Local Politics

Still spitting snow, just a skiff on the ground, but not from a lack of trying. The earth is a great thermal insulator and even though the temps are in the low twenties the green briar and certain ferns exhibit signs of life; Snow Bells and a tiny iris-like plant that I've never identified show some color. The dead of winter is past, now, these cold days are merely a bother, not likely I'll be frozen stiff on the driveway. What I assume is a sunset is a quiet affair, a few stupid frogs and a solitary crow. I left my crampons in the Jeep, but I can get down the hill with a mop-handle and a little common sense. New snow is oddly not slick. This new snow at least. I walk with a sure confidence. If the walk is too treacherous I slide down on a cardboard box, nothing I can't handle. I start a fire with the last of the school chairs, legs mostly, I'm addicted to legs. Mare est in turba, or whatever phrase might be used. Consider the universe and consider my trousers. I have to go to sleep. You wouldn't think deciding between a period and a comma could be so exhausting. The root cause was D being down in his back. He'd get in position to do something, and I'd have to fetch him everything. The one time he tried to stand up, he fell over backwards. I don't mind being Step-And-Fetch-It, I'm actually very good at it, because I anticipate whatever will be needed next. Makes me the perfect helper. And I can figure out how to do almost anything, but my ego is seldom on the line. Actually, the only time my ego is on the line, is when I sit alone, fortified and smoking, trying to put a few words together. The rest of it, the carpentry, the painting, even installing a show, is child's play, merely numbers and particular considerations. Being original is a step above that, and requires beating your head against a wall. By dint of a strong sense of irony. Yesterday, for instance, the Silent Partner in the ownership of the pub came in, John himself, and one of the Cory's poured him a Murphy's stout, no, wait, it was his wife started the pour, but she got distracted and one of the Cory people finished it. Thought about changing my name to Cory, or Kori, so I could work at the pub, but I'm so comfortable being Mad Tom, it's become a way of life. John was pissed at life in general, woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or otherwise had crossed himself, and there was nothing for it, so I had the barkeep, Christine, pour us a wee dram, in coffee cups, so we'd look civilized. I don't really care what I look like. Appearance is an ego thing, a game I refuse to play; I don't have running water, for god's sake, draw whatever conclusions you will.