Memphis Blues

One of those trips out west, to see the girls, I ended up spending the night in Nebraska. I'd made the trip so many times, I knew every Rest Stop on three different routes and I'd usually drop down to Kansas, drive through the tall-grass prairie, but Harrison had mentioned the Niobrara so I had gone out the northern route, then cut due south through the Dakotas, and spent the night in Valentine, Nebraska. I had an agenda: get a room, eat dinner, check out the river (a creek, there, actually) and had found a wonderful diner that offered meatloaf and mashed potatoes. A Deputy Sheriff came in and sat on the stool right next to me, wondered (it was so John Wayne) what I was looking for, got a cup of coffee, and after we had talked for a while, he offered to take me on a tour. He called his wife, to say we'd be late, and that they'd have a over-night guest, then drove me to several fords above the ripple. His wife was cool, Rachel, she took everything in stride. We drank late into the night. He loved the blues too. Rachel was fascinated by me being a writer and I sent her some books when I got back to Ohio. They sent me packing, the next day, after a huge breakfast, into North Platte, then along the river into Denver. I stopped at a book-store and bought so many books that they had to be shipped. Crashed early last night, so up early this morning. Beautiful deep blue sky and the green walls of leaves will be complete in a couple of weeks; I made a second double espresso, just sat on the sofa and watched the sun rise. Very productive day at work. I got the wall painted where the heater had been, then helped D frame out packing for the last pilaster that gets covered with cherry plywood. Had to pack it out, so we could shim the surfaces flat. Then cut the plywood for the facing. It's going to look nice, but it was a struggle: none of the three surfaces was plum or square. We created a square box around it. One of the last cabins I thought about building would have been extremely irregular. I wanted to build, in my head, a small place, 16 by 20, sleeping loft; with a warped plate roof, a hyperbolic paraboloid, which I've always wanted to attempt. It would be very cool. Goofy posts and beams, odd materials saying what they wanted to say, which is a direction I've leaned more toward. Impose your will too strongly and you end up with a simulacrum. I was going to add something, but that seemed clear enough. Mr.Cray plays a mean guitar. I'd turned on the radio, must have been Sunday night, to see if Tiger had won. He played it safe on 17, and Sergio blew apart. I really want Tiger to have the trifecta: most wins, most majors, and most alimony. It only seems fair. I'm rereading some early personal essays, Faulkner to his editor, Tom Wolf to Maxwell Perkins. It's well known, my affection for Marjorie. Listen, I still think she's cool. There's a bit of the white sorority sister about her, but she adumbrates the modern. I spent a lot of time at Cross Creek, an ancient barge canal, hand dug, that connects Orange Lake to Lochloosa, and it is a beautiful spot, terra-formed by some Mayan dude into winter digs. The entire Caribbean Basin was a playground for them, and I recognize their handiwork everywhere. Don't get me started. Copper, from the UP mixing with shells from the Gulf Of Mexico. But Marjorie was special. Fucking wind, sorry, but it just came up; the house creaked, maybe there's a mouse in the bucket. Too much going on.