Somewhat Later

Listening to a train, across the river, over in Kentucky, I sink deep into the blues. Lost love and dead dogs. I only sound cynical, I'm actually a fairly happy person, grin and nod as required, defer to superior forces, but that lingering note, a train disappearing around the bend, hovers in the air. Leo and his harmonics, birds scratching through the litter, other things we might not talk about openly. How beautiful Fatima was. Her eyes beg the question. Sorrow. How much I miss. Build a few piano chords, add an accordion, a base more felt than heard, maybe some brass in the distance. I finally have to mute the radio, when everything reminds me of something else. I sense another heartbreak. I'd be a lousy choice for a fling, but I'd rather than not. A devout Catholic might argue otherwise, sex without a condom, whatever the consequence, the Pope knows best. He mediates, after all, between people and god. I harvest enough rain-water to shave, a silence fills the room. To bed early and slept late, still tired. Ran into my creek-bank mechanic at Kroger and he said he couldn't work on the Jeep, didn't know anything about them, and recommended a place in town. I'll have it towed tomorrow, probably have to spend a day or two in town. Snow on Wednesday. My Visa bill was in the box and it will be officially almost paid off this month. Almost, because I want to run a small balance and continue to use that account, for the $25,000 line of credit. So I'm completely out of debt. No mortgage, no car payment, nothing but an electric bill, a phone bill, and the various taxes. I feel liberated, like burning that deed in Mississippi, after five years of a single annual payment. I own 27.33 acres here, two ridges and a hollow; I pay taxes on a tree farm, I'm looking at the tax bill, it's due this week. The county doesn't know I live here, that I have a house on this property, because there is no building inspector. In the country, you can pretty much build whatever you want. In Colorado, where codes and inspections were heavily controlled, the Building Inspector signed off on the goat dairy because it was agricultural, but we were subject to state agricultural inspection. I've never actually pulled a building permit, I've always lived in the country. Different rules. There's a show of Sargent's watercolors in NYC and I'd love to see it. He was a master. I look at some of the reproductions and I salivate on the page. The watercolor portrait of Isabelle Gardner he did in 1922 is incredible. He told her he was just keeping his hand in. Read a great essay on single-malt scotch, soaked my feet in hot water, and went to bed.