Losing It

Beyond control. You know there isn't anything to be done. I usually scream a few expletives and throw rocks at a tree, then put on my boots and slog up through the mud. It isn't even that bad, because it's above freezing, and it slows you down. It's doesn't matter whether it takes me ten or fifteen minutes to get to the house. I have my mud-room chair, my slippers, the kindling for a fire. By the time I stop to consider my dinner options, get a drink, roll a smoke, I'm calm, in my sweats. The setting sun was orange bands. Something out of a movie. Strings in the soundtrack. A lonesome cello. I'm careful not to lose it in public. I couldn't stand being locked away. So if someone's shear stupidity, or a situation, or inclement weather, messes with my schedule, I adjust things, as best I can, and rant in the privacy of my personal space. Alliterative bastard. I make several curses that would live in the history of curses. Call paternity into question. Question who's Mom that was. I have tobacco everywhere, I need the vacuum. There. I said it. What I need is a null set, { }, or at least some quiet so I can think this through. I spend a good bit of my time thinking through various constructs. Especially a day like today, I gathered and hauled trash in the morning, and in the afternoon I took off the vinyl signage for the upstairs show. I've modified a cheap paring knife for this chore, with a slight bend in the tip, which allows me to lift a corner of a letter so I can grip it, and not damage the surface. Got the last of the paintings off the walls, the ones that required two people, and I had only waited on those, because D was busy with other things, for TR to be around. I like working with TR because he has to rethink everything, and you can actually watch him do it. Sometimes his solutions are better than what I had in mind, and sometimes they're not. If they're not, I say so, but if they're better (he's a bright guy) I fluidly adopt his recommendations. And he's funny. He and D get going sometimes, and I have to stop what I'm doing and go listen to them. Half the shit they banter about, I don't have a clue: popular culture and technology have left me far behind; but they can be very funny. It's my Dad's 93 rd birthday, and I resolve to talk to him, but they misplace their phone and almost never answer. So I call every hour and finally get Mom, talk with her for a while, and finally talked with Dad. I have to yell now, because he doesn't hear, but he sounded ok and someone is making him cornbread. As long as he has cornbread he's a happy camper. There was a small turkey breast in the remaindered meat section, speaking of cornbread, and I bought it ($1.98) because I wanted some stuffing, and some sandwiches would be good. Dried it off and rubbed it with a little maple syrup, then with a dry mixture, I don't know what's in it anymore, a lot of dried chilies, garlic and onion powder, various herbs. Remember, any single slice isn't going to carry that much of a potent crust. Made a cornbread and apple stuffing that I baked in a buttered Pyrex pie-pan because I wanted a maximum heat to surface area ratio. Made a decent gravy from bacon fat and chicken stock, thickened with flour then reduced. Lots of black pepper. Anyone should eat so well, I see another dinner, in the leftovers, and at least two sandwiches. For less than four dollars. Four meals. I don't know why I'm so good at this. Actually I do know. I left home as soon as I could, not because home was bad, but it was too comfortable, and I sensed a world, out there, that would engage me more completely. And that has certainly has been the case. But suddenly there was no one there to cook, Mom, and if I was going to eat, on a tight budget, I damned well better learn. And I did/have, my ribs are as good as any in the world; it's been said, about my London Broil, that it could actually change the face of history. I don't believe that. Say what you will. It's just a piece of meat.