Slow Boat

An aversion to spotlights, or any light whatsoever; I've always worked behind the scenes, where I can take credit for not being noticed. Seriously, you'd never notice I was there. Just a cog in the great wheel of illusion. I try to never involve my ego in any contest of wills; I defer; I call everyone Sir or Madam, look down and shuffle my feet, try to not make eye contact, and eat in the kitchen, with the rest of the help. Mostly, what I'm doing, is guarding my privacy. If I don't draw attention I'm allowed the degree of separation I seem to require. Being alone is an acquired taste and I've learned it's not for everyone; but I love sitting by an open window, without a chance of interruption, listening to bugs, two o'clock in the morning. I'm naked then, I don't have to pretend, and it's being so open that allows anything new to happen. Maybe the radio is on. Maybe there's a blues song. John Lee Hooker, the voice of god; beat yourself with blackberry canes until the cows come home. Something settles, a fog usually, tubular, along the river. When I get home, my time is my own. I'd trade that for whatever. An hour alone carries a certain value. Three perfect tomatoes. A partridge. You really need to look around. Went into work yesterday morning, to put away a few things and move the pedestals that had been used for the Visually Literate show down to the main gallery for the upcoming Ohio Designer Craftsmen show. A pint at the pub for lunch, then TR came in, followed closely by Sara. With the museum covered, I could shop at Kroger, then head back to the ridge to cook for a party of six: Howard, his daughter, Julia, B, his former wife, Dawn, another writer, Matt (heading off to Bowling Green, to study where Howard had taught), and myself. A wonderful group, lively conversation. Sometime after five, B started a fire (the grill master) and I ground a very good southwestern rub with pecans in a mortar, B trimmed the leaf-lard from a lovely five pound loin, patted it dry, then I dampened it with a mixture of maple syrup and balsamic vinegar, then rubbed it with the dry mix. We figured the pork would take an hour to cook, so after a cigaret and opening one of the bottles of Redbreast Irish Whiskey I started the risotto, a dried mushroom and herb version, using, for the three cups of liquid, a cup of white wine and two cups of chicken broth. All went well, and at the very end, B and I stripped the veins from a pile of fresh picked peas and blanched them for just a minute; a loaf of bread, dinner. Damned good. After dinner we all walked over to my place for a night-cap, the ladies went down to Dawn's to spend the night, B went home, and Howard crashed on my sofa. In addition to bringing the loin and copious amounts of beer, wine, and Irish whiskey, Howard brought me a Dictionary of Word Origins, and as soon as I pass him off to B for a couple of other visits before he and Julia head home, I get another cup of coffee, and settle down with the book. Dictionaries are a passion for me. Tattoo has two distinct meanings; the call for soldiers to get back to barracks (shut off the taps) from the Dutch taptoe, and a tattoo on the skin from the Polynesian tatau. Tease, to separate the fibers of wool, to disentangle something complicated, from the Old English teasal. A great many folk-etymologizing rationalizations. Trace, for instance, is a very interesting word, from the Latin past participle 'pull', which morphs into path or track. Vagina derives from the Spanish vainilla, from the Latin vagina, 'sheath'. Several hours later I develop a headache from reading too long without eating, so I have a glorious pork loin sandwich, with a protein shake, and take a short walk, between rain storms, to oxygenate my brain. It's wonderful fun to dine with great writers. They tend to be good conversationalists. We talked about water use, Cormac McCarthy, Clovis points, short stories, Irish whiskey, drainage, privacy, solitude, the French prostitute-look as a fashion statement, health issues, opossum pate, writers that are not in the academic tradition, the word vellicate, and a thousand other subjects. It's both energizing and exhausting to spend an evening turned so completely ON. It exhausts me more than any physical labor, to run my brain at high speed, it's why I'm still so skinny. I can burn a thousand calories writing a paragraph. I keep Greek yogurt and protein bars in the fridge, 150% of my B vitamins, and some fruit smoothies; writing is actually hard work. Doing any art is, remembering lines, dancing just so, hitting the down-beat. Making sense is a rough row to hoe. I believe in contradiction, a little pain never hurts. A long sea running, ready for the storm. It's never for the glory, just riding out a heavy price to pay. You're the boss, but I don't belong to you. Not unlike John Henry, countless other iconic figures, you plant the tip of your cane, take the next step, it's not brain science. But it is, in a way, the way we communicate. Learn to work the reins. Yodel. Winter is all I remember, six inches of new snow on top of a frozen crust. I don't know why I even try to win. New ones are falling. Count the falling stars. Hey, hey, HEY. A jagged bolt of lightening, a gut-ringing clap of thunder, go out with Chet Atkins.