper perspective, the naturalizing of the human form. A boat-load of information. Excellent talk and a pretty good audience, for a lecture on Renaissance Art in Portsmouth, Ohio. TR agreed to lock up so I could creep homeward. Many deer. This morning, going in, it was many turkeys. I saw thirty or forty, gleaning the harvested corn fields. Sara and I talked about writing, off and on all day. She'd written a three page bio on one of our favorite local painters, we're opening next year with a retrospective of his work, and there's going to be a major catalog. She wanted me to proof-read it and see what I thought. It's damned good, and I told her so. I thought it needed one comma, which she agreed with at once. One of those cases where there needed to be a comma in front of a conjunction. We're both serious about punctuation. We talked about being clear. We both work slowly. We both smoke, so a lot of this conversation was held outdoors, at the loading dock. The last day of fifty degrees for a while. I was worried about getting home after the rain had started, I never used to worry, but now it's an issue, and I hate driving after dark, and the fucking deer; but it doesn't start raining for an hour, and I have a nice little fire going by then, and the house is warm. Warm being a relative term. My toes aren't freezing. Your igloo or mine? Phone was out when I went to send, so I just kept going. I'm excited about seeing my girls and meeting Scott, so I don't get much done at work, but neither does anyone else, so I don't feel bad about it. Mid-afternoon I went over to Kroger and bought a few groceries. I'll let the girls decide the menu, but I wanted a meal or two in the larder, in case of snow. Stocked up the juice supply, got a back-up carton of ultra-pasteurized half-and-half, because I like cream in my coffee and I didn't know if they did. Got eggs and bacon. I have two pork tenderloins in the freezer, and I could kill a goose tomorrow, if I needed to, with a machete. They consider me The God Of The Buttered Toast Points, the geese do; and it's nice to be recognized as a benevolent entity. Allows you to get very close, for the killing blow. Pluck a dead bird as soon as possible, the feathers release when the bird is still warm, then it becomes more difficult. Read more...

Plain Speak

Things are relative. Open to interpretation. Seventeen years ago I was doing some work on Thomas Jefferson's father's house. At the time, my bullshit detector was fine-tuned. I was in pain, and uncomfortable, and my living conditions were deplorable; I had to translate what I was doing into a very basic clear language. My survival probably wasn't in doubt, but it seemed like it was. I couldn't talk to other people, and I was eating mostly road-kill and rice. Truth be known, I was pretty fucked up, but I wanted to do a good job, because this was Peter Jefferson's house, and history matters. So I'd stay up, late at night, trying to say what I had done. I had running water there, and a deep tub, and I could wash my troubles away. Borders on sentimental, but I got in the habit of trying to say exactly what I had done. Reality trumps fantasy every time. Blow, wind, blow. Doctor John. The world on a string, sitting on a rainbow. I came to a agreement with myself: I'd just try to be honest. Not unlike where I find myself today. Trees stripped bare of their leaves. Another winter. Buckle up. Meetings all day at the museum and I got roped into attending one, a confab about the upcoming 200 year anniversary of Portsmouth. A couple of the events are at the museum and I'm Facilities Manager. Very boring, and their planning is quite disorganized. Then the bosses all took a late lunch and suddenly the day was over. Another month of the days getting shorter and I'm already driving home in the glooming. The Janitor's Nightmare is coming up, a High School show opening, and a lot of these kids don't eat well, so they load up on the sweets, drink soda, and throw-up in the bathrooms. The girls leave early Friday, after Thanksgiving, Samara and Scott actually have a show in Denver that night; and then on that Sunday I'm doing a reading at the lodge in the state forest. A lovely place, all posts and beams and very nice lodge furniture. Comfortable venue. A weird ruckus last night. I'd set out four mouse traps, the old break-their-neck snap kind, because the field mice are moving indoors. I was sleeping on the sofa, so I could stoke the fire, and about three in the morning I was awakened by the din of some small animal running around in circles. It was a Flying Squirrel with a mouse-trap on it's foot. I never did catch it, so it's probably dying somewhere in my house right now. When I was thirty I could have caught a Flying Squirrel that was trailing a mouse-trap. Now I don't even try. I'll find it by smell in a couple of days. Read more...

Dry Down

Oak branches that have lodged in bushes make great kindling. They dry out quickly and you can break them into pieces with your gloved hands. A good armload will fill the bucket and that's a week's worth of starter. My favorite fires are ones that I start with junk mail, then burn something from a dumpster, a busted chair or something, to get a bed of coals, then on to oak splits. I rescued a dozen oak shelves from a dumpster in town, 1x10, thirty inches long, and they'll make great intermediate wood because they are so dry. I'm low on utility candles, but now that I read, during black-outs, with the LED headlamp, I need them less, though I should get a back-up battery. During the several years I worked at the college theater, I amassed a huge quantity of AA batteries (you only use a battery for one performance in cordless microphones), so I'm good for my walking-in-and-out flashlights. I try to take care of these things when I think about them, or at least make a note. I have to get the insulated Red Wings out and give them a water-proofing. Tomorrow I have to get the front brakes redone on the Jeep, and new rear shocks, then I have to get some serious tires, $1,500 probably, but I have to do it. My finances have taken a hit: the driveway, the girls for Thanksgiving, the Jeep, and I still have to buy a new computer. I can put off buying new socks. I'll need a new pair of black jeans and a new denim shirt for the gig at Chautuaqua. Ever fashion conscious Before the first of the year land taxes and vehicle insurance come due. And I have to supply my ordinary day-to-day habits, food and drink, and stay connected, such as I do, with the grid. So I do have expenses. Took the truck in, first thing, no more grinding rotor. I might go ahead and get the new shocks and serious tires at the end of the week. Nice guy, Trent, said he could fit me in anytime. Only a thousand dollars for everything. He knew my driveway, and said he thought I should able to get up and down in light snow. Long range forecast is for very cold weather but no snow when the girls are here. We'll work it out. Don't know what kind of vehicle they're renting at the airport. I've been thinking about the menu, but I'll let them decide, three dinners and lunches. I am trying to line up some crabmeat, you can't go wrong with crabmeat. I got a new filter for the shop-vac, so I can clean some cobwebs and all the detritus of fall. I feel I need to appear at least partially respectable. My daughters, after all, the elementary structures of kinship. Read more...

Howling Wind

Hard to ignore the fact that the house is shaking. I get a flashlight to hand, set out a round of candles and an oil lamp. The wind is blowing sheets of rain that sound like the end of the world. The ridge seems to split the worst of the storm cells down into the hollows on either side. I collect wash water at a furious rate, replenishing what I used for a bath in mere minutes. I worry about the driveway, but there's nothing I can do. It's the leaves, clogging the catchments, that are the problem. Warnings on the radio advise that a line of severe weather is tracking just to the north of me, tornados possibly, and that I should seek shelter. A strange warning, in a way, because I'm in my shelter. I retreat to the sofa, with my headlamp, and read the latest Lee Child novel. Mind candy. Escapism, avoidance, whatever. The power comes back on, briefly, and I had left the radio on, came in on Bill Evans covering some classic jazz standard. I know the tune, but I don't know the name. Doesn't matter, in the great stream of things. Did I mention the wind is howling? Hail, and another warning to stay away from windows. My haunt, the highest spot for miles around, seems safe enough; the wind dies down, and the rain diminishes to a dribble. I seem to have survived. Do, no small part, to Edgar Meyer and the Cello Suites, which I play on a battery powered unit with head phones. I wake, after the storm has passed, when the electricity pops back on, a couple of lights and the radio. Rory Block is one hell of a guitar player. Percussive. Sounds like she's beating her instrument to death. No better way to catch my attention, than to cover Son House and Mississippi John Hurt in the same set. The Reverend Gary Davis. I love this stuff. Hard driving gospel, morality tales, and the harmonics left hanging in the air. Muddy Waters and Howling Wolf, a litany of people and places. I've been almost everywhere with almost everyone and none of it matters. What matters, ultimately, is what you feel. Robert Johnson certainly stirs the pot. Read more...

Inherent Defects

I have a problem with stupidity, I can't stand to be around it. Nothing prepares you to operate in the real world. Something wakes me in the night, a tree falling in the darkness, a pack of dogs running a deer, and I'm almost aware that something is going on. Stumble over and turn on the radio, get a drink, roll a smoke. If it came to choosing a mate, I'd be a bad pick. My idea of a good evening is teasing out a sentence. John XXIII had been pushed out of office, deposed, and Poggio was free to look for books; he found Lucretius and the rest is history. I went into town to go to the library and Kroger, ended up being staff at the museum though I wasn't scheduled to be. Lunched with TR and had a beer because I didn't know I was going to be staff. Ken Emerick, our favorite person at the Ohio Arts Council, and Todd, his partner, came down from Columbus with a ceramic artist we'll be displaying next year. Nice conversations. Sara ended up staying until closing time, talking with TR, so I could have left anyway. Just as well. I was able to read in a heated and very quiet place. I did several little mini-docenting explanations, on my way out, or on my way back in, from having a cigaret on the loading dock. I think I'm hearing rain. The next time I get up, I'll stick my head outside the door. I need some rainwater, and I'd need to position some buckets. The random beat is pretty cool. I suspect lentils, poured on a cymbal, but I couldn't say, exactly. Just at dawn there's a fog-like mist on the ridge; a thick layer of leaf compost turning a light rain into vapor. The trees are stripped bare. The green-briar is still green, the leaves are like leather. It's miserable, walking outside, but the ticks are gone, and the snakes, and I hope the bear. I'm tired of clanking cans together, because the sound is so offensive. On the other hand, I haven't been mauled, and that's a plus. I have copious notes that prove I was somewhere else. In south Florida, when tomatoes were coming into season. Read more...

Lecture

I made some notes during the day, stayed in my office and reread a few things. Talked about paper-making, printing with movable type, the beginning of the humanist movement, and Lucretius. I was fairly coherent, and answered some good questions at the end. It was fun, talking about some things that interest me. Left out much material because I didn't want to bore them. Afterward it seemed I could have gone on a bit more. It's all in the detail, and since I tend to notice detail, it's not hard to go on. But I absolutely did not mention frogs, or the fox. The people that came wandered around the museum afterwards, Mark and Charlotte were putting away chairs, and they told me to go home, they could lock up. So I did, driving slowly, because the deer are everywhere; the last couple of miles, through the forest, is a nightmare of eyes. I hate driving at night now, I used to love it, but now, there's a level of anxiety, and I'm not so sure. I navigate home, and it's beautiful, the ridge still encased in snow. Got a drink, started a fire and promptly fell asleep, slept a solid eight hours. Felt well-rested for the first time in a month. Couldn't do much at work because there were to puppet shows in the theater, both over-sold, for fourth and fifth graders. The shows was great and the kids were loud in their appreciation. Retellings of classic stories, with full-size puppets that the puppeteers just held in front of them. Lots of puns. There's another performance tonight, but I left early, to heat up water and have a bath. Dragged the sheep-watering trough inside, next to the stove, and put on five gallons of water. I pull a chair over, on which to put my supplies: clippers, my best towel, a body sponge, my bath-robe and clean socks, a drink, an ashtray and several pre-rolled cigarettes, and a bottle of lotion, because I pretty much need a complete rub-down. Wood heat equals dry skin. Several nice conversations with Sara and Charlotte today, they bragged about my talk last night, but, in truth, I felt I could have done better. Sara asked me directly, we were having a smoke in the alley, whether I was ever satisfied, and I told her no, not actually, because I always forget to mention telling details. Petrarch and Montaigne. We actually have Montaigne's copy of Lucretius, heavily annotated, in his hand. As authentic as anything could be. And he quibbles about minor points, but for the most part he agrees that "On the Natural World" is a great book. I can't believe how exhausted I am, praying for another night of uninterrupted sleep. I fully intend to turn my head to the wall tomorrow morning, and sleep past the sunrise. Read more...

Snow, Cold

We did get snow Tuesday morning, temperatures then and today barely above freezing, night-time lows right at twenty. Lost power Monday night, so stayed in town last night, and I'm glad I did. Went over to the pub and John Hogan himself was there, he bought me a brandy, and we had a great conversation. Tuesday, after the staff meeting, TR and I put away chairs and racked up tables, cleaned up broken glass (four wine glasses), and unclogged the drains in the sinks. Today I mostly dealt with garbage. It wasn't a bad day, because no one messes with you when you're dealing with garbage, but I was ready for it to end. I wanted to get home, start a fire, make some notes for my talk tomorrow night; so I begged-off an hour early and came back to the ridge. The driveway is compacted dense stuff, and it holds heat, but the north facing sides of the hollows are deep in leaves, which allows air circulation. It's much colder, and there's an inch of snow. I've thought about moving into a cave. It wouldn't be about making a point, or saying anything, it would just simplify be about my housekeeping. You don't expect much from a guy that lives in a cave. It's my fall-back position. Anabasis, imagine that. The bench mark, for the dead Latin language, is Cicero; I don't know what the bench mark is in Ancient Greek; I read Hesiod, often, that gnomic quality sucks me right into the narrative. I wish I were more of a linguist, but I have to rely on someone translating Greek into Latin into Italian into English. An imperfect science, it's amazing we can communicate at all. It's such a basic human need. Fall into winter. The test is you find yourself alone, a desert island, and you need to make sense of that. I make a nod toward meaning, then go to bed,. it all only apparently makes sense. Read more...

Stairway to Heaven

I've been reading so much, recently, about language and thought in the fourteenth and fifteenth centauries, the Humanists, that my poor brain is spinning. I have a penchant for pursuing subjects, though they tend to be more tangible, consider my opus, my canto, Of Foxes And Frogs, which is quite literal, to say the least. The first thing Gutenberg printed was (were) indulgences. The Catholic Church was a folly. You could buy a Cardinal, being Pope just required having a lot of money and being ruthless. John XXIII, was de-poped, or deposed, in 1416, the last Father Of The Church to be cast out. Religion is all about mediation. A Diet Of Worms. Luther and Calvin loosened the reins. I don't have a stake in this, I don't believe in anything. Following Lucretius. The atoms that are me become the next thing. Rot, and become part of the natural world. For now, I have to take off my sweatshirt, the house is too warm. Even a small fire is more than enough. Not dying is relatively easy: you just avoid conflict, keep your stove-pipe clean, and eat greens. The ticking of the wood-stove is a stairway to heaven. A random staccato beat. Crashed early last night, so the fire went out and the house was cold when I got up. I started a small fire and set about the cold weather routine of filling the kindling bucket and hand sawing some small sticks. A walk along the ridge top yields an armload of branches that I can break into more kindling. Rain changing over to snow is the forecast, and much colder. A flutter of bird activity including two Pileated Woodpeckers that swoop about from tree to tree, tilting their heads in that way they have, listening for bug activity under the bark. I love watching them. In fact, the entire forest is astir. Looks like everyone got the memo that the weather is changing. I brought home a pretty good pile of left-overs from the party, enough that I can just graze for a couple of days, supplementing the roast beef and chicken satay with sweet gherkins, black olives, and those small grape tomatoes that are sweet and delicious all year long. I have a little row of foodstuffs at the island, and every time I get up from my increasingly tattered writing chair, I eat a few items. I have to turn off the radio, I can't even listen to Terry Gross, whom I normally love, because listening sub-plants thinking, and I'm deep into myself right now, wondering if I should go one way or another. Dissensions like the one I face right now, whether I should go into town, so I can help with the clean-up, or just stay on the ridge, where I'll likely be snowed-in for a day or two, figure prominent in the framework. I choose the ridge, fuck a bunch of politics. I'm sure your grand-babies are the cutest ever. Read more...