Involucra

Walked down this morning. The driveway was an ugly mess, and it required great care, especially at the top, to remain upright. Got to the bottom and the Jeep wouldn't start. Slogged back up the hill. Called the museum and D said he didn't think it was the battery and that I should disconnect the negative cable, wait a few minutes, reconnect the cable and try it again. Back down the hill, the cable thing didn't work, slogged back up. A second cup of coffee, then hauled some red maple from it's depot. Reread Guy Davenport essays through the afternoon. Walked over to B's cabin in the late afternoon and left a note that the Jeep needed a jump and could we do that tomorrow morning. He came over later and said yes we could, had a short drink, and we talked about classical Greek writers. He's teaching a new (for him) course because someone is on sick-leave. Affords us a chance to talk about certain authors, then a chance to talk about translations. I'd been thinking about translation recently. How impossible it was. Even between you and me, ostensibly using the same language. The translation between writer and reader. Met B at his truck (at the top of the driveway!) at 7:15 and we went down in a barely controlled skid. He's very good at that. The Jeep wouldn't jump, it's not the battery, so I ride in with him. Arrange a ride home with Drew. Talk with Chris, next door at the bar, and he says it sounds like the solenoid. I'll call Dave, my most excellent mechanic who lives on the creek, ask him to pick one up bring it out, and install it. I always pay him more than he charges me, so we're in good standing. The bathroom remodel crew was in today, for the great demolition: jack hammers, sledge hammers, and a merry mess. I wanted to restore the vault, because I've got things leaning against many of the walls I need to paint, and I want to get started painting. Instead I dabble in some Carter stuff, up on the third floor, as far from the noise as possible; I can't even really clean anything, because the mess is so ongoing. I did vacuum the library and straighten all the books. I've taken to keeping a copy of Basho's Haiku in the inside pocket of the dark brown canvas Carhartt farm coat that I wear as a winter outer layer. The best one today, I was standing outside, having a smoke (might as well read a poem and think about it), popped out. In this lovely edition, translated by David Barnhill, published by State University Of New York Press, the poems are presented in sequence, therefore, of course, by season. This is number 356.

no moon, no blossoms,
  just drinking sake
    all alone

I love it, it's so completely stark. The earliest extant poem is 1662, dies November, 1694, this poem comes from 1689, going into winter. I can identify with that.