The Game

It's all in the game. The way it plays out. Against the wind. Everybody's gone surfing, despite the sharks, various sting-rays, and jelly-fish. I consider complete immersion as a sin against water use, but I'm in that hermetic minority, where we merely sprinkle. A product of living in the desert, where a cave is a cool respite. Breathing outside air. The walk down is the easy part. This time of year I shave at night, or whenever the house is warm enough. Still an ice storm at my house, though it was forty degrees in town. Cold and getting colder, Monday and Tuesday in the single digits. I'll need to run to town tomorrow for a few more supplies. Pegi sent me home early today. D and I talked logistics, but he had to leave early to take two of his kids to the doctor. Everyone's sick. I'm fine, except that my right eye is leaking. Extensive flooding in the lowlands around Portsmouth, very lovely on a day of severe clear. Every time I go to Kroger I bring home another package of Baby Red mashed potatoes and one of the various Spanish, Dirty rices. Feeling better about my stash of food. Next time I can drive in, I have a list of canned goods I want to bring. Saturday afternoon and Sunday I need to split some wood, Osage Orange and Red Maple, it's bone dry, should get me through the cold snap. And, of course, I have to go to the library; I have some reference books on order through inter-library loan, and I need some fiction, to balance the reading load. I don't pretend to know what other people do with their time, I just read. A day I don't work at the museum, I'll read for six or eight hours. It's a great luxury. The fact that I don't have to justify the way I spend my time. There's some give and take, between me and the world, but most of the time, I'm on my own. Not beholding. Though the last time I talked with Sara I think we decided to work on the Carter material together. Which we should do, because we're two of the last people alive who carry these archives in our heads. Like a lost language.